I leveraged myself to my feet and poor Breen was at something of a loss. He was a professional, disciplined, very situation-aware. But at the same time his cotton jeans were burning as a result of my flicking my surreptitiously recovered cigar torch and holding it under the hem of his trousers.
Good wool will not burn, denim will. It’s one of the drawbacks of dressing down.
I ran straight at him, hit him with my chest against his left shoulder and knocked him back. He expected me to lunge for the gun on the sill, but no, that was not the move. Anyone who has ever heckled a teen horror movie knows that you never just knock Freddy Krueger down, you have to finish him off.
So, I kicked Breen in his knee, dropping him, then kicked him and stomped on him, all the while him writhing and then screaming as the flames burned deep. I kicked him in the side of the head and in the back of the neck. Then I relieved him of the pistol in his waistband and took the gun from the sill and shoved it in my back pocket.
I was still zip-tied and, not being a real action hero, I was not prepared to incinerate my wrists in the hopes of melting nylon.
‘Jesus Christ, help me!’ Breen roared. ‘I’m burning!’
‘Yeah, I noticed,’ I said. ‘Give me your knife.’
Credit where credit is due, despite excruciating pain, Breen fished out a pocket knife, as he writhed and cried out in pain and panic.
It took a few seconds for me to manage to cut the zip tie. It’s very awkward work when you can’t see what you’re cutting. ‘Thanks,’ I said and tossed the knife back to him. He failed to catch it probably because he was bellowing in pain and crawling like a fatally-wounded animal toward the kitchen with merry little flames marching up the back of his jeans.
I grabbed his collar, much as he’d done to me, and dragged him into the kitchen where I turned on the water in the sink and used the stylish goose-neck faucet to spray his leg as he cursed and whimpered.
He was in unendurable pain and not able to put up a fight when I searched his pockets and found more zip ties. I locked his wrists together, with a second tie to bind his thumbs. Then two interlocking ties around his healthy ankle and the other ankle which was an angry red horror beneath black scraps of extinguished denim. The smell … well, they say burning human flesh smells like a backyard barbecue. Close enough.
I kicked and shoved and manhandled Breen until he was leaned against the kitchen cabinetry. His faux-posh face was all tears and sweat and strained muscles now. The fire was out, but the pain of second-degree burns from his ankle to the back of his knee would be hard to ignore. Still and all, he was a pro and had been well trained, so he made an effort to focus.
I squatted beside him, just as he’d done, consciously, deliberately just as he’d done. I held my cigar torch in front of his face and flicked it. The three nozzles sprayed burning butane upward in a three-inch blue flame.
‘Now, here’s what I’m going to do, Breen. I’m going to turn this flame and point it at your eye. Your left for a start. And I will hold it until your eyeball bubbles like a fucking marshmallow.’
He shook his head violently.
‘You’re so right about people sometimes being more prepared to die than to live life trapped in a permanently mangled body. Do you read Braille? How are you with a white cane? Do you like guide dogs? Very well-trained animals, they are, won’t let you stumble into traffic.’
And … he was done. He didn’t have to say it; his silence, and the character of his silence, spoke volumes.
‘Now, Breen, who do you work for?’
Hesitation. So, I lit the torch again and let him feel the flame on his squeezed-shut eyelid.
‘All right, all right, you fucking bastard!’
‘Talk. Talk or fry.’
‘Berthold. I work for Berthold.’
I blinked. Not quite the answer I was expecting, though I should have guessed.
‘Not the Russians?’
‘No, you fucking goddamn amateur.’
‘ExMil?’
‘ExMil are the Russians, you blithering idiot! Now call an ambulance! Fucking hell!’
‘Hah!’ The laugh was for the idea that I’d be calling an ambulance. But I was puzzled. If Panagopolous worked for ExMil and banked at AZX Bank, it made sense that ExMil was entwined with the Russians. It was not shocking to imagine that Bristle and Baldy were ExMil as well. ‘What has Berthold got to do with the Russians?’
‘Nothing, you cunt!’
‘Mmmm, that doesn’t feel quite truthful. Stay here. Don’t run off.’ I trotted back to the living room, found my flask, took a quick sip myself to steady my nerves and brought it back to Breen. I held it to his lips and poured a healthy shot into him. ‘There you go, that’ll dial the pain down by a percent or two.’
I was playing both roles: good cop and bad cop.
‘In a hundred words or less, what is the connection between Russians and ExMil on the one hand, and Berthold and you on the other?’
‘Just trying to keep a fucking lid on,’ he spat.
‘Yeah, that’s still not—’ I froze. I’d heard the sound of the front door opening cautiously. I pointed a warning finger at Breen and crept to where I could peek into the living room.
There stood Special Agent Delia Delacorte. She had a piece of torn duct tape hanging from the side of her head. Another piece trailed from her ankle like toilet paper stuck to a heel.
In her hand, she had the tire iron from my car.
‘Hey, Delia,’ I said, stepping into view. ‘What’s up?’
I’d have given anything to have my camera open. No need for video, a still shot would have done it, because Delia stood dead still, mouth open, staring for a good three seconds.
‘David,’ she said finally, in a patient, school-teacher’s voice, like she was trying to find out why a rambunctious toddler had knocked over little Emily’s blocks. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Me? Oh, I killed a guy with a toilet, and I’m questioning the other one in the kitchen. Want to see?’
I don’t think her expression was hatred, not really, because she did actually sort of like me. More a combination of rage, confusion, the effects of adrenalin, and perfectly understandable irritation with my smart-ass welcome.
I led the way to the kitchen and performed introductions. ‘Delia, this is Thorne Breen, ex-British intelligence—’ I stopped on hearing a denial-grunt from Breen. ‘Don’t bother, Breen; the “cousins?” Who calls the CIA “cousins?” You may be ex-MI5 or you may be ex-MI6, what’s a digit one way or the other, right? Anyway, Delia, Breen; Breen, my good friend Delia.’
‘I nearly died trying to get in here and rescue you,’ Delia said. ‘I assumed you needed rescuing.’
‘It’s the thought that counts, Delia.’ Then I spotted the blood coming from her nose. She seemed to notice the blood at the same time and wiped it with the back of her hand. ‘Where’s the guy who jumped you?’
‘The three of them jumped me,’ Delia said. ‘The third one is now in the trunk of your car.’
‘You got a full-grown man into that little trunk?’
‘It wasn’t easy. I had to push up that plastic thing.’
‘The curved plastic … You realize that means I can’t put the top down and nothing’s better than driving with the top down on a warm night under the stars.’ I was babbling some, jacked up on the relief of survival and full of my own wonderfulness at having managed to do that.
Breen groaned and cursed us both as a pair of fucking cunts.
Delia went to him and carefully inspected the zip ties. Satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere, she took my arm and led me back to the living room. ‘David, are you torturing that man?’ She pitched it low not to be overheard.
I shrugged. ‘He tortured me first.’
‘David, you cannot do that.’
‘What? Has the “he started it” rule been revoked?’
She held my arm with more force than necessary and looked me in the eyes. ‘You. Can. Not. Do. T
hat.’
‘But … he’s totally ready to …’
‘I can’t let you. It’s wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ I was pretty sure that word meant something, I’d even used it once or twice in a sentence, but it felt weak.
‘Yes, David, it’s wrong. It’s morally depraved. It’s against the law everywhere. Almost everywhere. Just: wrong, David.’
I gaped in astonishment. Once again I was conscious of a gulf opening between us. And once again, a faint, far-off voice was whispering that I might be on the wrong side of that gulf.
‘But … But he’s about to …’
Delia shook her head. ‘I am what I am,’ she said, then more stiffly, ‘And what I am is a law enforcement professional. I can’t let you. Full stop.’
Wrong, I sneered silently. Jesus H., who takes that kind of thing seriously when you’re in the middle of a war?
Special Agent Delia Delacorte, that’s who.
I retrieved all my gear, even unscrewing the camera I’d so painstakingly installed, just in case Breen didn’t clean the scene up as well as he should.
We left Breen, went out and dragged the third man out of the trunk, unconscious from whatever Delia had done to him. We left the dead man and Breen in the house, and thug number three in Panagopolous’ driveway on the theory that it would drag him into whatever police inquiry followed. And then we just … drove away.
Wrong?
TWENTY-EIGHT
We drove in silence for a long time, both staring straight ahead, like an old married couple leaving a party where hubby groped the hostess.
‘Are you angry at me?’ Delia asked, finally.
‘No,’ I snapped. Angrily.
More driving. This time I broke the silence. ‘I didn’t even think about it.’
‘About what?’
‘About wrong.’ I stretched that last word out into a single-word, sarcasm-laden rant. Then I shrugged. ‘I literally did not think about it. I never do.’
‘You’d been beaten up. And you’d just killed a man.’
We drove. I saw a lay-by, swerved into it, stomped on the brakes and sat there arms on the wheel, bent over.
‘Are you in pain?’ Delia asked.
I shook my head because of course I was in pain, but that wasn’t why I had pulled over. And damn me if tears didn’t well up. Jesus. ‘Did you check? That the guy upstairs was dead?’
‘Yes.’
I had never before taken a human life.
I had never before killed a man.
Completely justified, even absolutely necessary to my own survival. I hadn’t been wrong to do that. But my logic did not entirely convince my stomach, which wanted to throw up. I felt the shakiness of metabolizing adrenalin.
‘I didn’t mean to. I thought …’ But then I remembered after he’d fallen, after I’d seen the bloody mess of his head, raising high my porcelain shield and bringing it down as hard as I could. He was already down. I was already safe from him. I couldn’t know whether it was that first necessary blow that had killed him, or my awkward follow-up ceramic pile driver.
It didn’t feel good. Surviving felt great, but even a confirmed sociopath has to take a pause and take note that he’s just joined the Clan of Cain.
Delia put her hand on my arm and left it there. ‘You reacted in the moment, like a normal person. You’re not trained in how to deal with that.’
I wiped my eyes and laughed that pitiful laugh you produce when you’re absolutely fucking crying like some huge baby. ‘I’m self-taught.’
‘In the Bureau, if you ever take a life, no matter how justified, there’s a whole procedure. Counseling, time off. And we’re trained for it.’
‘His fucking head …’ I turned away, looking out the side window at my own faint reflection. ‘I just react. I do whatever I need to do. You know?’
She squeezed my arm in response.
‘Oh, goddammit,’ I said wearily.
‘How did you get Breen?’ she asked.
‘I set his pants on fire.’
She laughed and so did I. It was funny. In a horrible way, probably. I admit I was confused by the addition of moral considerations to my thought processes.
‘He had me zip tied but I got my cigar torch …’
‘That was smart and resourceful. And not in the FBI training manual.’ My God, she was pitying me.
‘I’m told I’m also tall and symmetrical.’
‘Let’s go to your place. We’ll have a drink.’
I sensed her about to add, just a drink, so I beat her to it. ‘Relax. Even I know when I’m beat.’
Arriving back at the villa we walked straight through the kitchen, filled a baggie with ice for my face, snagged a bottle of Talisker and two glasses and went out onto the terrace. We flopped in chairs, I poured, she offered a toast. ‘To narrow escapes.’
‘Mmm,’ I agreed. ‘Speaking of which …’
Delia pulled a wry face. ‘Okay, you are never going to mention this again. I was, you know, peeing. Behind a bush. The sound of, um, I didn’t hear him and all of a sudden there was a hand over my mouth and a knife at my throat. Then they duct-taped me.’
‘Did they search you?’
‘Yeah. But my ID was in my purse in the car and they never looked for it. They didn’t ask me anything, just trussed me up and left me in the shrubbery.’
‘Breen already knew you’re a Feeb. How’d you get away?’
‘People think because the bad guys on TV use duct tape that it’s impossible to escape. Sorry it took me so long, but I had to mess with the tape and that took some time. Then I had to search in the dark for a weapon. One of the neighbors is missing a decorative paving stone.’
‘Yeah, you didn’t kill yours at least.’
‘Luck, David. I could easily have done so.’
We both sipped whiskey and after a while Delia said, ‘This smells like iodine.’
‘Peat,’ I corrected. ‘I’ve got other—’
‘Didn’t say I didn’t like it.’
I sighed. ‘All right, Agent Delia, what is your position on evidence obtained by illegal means?’
‘It’s not admissible in court. Nor is anything subsequently learned as a result of any such illegal means.’
‘You’d have used the surveillance video if we’d gotten that far.’
‘Not in court,’ Delia said carefully.
‘Ah. So, you stopped me questioning Breen because …’
‘Because it’s wrong, David. Look, in my mind, I need to be able to see you as a CI, a confidential informant. I can overlook small crimes. Breaking and entering. Illegal surveillance. I can’t rationalize turning a blind eye to crimes against humanity.’
I nodded. ‘The whole “wrong” thing. Still working on that.’
‘I’m not a court,’ Delia said, slightly impatient now, waiting for me to get the message.
‘Oh, you want to know what Breen told me. Well, as your CI, I can tell you that he is not involved with the Russians. Or ExMil, which he says are working for the Russians.’ I told her everything Breen had told me – less than he might have.
Was I actually going to burn his eyes out?
Surely not. The mental picture which that summoned was not one I could quite take on board. Did I really have that in me? To torture a helpless man, however much I had cause to be mad at him?
‘So, who is he?’ Delia pressed when she realized I’d drifted into a reverie.
‘Ex-something, Brit, works for Berthold. The guy in the TR6 chatting with Kiriakou while you were running in slow motion through the waves wearing nothing but a Baywatch suit. At least that’s how it is in my memory, but I have taken a blow to the head.’
‘Money and kids,’ Delia said. ‘So, we’re right and it’s two operations, not one.’
I nodded. ‘Berthold, Breen and his boys on one side, probably with Kiriakou. Bristle, Baldy and the banker on the other. Not sure where your guy Panagopolous comes into it, but Breen thinks he’s with the R
usskis.’
‘And still no idea who killed Ramanda.’
I smiled because she’d said ‘Ramanda.’ ‘Two ops. The trafficking thing, worth maybe a few million and very high-risk. The money laundering thing worth maybe billions and relatively low risk. If I’m the boss running both ops, what do I do? I shut down the low-pay, high-risk operation. Minimize risk, maximize income.’
‘Maybe money isn’t the only motivation,’ Delia said.
Sometimes it just takes a single, small, even tangential thought. Like ‘maybe money isn’t the only motivation.’ I closed my eyes. I didn’t like that it had taken me so long to get to the answer. And I didn’t like the answer I’d come to. ‘Who in the criminal world is not all about money? Fucking short-eyes.’
Delia nodded. ‘The Russians are about money. The trafficking operation is about money, but also about raping children. That’s why they don’t just fold it up like any smart businessperson would, because it’s not just far-off Saudis or whatever exploiting these children; it’s happening here, on Cyprus too.’
‘The Russians want it closed down because they’re afraid it’ll draw focus to them, make them vulnerable.’
‘What’s the connective tissue between the two ops?’ Delia wondered aloud. And answered her own question. ‘Feed the Forgotten. They do their banking through AZX Bank. The Russians catch on to Feed the Forgotten’s slaves-for-cash scam and recognize the advantage in using a corrupted NGO for their own purposes.’
‘And?’
‘They won’t want to disrupt the system, they want to keep it largely intact and exploit it. They just want the trafficking to stop.’
‘If Ramanda gives you Nestor Panagopolous, then … what?’ I wondered aloud. ‘Why does she have to be killed? Is it traffickers or Russians who need her dead? Pedos or money launderers?’
‘It has to be the pedos,’ Delia said. ‘Agent Kim and I were here to ID Panagopolous so we could take him down on the Sicily trafficking thing and use it as leverage to squeeze him for information on Russian money laundering. It was supposed to be a two-fer.’
A Sudden Death in Cyprus Page 24
