‘Is it still operational?’
‘Tyche got into financial trouble. Zagrovyl bought them out.’ Emma closed the file and held it out. ‘Jaq, why would Zagrovyl want to buy a company specialising in chemical weapons decommissioning?’
Jaq leafed through the file. ‘It looks as if they had special know-how, experience of handling the nastiest stuff. Zagrovyl makes medicines and weedkillers and pesticides. We wage war on disease and weeds and insects using the same basic chemicals used in chemical weapons.’ She gazed out at the garden.
Emma’s phone beeped. ‘Here’s the call I was waiting for.’ She smiled. ‘Look.’
Emma showed Jaq the photo as it came through on her phone. Two men on a mountain, one sitting between shards of rock, eating a sandwich. Johan smiling and waving. The other man dangling from the end of a rope over a grey abyss.
‘That’s the other reason Johan couldn’t come. He’s roped up on the top of Helvellyn. Right now, Johan is the only thing stopping Frank Good falling five hundred feet from Striding Edge. I’m sure Frank’ll be happy to answer all your questions.’
Saturday 9 July, Cumbria, England
It was not one of his better decisions, he knew it now. Frank rarely made a mistake, but when he did, he was big enough to admit it. Of course, he would keep the realisation to himself; any hint of regret might destroy team morale.
The mountain was magnificent: grey, rugged and powerful. The water streamed down from the heavens, dripping over rocks into the pools, cascading from pools as little rivers. It was a long way down, first stop a hanging corrie hollowed out by millennia of ice action. The distant yapping of a dog put him in mind of a poem.
The crags repeat . . . in symphony austere . . . the sounding blast,That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast.
Frank tugged on the rope. Okay, Mr Extreme Boot Camp leader, Johan whatever your name is: enough now. Pull me up.
The rest of the team had made it across Striding Edge without incident, and now their bright cagoules receded into the mist, led by the other instructor. Frank was a little surprised they hadn’t stopped. Would he have waited for them? Certainly not. Just as well they had continued their ascent of Helvellyn, as there was something slightly undignified about his current predicament.
If he was to be brutally honest – and he was always brutal, although honesty was overrated and to be used sparingly – the whole corporate boot camp idea might have backfired a bit. Such a good idea, the image of fat Nicola puffing over a high ropes course, Raquel wobbling up a mountain in her ridiculous shoes, Eric adrift outside the drawing office, but they had all turned out fitter and more resilient than he expected. Who knew that Nicola was a Brownie leader? Or how much Raquel worked out in the gym? Who would have guessed geeky Eric was a keen hiker and knew the Lake District like the back of his hand?
The toll of corporate life in the fast lane – airplanes and business lounges, lavish lunch meetings and lengthy dinners – had affected his own fitness. Perhaps Bill had been letting him win at squash. He wasn’t twenty any more. In his mind, this was to be his triumph, bounding ahead over the rocks while his team crumbled. In practice, they had raced on ahead and he was left here, dangling from a rope.
Frank tugged again. Johan appeared over the lip of the ridge, a long way away.
‘Pull me up!’ Frank shouted.
Johan shook his head and lowered something down. A small rectangular object on a string. What the fuck? He reached out and grabbed the phone as it swung down. The screen lit up.
He pressed it to his good ear. ‘Who the hell is this?’
‘Hello, Frank.’
There was no mistaking the voice.
Jaqueline Silver.
Saturday 9 July, Łódź, Poland
Boris bent to tickle the little grey cat brushing against his trouser leg. He’d always had a soft spot for animals. His mother had never allowed pets, but a farm cat once crawled into their attic and gave birth to five kittens. He visited every day, keeping it secret until they started moving around at night. The adults decided the scratching noises in the ceiling meant rats and were preparing to lay down poison when he told the truth. He was astonished that his mother didn’t beat him. She told him to fetch the kittens from the attic. Amazed at her calm, he told her their names as he brought them down one by one – Blacky, Whitey, Spotty, Stripy, Softy – told her all about them, the ones who liked to play with his shoelaces, the ones who purred the loudest, the shyest, the sleepiest, the bravest, the softest. His mother repeated the names as she dropped them into a bucket of water. And then she beat him.
The cat’s fur was soft and silky. He could feel a little heartbeat pulsating under his fingers through the thrum of purrs. When all this was over, when he’d finished the job, he’d get a cat. Maybe two. A car, a flat, a cat.
The owner of the guest house, a portly middle-aged man, appraised him from behind the counter. His smile faded as Boris put the cat down and approached, pulling on a pair of leather gloves.
‘We’re full.’
Liar. The place was deserted. He’d been watching it for hours. The last member of staff had just left and only one car remained in the car park. Two guests, one live-in owner and a friendly cat.
‘I’m looking for my friends,’ Boris said. ‘Two English women.’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry—’
Boris leant across the counter and grabbed the man by the windpipe. With the other hand he opened the visitors’ book. Nothing. He squeezed hard, lifting the man from his seat, deflecting the blows from flailing hands, before dropping him abruptly.
‘You will be.’ Boris vaulted over the counter and straddled the man sprawled on the ground, fighting for breath. ‘Which room?’
When the owner failed to answer, Boris kicked him in the stomach for good measure. Yanking the telephone and internet sockets from the wall, he grabbed the master keys and went through the hotel, flinging open one door after another. Nothing – every room was empty.
Boris returned to the owner, still gasping like a fish out of water.
‘Where are they?’
‘Not here,’ he croaked.
‘When did they leave? Where did they go? What car are they driving?’ The kicks came hard and fast, his frustration finding relief in the hard physical activity of lifting a ninety-kilo man and slamming the soft body against the hard surfaces of floor, wall, counter, fireplace, stairs.
After a while there was no point asking any more questions.
The little cat emerged from the garden. He mewed and rubbed against Boris’s leg. Boris bent down and stroked it, but it didn’t feel the same with gloves on.
Where the fuck were they? Somewhere between Łódź and London. Jehla v kupce sena. Needle in a fucking haystack.
Boris rifled through the office. He took all the cash, so it would look like a robbery. And that’s when he got the lucky break. In the till, he found a booking form with a UK contact for the lawyer: Blondie’s mobile phone number. It wouldn’t take him long to get a trace on that.
As he was leaving, the little cat crouched beside the owner, busy with its long pink tongue.
Saturday 9 July, Poznań, Poland
Emma drove through flat, industrial landscape as Jaq recounted the conversation with Frank.
‘All of a sudden, Mr Good is prepared to cooperate.’
‘My husband has a way with people.’
‘And how.’ Jaq laughed. ‘Frank is anxious to contact Major Thomas and Brigadier Fairman and correct any misunder-standing.’
‘Johan won’t let him off the mountain until he does.’
‘Frank claims the nerve gas made him forget.’
‘So, the bracing mountain air refreshed his memory?’
Emma turned in at a petrol station.
‘He’s going to make a full statement to the police.’ As they came to a halt, Jaq kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Emma.’
Emma turned off t
he engine and wrapped her arms around Jaq, squeezing her tight.
So warm and comforting. Curled up in her friend’s embrace, she considered forgetting about everything. Let others resolve the mess, put things right, catch the bad guys. Emma was safety, strength and softness; she was courage, competence and compassion – the kind of mother Jaq never had. Ben and Jade were so lucky.
‘I’m glad we decided not to stay the night,’ Emma said. ‘Let’s go home.’
Go home to where? To what? To the knowledge that she had failed? Jaq sighed and shook her head. ‘We need hard evidence.’
‘But Frank—’
‘Not good enough. He destroyed the tracker.’
‘So, what do we do?’
Jaq looked across the petrol station forecourt, staring at the lilac bushes by the side of a field. She scratched her head. ‘Emma, is prostitution legal in Belarus?’
Emma frowned. ‘Definitely not, why?’
Jaq thumped the dashboard. ‘Then I know where to go. But it’s in the opposite direction.’
‘Where to, partner?’ Emma asked.
‘Minsk.’
They doubled back, past Terespol, crossing the border at Brest.
‘Emma, are there Geiger counters at border crossings?’
Emma nodded as she drove away from the border and onto an empty highway. ‘The US funded a programme as part of the war on terror after nine-eleven. Not just borders – global ports, and motorway tolls and bridges, too.’
That explained the dots and ribbons on the map. Jaq imagined herself as a series of dots travelling across Europe: Teesside to Slovenia and back, Slovenia to Portugal, Portugal to Belarus, Minsk to Kiev, Kiev to Chornobyl, Chornobyl to Terespol, Terespol to Łódź and now the journey to Minsk. The dot would be a strong colour at the start, a bright yellow, opaque and full of energy, fading a little with each journey, now a transparent, weak shadow of her former self. Who cared? She was no longer alone. Her strength sat beside her. Emma represented a new, bright pink dot, moving fast.
Jaq closed her eyes. The map on the Tyche tracker followed controlled chemicals moving between Teesside and Chornobyl via Slovenia.
Why Slovenia?
‘Are the rules on transport of dangerous goods different in Slovenia?’
‘Let me think.’ Emma tapped the steering wheel with her fingers. ‘Slovenia joined the European Union in 2004, right?’
‘I think so.’
‘So they would have ten years to harmonise with EU rules.’ She paused to overtake a horse-drawn cart, checking her mirror, indicating left to pull out and then right to return. ‘EU regulations would apply immediately for all material coming into Slovenia from the west.’ She swore and braked sharply as a moped pulled out from a side road. ‘But the old USSR rules would still apply for transport out of Slovenia to the east.’
‘Aha!’ Jaq slapped the dashboard. ‘Now I understand.’
Emma hooted at a bicycle. ‘Well, I don’t.’
‘SLYV sourced the ingredients for chemical weapons in Teesside, but they couldn’t ship them direct to their secret factory because controlled chemicals contain tracers to follow their use. So SLYV hid them among shipments of explosives. The tracers set off alarms at every border and port and motorway toll station. Explosives also have tracers, so no one looked too closely. The paperwork showed a delivery to a licensed organisation, Snow Science. Tracking file closed.’
Emma nodded. ‘So far, so good.’
‘Then the shipment was rejected by Snow Science. New papers were prepared for the reject to go east for recycling. Different rules, no EU control of the shipment and no official notification when it vanished. And SLYV paid for everything they stole.’
Emma whistled. ‘Mimicking a legitimate business, right up to the moment they purveyed weapons of mass destruction to the lunatics of the world.’
They skirted Brest and passed empty fields, wide, deserted roads, towns with no sign of shops or cafés, only the occasional playground devoid of children. In Baranovichi they stopped to buy vodka and cigarettes for Elena. The selection was limited.
‘Where is everyone?’ Emma whispered.
‘Huge country, tiny population,’ Jaq said. ‘Agricultural land contaminated by the fallout from Chornobyl. Massive emigration, and those who remain live in the cities.’
As they approached Minsk, residential blocks appeared, serried escarpments of high-rise concrete. Jaq directed Emma to the Shiskina Model Agency. The familiar red arrow pinpointing the brothel flashed and crackled overhead.
Emma raised an eyebrow and buttoned her blouse up to the neck. ‘Will she cooperate?’
Jaq scowled and pressed the bell. ‘We’ll see.’
The steel door opened and Elena stood at the doorway, hands on hips. ‘Go away.’
‘Let us in,’ Jaq said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘What do you want?’ Elena glanced behind her shoulder. ‘I am expecting clients.’
Jaq offered the vodka and cigarettes. Elena inspected them with a snort of distaste. ‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘You bring me rubbish.’ She snatched them anyway and started to close the door. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘We have news.’ Jaq pushed against the door and forced her way in, Emma stumbling behind her in the dark. The gloomy anteroom was lit by a single bulb under a red lampshade and stank of cigarette smoke. Elena clapped her hands and the velvet sofas and leather chairs emptied of half-naked women. Jaq sat on a high wooden stool in front of the bar, pulling out another seat for Emma as Elena moved to collect a bottle.
Jaq splayed both hands on the smooth wooden counter of the bar. ‘I’m sorry, Elena,’ she said. ‘Sergei is dead.’
Elena poured a splash of vodka into three glasses and slid two across the bar.
Emma wrinkled her nose and backed away, glancing sideways at Jaq, who downed her shot in one, matching Elena move for move.
‘I know,’ Elena said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She continued in Russian. ‘Why tell me what I already know?’
‘They came here, didn’t they?’ Jaq said. ‘The Russians from SLYV.’
Elena blanched and filled her glass again, glancing at the door. Was she planning her escape, or waiting for someone to appear?
‘If I could find you, then so could SLYV,’ Jaq said. ‘You were Sergei’s partner, easy to track down. When Sergei disappeared from Snow Science, SLYV came here to find you.’
‘Please,’ Elena said. ‘Go now.’
‘What did you tell them?’ Jaq asked.
‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ Elena said.
‘Jaq.’ Emma tugged at her sleeve. ‘I think we’d better go.’
‘We need to stop them,’ Jaq said. ‘Make sure they never come back again.’
‘They are bad men,’ Elena said. ‘They frighten me.’
‘Did they hurt you?’
Elena lowered her eyes. ‘They took my girls,’ she said. ‘That was worse.’
‘Jaq, let’s go.’ Emma tugged at her sleeve.
‘Elena, what did they want?’
Elena hung her head. ‘Boris brought a key. Said it was Sergei’s, that Sergei had something hidden near Chornobyl. That the key was for a locker. Tried to make me tell them where it was. I said I didn’t know. They said I had to find someone who did. Said they would follow whoever came for the key. So I gave it to you.’
Thanks a bunch. With friends like Elena, who needed enemies?
‘Now go!’ Elena stamped her foot and flung an arm towards the door. ‘Before it’s too late.’
‘Not without the evidence,’ Jaq said.
Elena scowled. ‘What evidence?’
Noises at the door. Emma stood up. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling, Jaq. Please, let’s go now.’
‘Where is it, Elena?’
Elena raised her head, her double chin jutting forward. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Give me the memory stick.’
It had come to Jaq while she was describing
the device to the man from the embassy. The tracker was shoebox-sized, black with a lilac sheen. It had a screen, a keyboard and a USB port.
Sergei didn’t need to remove the instrument to supply the evidence; all he needed to do was download the information. But Sergei wasn’t working for free, he was being paid. Follow the money. Elena was the fence, so when Elena received the money, she was meant to send the memory stick in return. But Camilla had disappeared without sending the money.
Jaq vaulted over the bar to the cash register. She yanked out the small black dongle and inspected it. It glinted with a lilac sheen.
Elena grabbed her wrist. ‘What are you doing?’
Jaq smiled. ‘Hide in plain sight.’ Brilliant. She wished she’d met Sergei. Wished he’d had a happier end. She threw the memory stick to Emma. ‘Let’s go.’
‘They promised me money for that.’ Elena released Jaq’s wrist and lunged towards Emma. ‘Where’s my money?’
Emma slapped a couple of notes on the table, enough to cover the drinks.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ Elena screamed. ‘In full.’
Saturday 9 July, Minsk, Belarus
Boris rolled up to the club on the corner of Ulitsa Shishkina. He walked round the block to check for a Polish hire car – no trace of Silver or Blondie – so he hammered on the back door. Elena flung it open and then froze, turning pale. She made a half-hearted attempt to close the door in his face, but he slammed into her, clamping a hand over her mouth before she could scream a warning.
‘Hello, Elena,’ he whispered. ‘Nice and quiet, so no one gets hurt?’
Her eyes blazed, but she nodded slowly. He forced her back into the storeroom, turning her large, soft body to face the crates of beer while he bound her hands behind her back.
‘What do you want this time?’ she hissed.
‘Nice welcome,’ he sneered. ‘Were you as hospitable to your English visitors?’
She held her breath just for a moment, long enough for him to know they had been here.
The Chemical Detective Page 32
