Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  Sam looked at Vladimir with surprise, who nodded at the dossier in response. “Go ahead, open it,” he said.

  Tentatively, Sam lowered his gaze and placed his hands on the dossier, his heart suddenly racing with expectation. Then, without waiting another second, he opened the buff coloured folder to see a photograph clipped to two pieces of A4 paper.

  He studied the head and shoulders mugshot for a long moment; it pictured a fleshy faced man of around fifty with white hair, white skin and cold grey eyes. Sam had previously seen the man in the glade, holding Claudette by the ears and forcing his manhood repeatedly down her throat whilst grinning with sick delight.

  He was the man whom Sam had christened ‘The Albino’ because of his abnormally fair complexion.

  He could now see from the photograph that the man was not actually an albino at all but just very light-skinned. Even so, Sam was in no doubt, it was unquestionably the same person who had participated in his fiancé’s rape and murder.

  “Is it him?” Vasily asked.

  Sam nodded, “Yes.” He then looked at the type-written sheets attached to the photo, translated into English for Sam’s convenience. The man’s name at the top of the first page, typed in capitals and underlined, stated him to be ‘Brendan Williams,’ formerly of the Welsh Guards and S.A.S. and now earning his living as a mercenary. After scanning both sheets of paper, Sam also discovered that Williams was a convicted rapist who had served two prison sentences. He had also been linked to three murders and was wanted in England in connection with another.

  According to the last line on the second sheet, his whereabouts were currently thought to be somewhere in Afghanistan serving within a small mercenary unit.

  “He’s in Afghanistan?” Sam exclaimed, suddenly looking sharply at Vladimir once more. “Is that right?”

  “It is, my friend,” replied Voronin. “But do not worry, I have people who can locate him and end his miserable existence.”

  “No!” Sam protested, although much louder than intended. He coughed, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice now quieter. “Please forgive me.”

  Vladimir waved his hand dismissively, “Nothing to forgive. You are amongst friends here tovarich, so please, speak your mind.”

  Sam bowed his head in acknowledgement, then said, “Thank you. I appreciate everything you have done - and I’m grateful for your offer to find this man - but this is something I have sworn to do myself. It’s difficult to explain, but I feel it’s my duty to—“

  “It’s alright, my friend,” Vladimir interrupted. “I quite understand. It is a matter of honour and I respect you all the more for it. Of course you should be the one.”

  “Thank you.” Sam said again.

  “But I must warn you,” continued Voronin, “Afghanistan is not a safe place and this man you seek is obviously a highly experienced, combat veteran. If you hope to prevail - if you want to kill him, then you must be equally well trained.”

  Sam considered this advice for a long moment, knowing he had only gotten the better of Merton, McCullough and Finch by luck alone, with very little skill involved. However luck could only carry him so far and to go up against a battle hardened mercenary in the wilds of Afghanistan was way too much to leave to chance.

  Vladimir could see him mulling this over but had not yet finished speaking, “Let us help you,” he said. “Both Mikhail and Pyotr have served in the military - they’re both very experienced, very skilled soldiers. Please, let them train you, prepare you for what you must face.”

  Sam was quite taken aback by the kindness of the offer but could also see the sense of it. Afghanistan was a hostile environment, one which Williams was already very familiar with and was trained to survive in. Without similar training, the chances of Sam taking him out were slim at best.

  “That’s very generous of you. Thank you,” he replied. “But won’t that take time?”

  “It will,” admitted Vladimir honestly. “I would think maybe one, perhaps two…“ Suddenly he broke off, not entirely certain, so looked to his sons to confirm his estimate.

  “More like three,” offered Pyotr, making a quick, rather dubious appraisal of Sam.

  “Certainly no more than four,” said Mikhail, doing the same and being similarly unimpressed.

  Vladimir seemed pleased with the response and turned back to Sam to confirm it, “Good. It will take no longer than four months to fully train you.”

  “Four months!” Sam was staggered. “But won’t that allow Williams to slip through the net? I mean, in that time he could surely go anywhere.”

  “Do not worry, my friend,” countered Vladimir. “I have eyes everywhere. If the target moves, I will know about it - and will track him accordingly. I promise you, he will not escape.”

  Sam was heartened by this but four months still seemed like an exceptionally long time to wait considering that he knew where Williams was now. Conversely, however, it made no sense to go after him unprepared.

  Vasily could see him struggling with this dilemma. “Accept the offer, Sam,” He implored. “It’ll give you the best chance of defeating that monster.”

  Sam looked at his friend and smiled in surrender. “Yeah, I know, I guess you’re right,” he replied. He then turned to Vladimir once more and said, “I’d be grateful of anything Mikhail and Pyotr can teach me. Thanks.”

  Voronin smiled back. “Don’t thank me just yet, tovarich. My sons play rough and gentleness, I regret, is something they are not blessed with.”

  At these words, Mikhail and Pyotr both beamed with delight, their chests positively swelling with pride. They could not have been paid a greater compliment.

  Vas smiled, too, enjoying seeing his brothers so happy.

  “Good,” Sam said, failing to suppress a self-mocking grin, “I’d really hate to hurt them.”

  ***

  A couple of days later, Sam found himself alone with Vladimir once more and he tentatively asked if perhaps the same contact who had supplied Williams’ name might also be utilised to find information on the other two men involved in Claudette’s murder.

  However, Vladimir told him it would be impossible as that particular contact was now exhausted.

  What he did not say was that he had given his word to Leon; promised his debt had now been paid, even though he suspected Bakkal knew more than he was letting on.

  But Vladimir’s word was unimpeachable and his honour prized above anything else.

  Besides, to approach Leon again now would be futile. He despised Vladimir, their history ensured that, so now his obligation had been fulfilled they were unlikely to speak to each other ever again.

  Any further information on those who took part in Claudette’s murder would have to come directly from Williams, himself. So it was vital for Sam to keep him alive long enough to interrogate him - assuming, of course, he survived to get that far.

  ***

  It began to snow once more as Sam sat outside on the bench in the freezing cold, pondering all that had happened in the last couple of weeks. Tomorrow, he, Vas and his two older brothers would drive out to Vladimir’s hunting lodge, located in a forest to the far North of the city, where Sam’s training would begin.

  There, he would be schooled in weapons, survival techniques and hand to hand combat. He would also undergo intense physical training to a level equal to that of Russian Military standard. Furthermore, he would be trained in the lethal knife skills and brutal fighting styles that Mikhail and Pyotr had learned from their years in the Moscow underground which no amount of military training could have possibly taught him.

  For the present, however, Sam was thinking about Miriam.

  He had promised to phone her on Christmas Day, sworn to her that he would not forget, knowing that she would be waiting for his call before heading off to work on Christmas morning.

  But h
e had not telephoned her.

  Vladimir had insisted it was unsafe. To telephone Miriam - to call anyone - was to put them in danger and, after what had happened to Claudette, Sam could just not risk it and neither could Vas.

  In fact, Vas had even agreed to leave Cambridge and complete his studies at the Moscow State University, once his injuries were fully healed, such was Vladimir’s concern for his safety.

  So Miriam received no call from either of them.

  Worse still, she would have gone off to work on Christmas morning believing they had forgotten about her and Sam knew her heart would be breaking because of it.

  Indeed, his was too, but he would sooner that than see her harmed.

  Now he had Williams’ name, he had a job to do, one which required all his focus with no outside distractions.

  As he sat out in the snow, he knew that meant putting Miri out of his mind. For the time being, she must be his past whilst Williams must remain his future.

  However, as he pulled up the collar of his overcoat, with whiteness all around, it did not make him feel any better.

  He just hoped wherever Miri was, whatever she was doing, she could somehow find a way to forgive him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  For fourteen long, arduous, physically and emotionally draining weeks, Mikhail and Pyotr put Sam through his paces. He had marched, jogged and run many hundreds of miles - over obstacles, under obstacles and through obstacles - all whilst wearing a fully loaded pack. He had learned to shoot, becoming an expert marksman with both a rifle and a pistol and could strip and rebuild either in double quick time. He had been taught the art of hand to hand combat as well as the less orthodox skills of streetfighting - including many ways of killing a man with either a knife or just his bare hands.

  By now he was lean and hard; his neck strong, his shoulders powerful and every muscle in his ripped torso carved to perfection.

  What is more, Mikhail and Pyotr had taken it upon themselves to teach him Russian by refusing to speak in anything other than their native tongue for the duration. Vasily had also joined in with this ‘game’, saying it would be good for Sam to learn another language - along with the Spanish, French and German he already spoke thanks to his very expensive education.

  As a result, he could now converse in Russian fluently and was able to hurl good natured insults back at Mikhail and Pyotr without so much as a misplaced inflection.

  Indeed, their time together had been utterly exhausting but extremely rewarding and Sam was now regarded as one of the family. Yet strangely, even though they were now closer than ever, Vasily barely recognised him as the same person whom he had met in Cambridge on his first day of university. With Sam’s hair now cropped short, his face clean shaven once more and his body resembling that of a prize-fighter, he looked nothing like the carefree student he once was and every inch the highly trained soldier he had now become.

  However, as a final test, it was deemed by the brothers, Vas included, that Sam should take on Mikhail in unarmed combat to see how he fared against top drawer opposition.

  By this time it was the middle of April but snow was still laying heavily on the ground; the Russian spring having not yet arrived.

  Even so, the two men faced each other; both wearing cargo pants and army boots but otherwise naked from the waist up.

  Mikhail, who was recognised as the toughest of the brothers, stood almost a head taller than Sam, with his arms and torso covered in the distinctive black tattoos synonymous with the Russian Mafia.

  He looked mean and scary and supremely fit.

  However, Sam looked equally impressive, even if his two somewhat smaller tattoos made rather less of a statement than those of his opponent.

  Nevertheless, the pair of them circled each other in the open space immediately in front of the log cabin - which was of very humble design and gave no indication of the wealth the Voronin’s had accumulated.

  In fact, to Vladimir and his sons, this was the cabin’s appeal. Every now and then, they liked to get back to basics; to hunt and fish and test themselves against the elements with none of the many luxuries available to them in Moscow. As such, the cabin featured only an open hearth, several mismatched chairs and a few animal furs which had been laid over the hardwood floor. Within the open plan interior, there were also four beds, a kitchen area, complete with a refrigerator and a dining table - but there was no T.V. and no telephone. The only form of communication being the two-way radio which the brothers used to keep in touch with their father.

  Washing and shaving were both performed in a basin of cold water that sat on a wooden stump outside and as for entertainment, there was either vodka or cards - very often both.

  It was a harsh and spartan existence which, at first, had been a complete culture shock to Sam but little by little he had learned to adapt. Indeed, with a blazing fire in the hearth and several warm blankets on his bed, he now found it more than comfortable and certainly very welcome after a hard day of training.

  Even so, he suspected that when he climbed into bed that night he might well be nursing a few bruises as Mikhail was unlikely to pull any punches. Even though the fight was intended to be ‘friendly’, it was also deadly serious and Sam knew he was going to have to use every ounce of guile, every shred of cunning and a whole lot of force to emerge victorious.

  However, whilst he was still readying himself for battle, Mikhail charged forward.

  Sam was just a little too late to block the sweeping roundhouse that rocked his head sideways and sent him reeling to the edge of the makeshift ring which had been marked out in the snow with a stick. He lurched into Pyotr and Vas who were both standing on the perimeter, enjoying the sport, but they merely shoved him away again to face their brother who was waiting in the centre of the ring, a big, satisfied grin on his face.

  Sam was still dazed by the heavy punch but attempted to shake it off as he approached Mikhail once more. “So that’s the way we’re playing it is it?” He said, forcing a smile and rubbing the side of his face where he had been struck.

  “It is a test, tovarich,” Mikhail beamed, clearly enjoying himself immensely. “I am testing you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re sure doing that,” said Sam sarcastically as he came within arms reach once more.

  However, this time he kept his head low whilst purposely using his body language to fool his opponent into believing he was still stunned.

  The tactic worked perfectly and Mikhail, sensing an easy victory, lowered his guard in preparation to land the killer blow.

  But in that moment of misdirection, Sam struck. With all the skill of a seasoned boxer, he dropped his shoulder and powered an almighty blow into the Russian’s solar plexus then swerved nimbly aside and followed through with a devastating uppercut into his stomach.

  Mikhail doubled over in agony as the air left his lungs, his brothers cheering on the sidelines as they revelled in what promised to be a Battle Royale.

  With his opponent temporarily incapacitated, Sam staggered back to the centre of the ring, grateful of the brief reprieve to properly shake off the blow to his head.

  However, he did not have long to wait because a moment later Mikhail was standing upright once more, looking even more dangerous than he had a minute or so before and ready for action again.

  He smiled at Sam with pride and acknowledgement; he had taught him well, but now it was time for the master to show the student a few things that were not on the curriculum.

  “Very good, my American brother,” Mikhail said in admiration, speaking in English for the first time in fourteen weeks, “You have learned much and I am impressed.”

  Sam was pumped up and ready for what he knew was about to come. “Thanks,” he replied. “I’ve had good teachers.”

  Mikhail nodded his head in recognition of the compliment. “Indeed,” he said. Then he grinned wickedly, his
face reminiscent of a fox in the hen house, and said, “But now it’s time for your final lesson.”

  Sam smiled back. This is what the last fourteen weeks had been about, what he had been working towards, and he was more than up to the challenge. He raised his fists and, with one mocking finger, beckoned Mikhail towards him. “C’mon then Mikey,” he teased, “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Suddenly there was an almighty roar and the big Russian charged towards Sam once more. But this time he was ready and when the two of them crashed together, Pyotr and Vas finally got to witness the magnificent contest they had been expecting.

  ***

  Many bone crushingly painful minutes later, neither Sam or Mikhail could barely stand upright. Both were bleeding from the nose and lips, both had black eyes and both had numerous other bruises. Indeed, it was a wonder that neither of them had broken anything such was the brutality of the fight.

  Now, however, both were tired, their energy depleted and their bodies exhausted from the punishing exertion of battle.

  The snow on the ground within the ring was stained with blood and churned up with mud; the results of each man fighting for a foothold to gain supremacy over the other.

  In the end, however, they proved to be an even match, both in skill and determination; neither willing to accept defeat or give into the urge to stay down.

  Finally, Pyotr had to step in and declare the fight a draw, at which point Sam and Mikhail embraced each other like the brothers they had become.

  Vasily limped over to where they stood in the centre of the ring, his wound healed enough to leave a livid pink zig-zag scar around his ankle but not sufficiently to prevent it from still giving him some discomfort. Indeed, both Vas and Sam suspected he would always be left with a limp and some residual pain, particularly in cold weather, but neither had vocalised it as each hoped to be proved incorrect.