by Zoe Sharp
As one of my training instructors, he should not have been involved in any kind of relationship with me, but I hadn’t said a word against him. It was only later that we found out who had dropped us both in it—accidentally, it turned out—by revealing our affair to the army brass.
It had made the outcome worse, perhaps, but hadn’t been the cause of it.
I would have bet my life on the fact that Sean knew that. Even now—even after, as I’d come to think of him post-coma.
I glanced at Parris, who’d moved to stand at ease to one side of the fireplace, his back to the grate and hands clasped behind him. Had he told Sean that he’d been the mastermind of my downfall—and ultimately Sean’s, too? His face was impassive, giving nothing away.
Gregor was watching me with something akin to his old intensity. There was maybe a little expectancy there, too, as if he was hoping I would come up with some plausible denial to the accusations. He’d painted me as his son’s savior, and he’d spared my life because of it. Now I could see he was expecting me to provide him with reasons not to regret that decision.
I couldn’t, and didn’t try.
“I don’t know how many trucks could have been filled with the treasures that Clay stole from you, sir,” Sean said now, addressing Gregor with deference and without apparent irony that those very “treasures” had already been stolen from the Iraqi people. His eyes flicked to mine. “I asked him to reveal that information with every means at my disposal, but he was a very stubborn man . . . right up to the moment he died on me.”
SIXTY-FIVE
WHEN I THOUGHT ABOUT IT LOGICALLY, CLINICALLY, THERE WAS not much Sean could have said right then that would have discredited me more.
Gregor already knew that Clay was dead but not, as I’d suggested, at the hand of his psychotic son. Instead, Sean had freely admitted he’d been the one to torture, mutilate, and murder Clay, when I’d been prepared to swear up, down, and sideways that he was innocent. All in all, I was just about finished as far as Gregor’s trust was concerned.
He made a dismissive gesture, muttered, “Get her out of my sight. I will decide what . . . later.”
Ushakov stepped forward, but Parris intercepted him before he’d taken me more than a couple of steps.
“Please, allow me,” he said, as if he was cutting in for a waltz.
And I did allow him to lead me from the drawing room where Gregor sat hunched in front of his log fire. I felt eyes on my back all the way to the door, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of a last, longing look back.
I didn’t want to see what might be written on Sean’s face. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it much.
We walked in silence up the various staircases and along the corridors. Parris opened the door to the same guest suite I’d been in the night before, then stood aside with a parody of a courtly bow.
“If you’re still alive by tomorrow,” he said conversationally as I moved to pass him, “I shall give you to Ivan.”
I hid the shudder of instant revulsion to ask lightly, “Gift-wrapped in ribbons, with a bow in my hair?”
“Oh, I think we may have to bind you with something, but I doubt very much it will be ribbon. Meyer has been filling me in a little on your . . . exploits since the army. It seems I was correct in my assessment of your potential. You’ve developed quite the killer instinct.”
“You sound as if you’re taking the credit, John. Perhaps you should be taking the blame.”
He gave a smile. It was not a heartwarming one. “I think you rely too heavily on being underestimated, my dear. People see your unassuming exterior, and they don’t trouble to look past it. I won’t make that mistake. And in case you have any ideas in that direction, don’t worry—you won’t be in any condition to do Ivan any damage.”
“Two of the men downstairs have already fucked me,” I threw at him, using any weapon I could think of, the first that came to hand. “Do you really think he’ll want their castoff?”
“Who said anything about sex?” Parris asked, amusement in his voice now. “Ivan gets his kicks in quite another manner. After all, you saw Clay’s body . . .”
He let that one drift off and watched the effect of his words as they seeped into me like rain. “The boy’s an artist when it comes to robust interrogation—just doesn’t know when to stop. That, and he enjoys his work a little too much. Clay gave up the location of the goods within the first twenty minutes. The rest was just for Ivan’s own entertainment. I rather think I’m looking forward to seeing what he has in store for you.”
I forced a shrug. “Well, he never did like me very much.”
“How true. After all, you—a mere girl—had the affront to rescue him, so I understand. A real blow to his pride.”
“At the time, Gregor felt it was preferable to having him taken apart by the Germans,” I said. “And I think Gregor is the one you underestimate. He has an old-world sense of honor, for a mobster, and he still remembers what I did for him, saving Ivan’s neck. I doubt he’ll agree to let his son feed me slowly through a wood-chipper, however happy it might make the evil little sod.”
If anything Parris’s smile grew broader. “You really can’t see it, can you?” he murmured. “The old man is sick—not quite on his last legs, but not far off. The last few years, he’s been holding Ivan at bay like a lion tamer fending off a hungry big cat. In Ivan’s case, he’s hungry for power. It’s been simmering away for some time now. And the longer Gregor clings to control, the more hungry for it Ivan becomes. We may have reached something of a boiling point. And if Gregor doesn’t let the boy have what he wants, I rather think we’re heading for a coup d’état.”
“Which leaves you where, exactly?”
“Oh, I’m the civil service of the Venko empire, as it were. Gregor’s simply a figurehead, but my men and I represent boots on the ground and are therefore essential to achieve a smooth transition of power. Ivan needs me, and he knows it.”
I shook my head. “Why would you even want to work for a psychopath?”
“Because they’re so easy to predict and manipulate. Ivan would be a piece of cake compared to his father. Gregor is a master strategist, always three steps ahead of those around him, and prepared to shake up the hierarchy every now and again, just to throw the cat among the pigeons.”
“Ushakov,” I realized out loud. “Gregor brought in the ex-Spetsnaz guys to keep you on your toes. And so you didn’t know every detail of everything.”
Parris shrugged, but there was something a little less casual about the gesture than he’d intended. Gregor had gone over his head, I thought, managing at the same time to put his nose out of joint. That required some considerable dexterity. But why had he done it . . . ?
“Gregor doesn’t altogether trust you,” I hazarded a guess. “That’s why he hired Ushakov, and that’s why he sent Ivan to Iraq to find out what Clay had been up to. Tell me, did Clay decide to cheat Gregor off his own bat, or were you pulling his strings there, too?”
Parris laughed, but there was a flush of blood to the sides of his neck, the tips of his ears, that told me I’d hit closer to the truth than he was happy to admit.
“Like I said, you always were a bright girl.”
“You make it sound like an epitaph.”
“In your case, my dear, it will be.” He started to turn away, one hand on the door, then faced me again as if only just remembering the “one last thing” he’d been holding in reserve from the start. “Oh, if you were hoping for the seventh cavalry in the form of your American friends to ride to the rescue in your case, my dear, I’m afraid you’re destined to be disappointed.”
“Oh?” I tried to keep the single syllable noncommittal, but Parris didn’t need much prompting. He was bursting to tell me.
“Ms. Hamilton has been on our radar for some time. At one point she even had us a little concerned, but fortunately that’s all changed with the administration.”
“In what way?” I could have taken a stab
at it, but it seemed mean to deprive him of his moment of glory. Besides, you never knew what else he might let slip. “I thought President Trump was all for boosting military spending.”
“Oh he is, but the budget for anything not directly connected to actual firepower has been slashed, and that is particularly so for a small department tasked with recovering foreign cultural items which may or may not be connected to the funding of terrorism. It’s such a gray area—the cost-benefit is so difficult to prove. Hardly worth tweeting about.”
“And I suppose you’d claim that, by stealing the stuff out from under the noses of Isis, you’re actually behaving like a patriot.”
“Quite so, my dear.”
“And then, of course, by stealing two fifths of it from Gregor—because you know as well as I do there were five bloody trucks—I suppose you count yourself doubly virtuous for doing your bit against organized crime as well?”
Parris’s smile this time was different from the others. It contained a genuine amusement, which faded to regret as he scanned me up and down.
“Such a shame that things had to come to this, Charlie, but that’s how it goes sometimes. Do try to get some rest if you can. Ivan does rather like his victims to be in good voice . . .”
And with that he went out and pulled the solid hardwood door firmly closed behind him, as if sealing the entrance to a tomb.
SIXTY-SIX
AS SOON AS PARRIS HAD GONE, I STARTED LOOKING FOR A WAY OUT. The door was old, solid, with thick panels and tight joints. No leeway in the frame, and hinge screws hidden in the fold between door and jamb. The keyhole, interestingly enough, had been blocked off so the door could not be locked—or unlocked, more to the point—from the inside.
So, Gregor did not like his “guests” wandering the halls in the wee small hours.
The window yielded nothing promising, either. I’d already established that I wouldn’t fit through the glass apertures. And even if I could have somehow broken the welds on the steel frame, it was a good fifteen meters from the outside ledge to the ground. Not only that, but because there were those garages directly beneath the wing I was in, the snow had been cleared in front of them. No soft landing there.
I went into the bathroom, climbed up onto the vanity unit, and inspected the microphone. I’d expected it to be wireless, but when I picked at it repeatedly with my nails, I found twin-core wire—the kind you’d use to power a doorbell—disappearing into the wall.
The wire might have been thin, but that didn’t mean I could break it without any tools. Fortunately, the mic had been attached to the end with solder. When I tugged on it, the mic came free, along with a coil of plaster that popped off the wall around the wire hole.
I’d already checked that the mirror was simply that—a mirror—rather than a hidden screen in front of another camera, so at least they couldn’t see what I was doing in there.
I hopped down off the vanity. There were no plugs in the bath or sink—presumably so I couldn’t block them up and flood the place. I ran some water into the drinking glass and dropped the mic into that instead.
The small piece of plaster, I noticed, had fallen into the sink, painted side down. I stared at it, frowning.
The underside was pink.
Some years ago I was living in a rented cottage, which I did some renovation work on. Well, I started the work, but then trouble got in the way, as it had a habit of doing. But I took down some old plaster walls, and they were usually gray with age. Pink was the color of modern gypsum plaster.
Hardly surprising, when I thought about it. Back when this place was built, it probably wasn’t the norm for every room to be en suite—not even for Bulgarian royalty. The bathrooms had been added later, with stud partition walls to separate them.
The wall with the microphone wire hidden inside it was opposite the bedroom rather than backing onto it. So it was likely to be the divider between this suite and the bathroom of the next. I tried to recall if Parris had had to unlock the door before he’d put me in here that first time.
No, he hadn’t . . .
I wondered if my ex-CO realized what he’d achieved by our last conversation. He must have known I was reeling from my encounter with Sean. But assuming I’d crumple when he told me I was about to end up in Ivan’s sticky mitts, and that my chances of outside rescue were minimal, now that was a mistake. He galvanized me rather than making me give up altogether, made me doubly determined to get out of here.
I tapped the wall. It sounded thin, hollow. It had to be horrible as a guest to be able to hear the ablutions of your neighbor, as in a cheap hotel, but right now I couldn’t have been more thankful that Borovets had its share of shoddy builders, just like everywhere else.
From the wardrobe in the bedroom I picked out those glitzy high heels that had been left for my use and decided to take them at their word. They seemed like good quality shoes.
Back in the bathroom I managed to hammer the stiletto heel of one straight through the wall next to the sink. It took half a dozen blows onto the shoe with the side of my fist to put a hole through the plaster layer on top of the drywall. The heel snapped off—nice to know Gregor was a cheapskate when it came to footwear. I kept going with the other.
Once I’d created a weak point, I carried on with my feet. Fortunately, they’d left me with the boots I was wearing when I arrived. They were thick-soled against the snow, heavy duty. Just right for kicking down a wall.
Stamping sideways onto it allowed me to enlarge the hole between the upright studs so I could reach the plasterboard on the other side of the framework. Then it went quicker. Far easier to break the plaster coating from behind.
In less than five minutes I had a hole large enough to squeeze through to next door. Nobody had come to find out what I was doing, or why the microphone in my bathroom had suddenly stopped recording anything more than bubbles.
I took the broken-off heel with me. The wider part that had been attached to the shoe fit nicely into the palm of my hand, and the tapered tip could be deadly. They named stiletto heels after a type of knife for a reason, after all.
The hole in the wall led through to another bathroom, a mirror image of my own, and then into another guest bedroom, this one decorated slightly differently, but laid out the same. I didn’t linger, aware there was likely to be a camera in there, as well. The operators might well not bother watching the feeds from rooms they knew to be empty, but I couldn’t rely on that. For all I knew, they were motion-activated.
As I passed through the bedroom, though, I scooped a copy of a magazine off a low table by the window. It was thick and glossy, some kind of Russian fashion mag, even if I couldn’t read the Cyrillic print. I rolled it into a tight baton in one hand, shoved the stiletto heel into my pocket. Better to strike from a distance if I could manage it.
I admit I was holding my breath when I reached for the door handle, but it turned without resistance. I risked a moment with the door open a crack, listening and watching, but there was nobody nearby.
I slipped out into the corridor, retraced my steps down the staircases. The carpeting on one flight was secured with old-fashioned brass rods at the back of every tread, but I didn’t have the necessary tools to remove them or the luxury of time to do so. None of the ornaments or artwork I passed had much weapons potential.
I kept heading down. Down led to out.
On one of the floors I almost ran into a woman carrying a tray. The startled gasp she gave marked her as domestic staff rather than combatant.
I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring way and muttered, “Izvinete,” which I hoped meant something along the lines of ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon.’ I hadn’t exactly had much time to brush up my Bulgarian before this trip.
She gave me a shy smile and scuttled away. I wondered if I should borrow a drab frock and a tray from somewhere. As disguises went, it was so good she might as well have been wearing an invisibility cloak.
I made it to the lower ground floor af
ter a couple of false starts and doubling back a few times, although without any further interruptions. There was no unnecessary expense on decoration down here. It was part of a warren of workshops and storerooms, some of which contained crates with Arabic script stenciled on the side of them. I could only guess what was inside.
Part of me was surprised that hardly anywhere seemed to be locked, but I guessed that all the security efforts went into keeping people outside the perimeter. Once they were inside, locked doors obstructed your defensive efforts as much as it delayed those who were attacking. Besides, you could always lock or booby-trap doorways as you retreated, if it came to that.
I walked briskly but didn’t run, and tried to look as if I had every right to be there. Far less chance of catching the eye of whoever was watching the monitors.
The closer I got to the garaging, the colder it became. I found a thick padded jacket with a fur-lined hood hanging on a peg in what appeared to be a break room, and I shrugged my way into it. It came to midthigh, and I had to push back the sleeves so I could see my hands, but it was better than shivering. I shoved the Russian magazine halfway into one outer pocket, and the shoe heel into the other.
I was glad of the coat when I opened the final door that led into the garage itself. A blast of cold air met me like a slap in the face. Just inside the door was a row of official-looking clipboards on hooks. I took the first in line and pretended to study the Cyrillic script as if it meant something, lifting a corner of the first page to study the second. I frowned in mock concentration, keeping my head down, but my eyes constantly scanning. As far as I could tell, the place was devoid of life.
The three trucks I’d seen enter earlier stood inside a large white-painted workshop, each surrounded by a small moat of melted slush. Scarred steel workbenches were bolted in along the back wall, with the usual tool chests and storage cupboards you’d find in any mechanic’s lair. Somebody appeared to have taken part of a driveshaft to bits on one of the benches and had yet to reassemble it. It glistened with gritty oil.
