by Andy Maslen
“What did they do? They must have investigated, surely?”
“I don’t know. Project Gulliver got iced for a couple of weeks, and the four of us went back to our squadrons. But then we were summoned again. They told us the company had redesigned the drug, and identified a rogue molecular bond that had screwed up Eddie’s perceptions. I was selected next, a week ago. Same thing happened. Fine up to about 10,000 feet then whammed with this total, flop-sweat fear. Thought my lap was covered in giant spiders. They were everywhere. Now I’m here. So, look. I heard Don – he your old CO? – I heard him telling you you’d be out of here in a little while. So I want you to do something for me.”
Revolted by the idea of giant spiders in his lap, or even normal-sized ones, Gabriel pulled a face, wrinkling his nose and pulling his mouth down in a frown of disgust. “What? Anything.”
Tom gripped Gabriel’s arm and squeezed, hard.
“I want you to find out what’s going on inside that drugs trial. Because now there’s just Mark, Josh and Shiona, and I don’t want to lose anyone else. There’s a lot at stake for the RAF and Dreyer Pharma. And I’ll give you pounds to peanuts the MOD’s got its grubby little paws in this business too, somehow. Do you know what’s coming up in a month’s time? The Farnborough Airshow. They’re pushing for a big demo of the Typhoon and the RAF’s superior flying abilities. Probably a PR stunt to flog some hardware, or the drug itself for all I know. Shiona’s been given the job. Women fighter pilots are like gold for the image of the air force. I want to see her again.” He paused. “If I can. I don’t want to hear on the radio about another ‘tragic accident’.”
Gabriel thought back to the kestrel being mobbed by the big, black scavengers. About his mother, bullied into alcoholism. And about people who were poisoning young fighter pilots until they killed themselves. He unclenched his fists and let his breath out.
“Leave it with me.”
Chapter 9
Sarah Bryant looked at Kasym with eyes narrowed, defiant.
“No. Of course we haven’t stabbed anyone.”
“I didn’t think so. I, on the other hand, have. Many times. Sticking a knife into a person – even into an animal – takes commitment and a certain amount of skill. Blind hatred on its own is not enough. Please don’t imagine that you can use one of those on me. I’ll disarm you, then I’ll be forced to punish you. And I have both the commitment and the skill. Your ear is healing nicely, Chloe, by the way. Now, let’s begin, shall we?”
While the two women trimmed, peeled and sliced, Kasym halved and deseeded some ridged, irregular tomatoes from the garden. Then he sliced the tops off the peppers and deftly twirled the point of his long cook’s knife around the stalks before pulling them free with a soft pop, bringing most of the pith and seeds with them.
Soon, the kitchen was full of the sizzle and spit of onions frying in aromatic lamb fat. The meat was browning separately in a little flour seasoned with salt and black pepper. Kasym mixed everything in a large saucepan with a blackened underside, along with a bottle of the red wine, a small handful of fresh thyme, rosemary and oregano, and the chopped tomatoes. Last, he added a pinch of brown sugar, a handful of black olives and a splash of red wine vinegar before sealing the pan with a heavy lid and turning the gas down low.
He opened a second bottle of the red wine and poured three glasses.
“Please,” he said. “Let us put this unpleasantness between us aside for a while.”
He picked up a glass and pushed the remaining two by their bases towards the women. Sarah Bryant took one, but Chloe just glared at him, her mouth compressing into a thin, lipless line.
“I don’t drink,” she said.
Her mother’s hand hovered over the glass nearest to her, stopped in its progress by her daughter’s words, but she seemed to decide a drink was worth her daughter’s disapproval. She picked up her glass. As she did so, Kasym raised his and clinked it against hers.
“A toast,” he said. “Chloe, you would honour me by joining us?”
Sarah looked at her daughter, who had crossed her arms over her chest.
“Come on, darling, please. Just a sip. It will relax you.”
“Oh, yeah, Mum. Because I really need to relax right now. Sure, why not. Let’s get pissed with the fucking kidnappers.”
“Chloe Bryant!”
“Ladies,” Kasym said, lowering and softening his voice. “It is just a simple toast. No need for an argument.”
He knew that proposing the toast would act like a magnet, pulling them into his orbit just as surely as the offer of a handshake to a man.
Chloe picked up the glass in front of her and both she and her mother waited for Kasym’s next words.
“To, freedom. Ours, and yours.”
Sarah replied. “To freedom.” They all drank, then Sarah’s eyes widened.
“That is really, extremely good. What is it?”
“I thought you might like it,” Kasym said. “It is a local wine, made just outside Tallinn. Many wine critics rate it as highly as some Australian or Chilean cabernets.”
“What is this, Come Dine with Me and My Hostages?” Chloe asked. “For God’s sake, Mum, can’t you see what he’s doing? Haven’t you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome? Ironic, given where they took us. He wants us to get comfortable around him and his knife-wielding mates, and then we’ll start accepting his worldview and before you know it, there’s a photo on Twitter of me pointing a gun at some bank clerk in Moscow. I’ve got news for you. Both of you. Not. Going. To. Happen.” Chloe got up abruptly, jogging the edge of the table with her hip and spilling wine from the three glasses. “I’m going upstairs.”
*
After dinner, Kasym left Dukka in charge once again. He left the house by the front door and walked to the corner. Elsbeta and Makhmad were waiting.
“Makhmad, take the film and the earring to the courier office. Tell them it’s express. No return address on the package,” Kasym said. He turned to Elsbeta. “You and I are going to collect the van. It’s time to move.”
“OK,” she said, always a woman of few words. As Makhmad trotted off back towards the Peugeot, Kasym and Elsbeta walked shoulder to shoulder down the street. The guy they were buying the truck from lived about a mile away. His neighbourhood wasn’t the best in Estonia, and the truck was in all likelihood somebody else’s legal property. But he had it, and the key, and that was good enough. After twenty minutes’ brisk walk, they turned down a side street. The suburban avenue gradually changed into a treeless strip of cracked concrete and Soviet-era blocks of flats, and it was clear no happy families of prosperous middle-class Tallinnites lived here. Rubbish blew in eddies where walls of concrete blocks intersected, and the only cars parked on the street were cheap Fiats or Nissans with out-of-date licence discs or busted aerials. They made another turn into a street lined with bars and a couple of strip clubs.
“He’s down here on the left,” Kasym said. “After the Top Hat. You have the money?”
Instead of answering him, she flicked her hand out and tapped his thigh with the tips of her fingers, the old signal. Trouble.
Kasym looked left and right and saw what she’d already noticed. The few drinkers on the street had vanished. But the street ahead wasn’t empty. Ahead, standing like a row of bollards from one pavement to the other, were six men. Six big men. All dressed the same: black leather zip-up jackets, faded denim jeans.
The men closed up a little and one stepped ahead of the others. He was as tall as Kasym, but not so heavily built. Only ever one spokesman, Kasym thought. Two lieutenants, three makeweights. Standard formation for gang enforcers from Marseilles to Tblisi. He and Elsbeta moved a little further apart, maybe a yard or so. They kept walking, a little slower than before, but still moving towards the men.
“You Chechens have been talking to the wrong people,” the lead man said. “Paying visits to establishments already under our protection. We’ve had the word out for you. Just got a call from a friend.
So now you’re retiring.”
Always the stumbling speeches in English, Kasym reflected. Globalisation was a wonderful thing, but intimidation was always preferable in one’s mother tongue. No matter. It wouldn’t have worked in Estonian either. He didn’t really have time for a conversation. The lieutenants and the makeweights were still relaxed, expecting the dialogue and the threats to go on for a while longer. Big mistake.
Kasym considered his options. He knew Elsbeta would be doing the same. His Makarov was tucked down the back of his waistband. If he went for it, the men, employees of a business rival, would in all probability blow the two of them away in a hail of bullets. No. They had to let them believe they’d already won. Put them at their ease. Besides, he had other weapons. He faked a stumble and, as he turned side on to them, slid his right hand into his trouser pocket. Good, they hadn’t noticed anything. The cold brass felt reassuring as he slid his thick fingers into the four holes of the knuckleduster and closed his fist around the fat handle.
Next to him, Elsbeta put her hands above her head, then let them drop to the bun of hair pinned to the back of her head. Together they walked on, until they were within three yards of the line of men.
Kasym stopped.
And he waited, scanning along the row of muscle. Taking in the differing physiques, the telltale bulges beneath the jackets, the hands lingering near belts or pockets.
He felt a fleeting sadness. How many widows? How many children about to lose fathers?
“Now!” he said.
Elsbeta pulled the flick-knife from her bun, where she’d poked it before setting off to collect the truck. She rushed at the spokesman, yelling an old Chechen war cry. Surprised by the full-frontal attack, he stepped back instinctively, swearing.
“Kurat sa tšetšeeni lits!”
He went for the gun at his waist. Too late. Too late by far. She closed the gap in less than a second and swept the opened knife up and across his face, opening a deep gash from his jawbone to his eyebrow. The man screamed in pain as blood spurted from the wound, blinding him.
“No!” she shouted. “This Chechen bitch says, fuck you!”
The others were busily spreading out and pulling out guns, knives, coshes and in one case, a baseball bat. Kasym charged to the left of the staggering leader, elbowing him in the face as he barrelled past. Chaos would prevent them getting a clear shot at him or Elsbeta. Out came the knuckleduster, doubling the weight of the fist that clenched it, and turning it from a formidable weapon into a lethal one. The two lieutenants were the next priority. One, a tall, blond guy with a crewcut and the eyes of a stone killer, cocked his baseball bat then swung it at Kasym’s head. He was an easy target, and Kasym slowed his approach a fraction before rearing back to let the aluminium bat whistle harmlessly past his face. His own attack was less showy, but brutally effective. No backswing or flashy roundhouse; he just punched upward in a vicious uppercut that broke the man’s jaw. Thanks to the brass knuckles, he felt nothing but a minor jarring. Only fools had fistfights without protection. As his adversary crumpled, he caught him across the side of the face with another heavy blow. The curved metal rings, half an inch across and with edges milled to wickedly precise right angles, lifted a long flap of skin from the plane of the man’s cheek, deep enough to reveal his teeth through the rent in his stubbled flesh.
Beside him, Elsbeta stumbled. One of the Estonians had caught her a glancing blow with his cosh, something short, fat and made of black leather. Filled, no doubt with lead-shot, coins or ball-bearings. It was four on two, and those were odds that made Kasym happy. He kicked the man with the cosh, hard, in the side of his knee. The snap as the bones broke brought a smile to his lips.
“Yes!” he shouted. “Come on, Elsbeta. Let’s finish these dogs.”
He elbowed the man in the throat as he went down on his good knee bringing forth a gargled choking sound. In went the knuckleduster, popping an eye from its socket. The choking became a coughing scream that cut off abruptly as Elsbeta leaned down and cut his throat.
A huge bang bounced off the alley walls. Kasym and Elsbeta whirled round.
One of the others, a makeweight, had pulled an ancient revolver from his jacket pocket. It smoked in his hand and from the shake at the muzzle it was clear this man was out of his depth. The round had gone wide, and as he fumbled the hammer back, Kasym rushed at him and smashed his brass-clad fist down on the man’s forearm. A double-snap this time: radius and ulna both fractured. The gun fell from his useless right hand, and before he had time to think about another weapon, Kasym’s boot lifted him off the ground as it connected with his groin. A thin cry escaped his lips, and Kasym left him writhing on the ground.
Now it was two on two. Game over, as far as the two Chechens were concerned. These barely counted as odds at all. Hardly ten seconds had passed, and already the Estonians had seen four of their number cut down. They turned to run. Elsbeta gave chase. Kasym considered calling her back, but then just shrugged. It was Elsbeta. Better to try calling off a pack of wolves. She was fast. They were slow. Big men who’d never thought much about the advantages of speed. The trailing man went down in a comical stagger. Elsbeta simply tripped him with a tap to his trailing foot. His head made a dull smack on the cobbles, and he lay still. Without breaking step, she raced off in pursuit of the remaining man. Her next move made Kasym gasp in admiration. He’d seen it before, in Chechnya, in 2000, as she brought down a bulky Russian infantryman on the outskirts of a burning village.
She dived forwards as if for a rugby tackle, and sliced her blade hard against the back of his right thigh, just above the knee. The triple pops as his hamstrings separated were audible all the way back up the alley. Down he went, just as the Russian had done all those years ago. Elsbeta was on top of him before he hit the ground. She rolled him onto his back and pushed her face close to his.
“No,” she said. “You are retiring. The Chechen bitch says so.”
Then she slit his throat. Blood burst out from his pallid neck, and she stepped smartly back to avoid getting covered.
People were watching from behind shuttered windows and doorways veiled with swinging aluminium chains. It didn’t matter. Bar owners and club managers didn’t really care who ran the district. They knew better than to complain or, worse still, involve the police. Just pay your rent and offer free drinks, or lap dances, and everything would be OK.
“Nearly finished,” Elsbeta said, panting, as she rejoined Kasym outside a video arcade called London Popstar.
Now there was no risk of an extended firefight, she reached inside her jacket and drew her own pistol, a Beretta 92FS. The Italian-made semi-automatic was fitted with a dull, black cylindrical suppressor. She stepped over the still-groaning man whose ruined groin was the result of Kasym’s steel-toe-capped work boot.
She approached the former spokesman for the Estonians, stood over him, extended her right arm downwards and shot him through the face.
The sound was like a telephone directory being slammed onto the floor, but not the devastatingly loud bang made by an unsuppressed weapon.
She moved to the next man, kicked a knife from his hand, aimed and fired another shot.
Three more times she repeated the simple action, until the cobbles were speckled with bone fragments and brain tissue, and ran freely with the Estonians’ blood. Then she marched over to the sixth man, whose eyes were wide with terror, the bright-blue irises floating in a sea of white.
He put his arms out to her, palms upwards, like a saint about to be martyred in some old church painting.
“Please,” he said. “I have children. Three. Girls. Please don’t leave them without a father.”
Elsbeta’s expression crumpled into a snarl as if someone had screwed up her face from the inside, pulling all the muscles into some point centred just above the bridge of her nose. Her lips were drawn back and she bared her teeth.
“Do they know what you do for a living? You piece of shit. Do they?” This last question wa
s shouted and Elsbeta jammed the end of the suppressor in between the man’s quivering lips. “I was one of three sisters. Do you know that? Men like you raped my sisters. Killed my sisters. They raped me too. But I killed them. So fuck you, Mr Good-Daddy. And fuck your children, too.”
The man flinched and the acrid stink of urine suddenly filled the air.
“No, Elsbeta!” Kasym said, placing a hand on her gun arm and pressing down hard enough to move the barrel of the pistol downwards, so that it scraped across the man’s lower incisors and pulled his lip down in a grotesque parody of a pout. “Wait. He can be our messenger.”
“Yes, yes, anything. I’ll carry a message for you,” the man said, smiling now, anxious to please, desperate to justify his reprieve. “To Yuri, yes? Our boss?”
“Yes. To Yuri,” Kasym said, kneeling down by the man’s side and looking into his eyes. “Here’s what he’s going to learn from you. One, you do not fuck with Chechens. Two, if you do fuck with Chechens, you need to send more men . . .”
“Three?”
“Three, if you send more men to fuck with Chechens, better make sure they’re better at fighting than you six.”
Kasym held the man’s gaze and reached behind him, hand open. He closed his fingers round the object Elsbeta placed in his palm. He got to his feet, brushed the road dirt from his trousers, then extended his arm and shot the man through both knees. His scream bounced off the walls of the bars and strip clubs, but it might as well have been echoing through a forest for all the good it did him. Kasym and Elsbeta looked around. The street was still empty. The revellers knew better than to take pictures on their phones or stand around gawking. In this part of Tallinn, you kept your nose in your drink and waited it out.
