by L. A. Larkin
She shakes her head. ‘You’re wrong. You can’t buy me, or detective Casburn. SO24 knows about Sackville and your syndicate.’ She lies. ‘It doesn’t matter what you do with me. Casburn will hunt you down. He won’t rest until you’re behind bars.’
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? He died on the operating table.’
92
A beam of light crosses Tan Nguyen’s iris. The biometric scanner beeps an all clear.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Wolfe says.
‘Two gunshot wounds, collapsed lung, internal bleeding. He didn’t make it.’
Nguyen presses his thumb onto a small screen. The wooden doors open electronically, their ornate beauty concealing thick steel. For a few seconds, the room is pitch black and the air conditioning feels arctic after the oppressive heat outside. Nguyen steps inside the vault of a room. His movement triggering sensors. The room lights up. No windows.
‘Temperature and oxygen levels are carefully controlled. Come.’ He beckons her inside.
‘I have no desire to see more dead animals,’ she says.
‘Perhaps not. But you want to know why Pieter and the others had to die, don’t you?’
Wolfe holds back. ‘Just tell me. I don’t need to go in.’
‘If you want to know, you must come with me.’
He walks on. ‘Nobody is allowed here except me. You are my first ever guest.’
The doors automatically shut behind them. The room is close and airtight. There is no sound but the tap of their shoes and the soft whisper of the air conditioning. In the centre of the room, much like the best art galleries, there is a cushioned bench, covered in black velvet. He sits and pats the seat next to him. Wolfe hesitates. Sits. Around her are various lifelike waxworks.
‘My favourite piece.’ He nods straight ahead.
A young woman, naked, reclining on a chaise lounge, much like Manet’s painting of Olympia. Pale skin, black hair, dark brown, almost black eyes that seem to stare directly at Wolfe. She’s in a rectangular perspex box.
‘My first wife, Hoa. She shamed me. Looked at other men. We were married less than a year. Now she will only ever look at me.’
‘She’s not… she can’t be real?’
‘Superb, isn’t she? Preserved perfectly.’
Wolfe cannot speak. She thought the horror show was over now that Samuel was dead. She was wrong. ‘You killed your… you had her…?’
‘Taxidermy. Very few can manage human skin. I employ the very best.’
‘Over there,’ Nguyen points to a wall-mounted head, ‘Vu Van Tien. Leader of a rival syndicate. He’s there to remind me never to be complacent.’
The man’s mouth is open, lips peeled back, exposing two gold teeth, his eyes wide. Most disturbing of all is the gaping, frayed hole where his Adam’s apple should be.
‘What did you do to him?’ Wolfe asks.
‘He swallowed a Malayan pit viper. The venom is not only deadly, it causes tissue around the bite to die, hence the hole in his throat. Photos were circulated. It sends a message, you see. He tried to swallow my business. I made him swallow the snake, as did his three sons.’
Wolfe stands shakily. ‘I want to leave.’
‘Not yet,’ Nguyen says, pointing to a Caucasian man’s head mounted on the wall. ‘A prosecutor. He tried to convict me of murder. Died watching his fiancé being raped then stabbed to death. I find that look of despair on his face quite… moving.’
‘This doesn’t tell me why you sent Samuel to kill four people. It simply confirms you’re a narcissistic psychopath.’
He smiles condescendingly. ‘Come now, Miss Wolfe. These people got what they deserved. They brought this upon themselves. Just as you have.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Look around you,’ he says. ‘What do they all have in common?’
Nguyen gets up and points to a man’s head mounted on the wall.
‘I was grooming him to be my successor. Then the traitorous cockroach stole from me.’ Nguyen points to another head. ‘This one, a police officer who tried to blackmail me. Can you believe it? Very foolish… this one, a Vietnamese customs officer who thought he could stop me importing horn… what do they and the four you speak of have in common, Miss Wolfe?’
‘They betrayed you or stood in your way.’
‘Correct.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Wolfe. ‘How did Pieter Venter get in your way, apart from trying to protect his rhinos?’
‘You’re missing the bigger picture.’
‘Tell me.’
Nguyen waves his hand in the air, dismissing her request. ‘I have one more thing to show you.’
He points to a vacant space on the wall. ‘That’s for you.’
93
The hessian hood and gag are stifling. Curled up on her side on the vehicle’s back seat, wrists cable-tied, she listens to Yushkov giving orders. She doesn’t recognise his harsh monotone. ‘Room twelve,’ he says. ‘Is it ready?’ The vehicle jolts. Wolfe’s head bangs against the car door. Does Yushkov know about his employer’s macabre collection? Will he help her? What would Butcher do? She hears his gravelly voice. Wait for the right moment.
‘Dmitry! Wait up!’ The clipped accent, the barking tone, she knows that voice. Terry Blunt.
Brakes creak, tyres crunch on gravel. The vehicle stops. The diesel engine rumbles, ticking over. Footsteps, Heavy boots.
‘Have our guests seen her?’ Blunt asks.
‘No, sir,’ Yushkov replies.
‘I don’t want to hear a peep out of her. You got that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Yushkov says.
‘Be careful with her. No more cuts or bruises. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When you’re done, come find me. You’re going to Jo’burg. I have a job for you. Meet me at seven sharp.’
The vehicle sets off again, but not for long. Wolfe hears a woman singing in Shona, water splashing. Then men’s voices and laughter. Unfiltered cigarette smoke reaches her through the roughly woven fabric of the hood. In the distance, the hum of a light aircraft. Yet another syndicate member landing. Who this time? Perhaps Sukletin? The vehicle stops, doors open, Yushkov’s hand on the top of her head, guiding her out of the vehicle.
‘Two steps up,’ he says.
They are wooden. One, two. Yushkov greets a man she guesses is her guard. Through the coarse weave of the hood she can tell the room she’s led into is dark. She freezes, refusing to move.
‘Don’t fight me,’ Yushkov says.
Who is he now? The Yushkov she knows, or Dmitry, the mercenary?
‘You’ll be safe in there. I will take off the hood,’ he encourages.
What choice does she have? At least with the hood off she has more chance of escape. A few steps, then she sits on something soft with springs. A bed. Her unhurt arm is cuffed to what she can only guess is the bedhead. Panic seizes her. A light is switched on, the hood removed. Wolfe squints, sees Yushkov’s face close to hers, a man in khaki behind him. Yushkov orders the man outside. The guard smirks at Yushkov, mutters something crude. He leaves, shutting the door.
It’s a brick box on a concrete slab. Meticulously clean. Nothing in it but a bed, a ceiling fan and a bucket. The bed has been made, the bedding neatly pressed, probably from the house. The only window is boarded up. A sliver of light sneaks into the room between two boards.
‘Keep your voice down. He must not hear,’ Yushkov whispers, removing the gag.
Wolfe flexes her aching jaw.
‘Drink this.’ He offers her a bottle of water which she drinks greedily.
‘Nguyen is going to kill me,’ Wolfe says. ‘He wants to stick my head on the wall in that sealed room of his. You’ve got to get me out of here.’
Something small and metal is pressed into her palm. She looks down. A skeleton key: the serrated edge has been filed down so it will fit almost any lock. ‘For the door,’ he says. He hands her a small folding knife with a sprung
blade. ‘For this.’ He points at the plastic tie. ‘Do not cut them until sunset.’
Wolfe hides them under the pillow.
Yushkov continues. ‘Do not try to leave in daylight. You will be seen. Wait until sunset. The fence behind us has its own power board. Turn off the power and climb the fence. Be quick. It will only be a few minutes, then they will turn on the power again.’
‘The guard?’
‘I will distract him. At sunset.’
‘Aren’t you going to Johannesburg tonight?’
‘At seven. Sunset is at six. Watch the light disappear under the door and through the window boards.’
Yushkov hands her a burner phone, identical to the one he gave her four months ago. She takes it. Their fingers touch. Neither pulls their hand away.
‘Do not use this until you are far from here,’ Yushkov says. ‘Phone signals are monitored. And do not contact the police. They work for Nguyen.’
She nods.
‘The pilot who brought you here. Can he be trusted?’
‘You know about…? Yes, I trust him.’
‘Phone him when you are far away.’
‘Who are you? Vitaly or Dmitry?’
‘They know me as Dmitry Lazarev. It is a cover.’
‘Why do you need a cover?’
Yushkov withdraws his fingers from hers. ‘I am sorry.’
‘This is crazy. Come with me.’
‘There is something I must do in Johannesburg.’
‘So this is goodbye?’ she asks.
‘It has to be.’
‘What is so important in Jo’burg?’
‘Keep your voice down. I cannot help you if you betray us.’
‘You’ve already done that,’ she says.
Yushkov swears under his breath. ‘You do not make this easy, Olivia.’
‘What is going on?’
‘There is talk about important people. They arrive in Johannesburg. Today. From many countries. Nguyen, he makes a speech tomorrow. I do not know why I must be there.’
The GROWT convention?
Why would the leader of a poaching syndicate speak at a convention on endangered species?
94
Time crawls inside the cell. Wolfe tries to use it wisely, to plan her escape, but the memory of Casburn’s limp body, his unresponsiveness when paramedics arrived, weighs heavily. Is Nguyen telling the truth? Did he die on the operating table?
Curled up on the bed, one wrist handcuffed to the bedhead, eyes closed, she sees every detail of her last moments with Casburn. He was close to death when airlifted, his blood loss critical. Perhaps he didn’t survive. These last few days, Wolfe has seen a new side to the abrasive detective she hadn’t known before. He was willing to risk his life and career to save others. She now knows he once had a wife, whom he clearly loved. She has come to respect and, perhaps, even like him. And she wasn’t there to say goodbye. She feels bad about that.
Her thoughts move to Vitaly Yushkov: the one who drove a painful wedge between her and Casburn. She cared for Yushkov, possibly even loved him, believed him to be a good man forced to do terrible things to survive. Casburn always believed Yushkov to be a cold-blooded killer who had pulled the wool over her eyes. Was Dan right after all?
How much of what Yushkov had told her about his torture by Casburn was true? Was Casburn really instrumental in Yushkov’s sister’s death? Doubt attacks her memories like termites, making them fragile, tottering things. As the seconds, hours, minutes of her captivity drag on, her faith in Yushkov ebbs and flows. Perhaps Nguyen has some kind of hold over him? Or is this new identity simply about staying alive? The Russian SVR still hunt him. Was this job really Yushkov’s only option? The Yushkov she knew would never willingly work for a psychopath like Nguyen. No, there has to be something keeping Yushkov in Nguyen’s employment.
Her thoughts turn to Samuel. Until today, Wolfe wasn’t aware of what she was capable of. What she was prepared to do to stay alive.
Wolfe sits up suddenly. She feels contaminated. She wants to shower. To scrub away every part of her body Samuel touched. Her pretence to be on his wavelength has taken her to dark places she didn’t know she could reach. But most of all, Wolfe is afraid of what she could become. Afraid of the violent hatred Samuel ignited in her. It was wrong to use the machete. She knows that. She has no idea how she’ll come to terms with what she did.
Outside her cell’s door are footsteps. A woman’s voice she hasn’t heard before. Wolfe checks the lock-pick, knife and phone are well-hidden under her pillow. The door is unlocked. A blonde woman in her twenties in shorts, trainers and running vest smiles at her.
‘I’m here to take you to the shower block. Then I’ll see to your wounds.’ She is upbeat and jaunty, as if finding a woman handcuffed to a bed in a locked room was a normal occurrence.
‘You must be Anna?’
‘I’m whoever you want me to be.’
Wolfe goes quietly. Anna, or whatever her name is, hovers over her like a hummingbird at a flower, even watching her in the shower, then dresses her wounds, and gently rubs cream over the bruise on her face.
‘That should reduce the swelling and discolouration.’
Wolfe tries to engage with her in conversation, but Anna smiles and says little.
Back in her locked cell, Wolfe lies on the bed, checks everything is under the pillow as she left it. She tries to sleep. But she still has question after unanswered question.
With Samuel dead, is Yushkov taking his place? Is that why he’s going to Jo’burg tonight? Wolfe shakes her head. No, he would never do that.
Wolfe thinks back to her conversations with Casburn about Samuel’s victims. Four initial kills, four different countries. Nguyen wanted them dead. Why? She knows Pieter Venter was planning to speak at the GROWT convention tomorrow. Were his three other victims linked to that convention? Were their disappearances a warning? Vote our way, or you will be next. If she’s right, is another delegate to die tonight at the hands of Yushkov and Blunt?
Wolfe clings to the conviction that Yushkov wouldn’t help her to escape if he was loyal to Nguyen and Blunt.
She watches the thin ribbon of light beneath the door turn orange. Soon she will know who Yushkov is loyal to. A man’s heavy boots thump up the steps. Yushkov is early? The door opens, Blunt stands there, carrying a food tray. The surprise visit unsettles her, but she won’t let him see her fear. She sits patiently, watching Blunt enter the room and lay the tray at the other end of the bed. On the tray are three small paper plates and a plastic knife and fork; on one plate is a meat patty, on another something that looks like porridge, and on the last, vegetable stew.
‘Springbok burger, vegetables and sadza for our guest,’ Blunt says. ‘Your last supper.’
He’s trying to spook her. Her facial bruise will take a few days to heal. Nguyen won’t want her killed until it’s faded.
Wolfe picks up the burger and takes a bite. She wants information so she’s going to make out that she knows more than she does.
‘Not sure why you’re looking so smug, Terry. The vote isn’t quite fixed, is it? Tomorrow may not turn out quite how you’d like.’
Wolfe watches for a reaction.
‘And what the fuck would you know?’ he says.
‘You’re short of a vote, aren’t you? That’s why you’re sending that Russian thug to Jo’burg. That one vote could well and truly mess up your dreams of early retirement.’
‘You’re all talk. Nothing you say will change the outcome.’
‘Who is it this time? Another delegate?’
‘Shut up and eat your food.’
‘Why bring me my meal? What do you want, Terry?’
‘How do you know Dmitry Lazarev?’
‘I don’t.’ She takes another bite of the burger. Chews.
Blunt frowns. ‘There was something… can’t place my finger on it.’
‘I don’t make a habit of befriending mercenaries.’
He turns his back on h
er.
‘The delegates are protected. You won’t get near them,’ she taunts.
Blunt is about to close the door. ‘I hear she’s pregnant. I guess you might say there’ll be two tragic accidents tonight.’
All the blood drains from Wolfe’s face. She knows the identity of the intended victim.
95
Wolfe’s long-time friend, Caroline Bloom. British Minister for the Environment. Three months pregnant.
The target.
Caroline is voting at the GROWT convention tomorrow, and Nguyen intends to stop her. Adrenaline zings through her body. She has to stop them.
Through the door of her cell, she hears Yushkov’s voice over the guard’s two-way radio. He orders the man to go to the hangar immediately. A chair scrapes on the deck, boots patter on the wooden steps, then it’s quiet. The guard has gone.
Wolfe flicks open the folding knife and cuts the plastic tie around her wrist. She re-folds the knife and pockets it. At the door, she listens. Nothing but the sounds of the bush at night. She tries the lock-pick. It doesn’t engage. She inserts it deeper, wiggles it around. She has to get out. Warn Caroline. This time there is a click. Wolfe cracks the door open and peers outside.
Darkness.
The stool where the guard sat is empty. Her holding cell is isolated from other buildings, the communal bathrooms the closest. Garages to her right are lit by security lights. To her left is a row of ten or so single-room bungalows with thatched roofs and wooden deck. Staff quarters. Some are occupied, with yellow-white light spilling out through the doorways and windows. Outside one bungalow, two men talk in Shona. Inside another, a television blares and blue light jumps and flickers across the curtains. A woman hums as she cooks over a little gas camping stove. Far away, Wolfe hears laughter and the clink of glasses. A drinks party. Everyone will be focused on the guests. This is her best chance.
Wolfe slips around the back of her cell. As Yushkov described, she finds a power box fixed to a pole just inside the perimeter. She risks switching on the mobile phone so she can use its torch, and studies a power board. Above each switch, written in marker pen, are letters and numbers: Fen S1, Fen S2, Fen S3 and Fen S4. She doesn’t know which one to turn off, so she’ll throw them all.
