by CJ Carver
‘The code words were genuine,’ Bernard said.
‘Yes. I gave them to him.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
Dan didn’t leave anything out and when he finished, his old boss looked past him, expression distant. ‘As soon as we got the call from Fyodor, we pressed the diplomatic emergency button. We were told you were in jail, arrested for reckless endangerment, and we were all set to create a diplomatic stink but you were released in the next breath, lots of guff about local police making a mistake, that sort of thing.’
‘What about the OMON team?’
‘It means someone’s pulling some major strings over there. Someone right at the top.’
‘Why did they hold me for so long?’
Bernard studied him. ‘Perhaps they wanted you out of the way.’
Dan hadn’t thought of that and gave a shiver inside, praying that Jenny was safely tucked up away in Max’s safe house.
‘Fyodor,’ Dan said. ‘Did he say anything about Ekaterina?’
Bernard picked up a pen, turned it between his fingers. ‘He asked me to tell you that his sister was in recovery.’
The relief Dan felt was inappropriate for an acquaintance of such a short time and he looked away, suddenly embarrassed. Not that Bernard would think any less of him, though. Agents and assets could forge a bond closer than lovers in some cases, especially when the asset was in a dangerous position and the agent running them responsible for their life.
‘Did he say anything else?’ Dan asked, hoping to find out about his history with Ekaterina. Old friend or old enemy?
Bernard put down the pen. Regarded Dan speculatively. ‘If you’re hoping I can fill in any blanks, I’m afraid I can’t help. You were off the grid back then and Fyodor wasn’t giving much away.’
Dan was surprised to realise how disappointed he was.
‘I’d like you to look at some photographs Six have sent over.’ Bernard’s voice turned brisk. ‘Try and identify everyone.’
Dan nodded.
Bernard buzzed someone, saying, ‘He’s ready.’ A brisk young woman from MI6, navy suit – Hi, I’m Emily – came and escorted him to another office. Offered him coffee, then sat him in front of a laptop. Put an obviously pre-selected program into operation. As a succession of portraits crossed the screen, Dan leaned back, making himself as comfortable as possible. This could take a while. Emily took up position on the other side of the desk, tapped away on her computer keyboard.
Dan let his mind wander as the faces paraded. Some in colour, some in black and white. Some were head shots while others included groups of people dining or at parties, others at official functions. He recognised the Russian Prime Minister but not the man he was talking to. When Magnitsky’s photograph came up his intuition pinged until his conscious mind kicked in, reminding him he’d never met the man but simply recognised him from the newspapers. He settled back again. Barely five photographs on, his heart gave a bump.
There!
He pounced on the mouse to stop the slide show.
Ekaterina and Maria at a party. Maria holding a glass of what looked like champagne and laughing at whoever was taking the photograph. Ekaterina was smiling too, her hand on a man’s arm. Her touch looked light, and he recalled the feeling of her slender fingers on his thigh, as warm and soft as vapour. Both women wore stunningly provocative full-length dresses, and although he knew nothing about haute couture he’d bet his last penny they’d cost a fortune.
‘Who do you recognise?’ Emily asked. She was standing at his shoulder. He pointed at the man, recognising him from the photograph Ekaterina had shown him. ‘Edik Yesikov,’ he said. Then he pointed at the two women. ‘Who are they?’
‘Ekaterina Datsik and Milena Zhukov. He picked them up at a bar when they first arrived in Moscow and made them his pets.’
For a moment Dan was transported into the back of the Audi and he was looking into Maria’s eyes – Milena’s eyes – in the rear-view mirror. We are not prostitutes.
‘He has other women but those two have stood the test of time. He trusts them. They go where he goes. He likes showing them off.’
‘Apparently I recruited Ekaterina,’ he said. ‘A while ago.’
Emily appraised him, respect in her eyes. ‘Good choice.’
He couldn’t help his next thought. But exactly who had recruited who?
Emily returned to her desk. Dan clicked the mouse and restarted the parade. An hour passed. Then another. He broke for a coffee. Came back. It was almost midday when his intuition kicked in again but he couldn’t see why. He’d been looking at a collection of photographs taken at a ball. Carefully he scrutinised each one, checking each face, no matter where they were in the picture.
And then he found him.
The old man.
He was behind a circle of bejewelled women and men in dinner jackets and was turning away from the photographer as though he didn’t want to be seen. He was younger there, in his forties maybe, but Dan knew it was the same man. He had the same upright posture, the same cut-glass angles on his face. Refined and arrogant.
Emily came to stand at Dan’s shoulder again.
He pointed at the old man.
She squinted at the screen. Returned to her computer. Tapped away for a while. Turned her screen so he could see the photographs scrolling, but there was no clear head shot of the man. All were of other people, with him always in the background, never centre stage.
‘His name is Lazar Yesikov. Edik Yesikov’s father, apparently. Ex-KGB. He’s been around for years, one of the old guard, but we’ve never pinged him before.’ Her gaze was bright on Dan. ‘Not another of yours, I suppose?’
He shook his head before quickly telling her about his being questioned by Lazar.
‘Shame. He seems to know everyone.’ She clicked through more pictures. Yesikov hovering behind Dmitry Medvedev. standing next to Patriarch Alexander Kalinin, the head of the Church, and President Putin. Yesikov standing over a dead wolf with his son at his side.
‘We’ll work on him,’ Emily said. ‘Get a proper backstory together.’
Dan returned to Bernard’s office. Told him about Milena and Ekaterina, otherwise known as Lynx.
‘You say you don’t remember her,’ Bernard looked at him carefully. ‘Even though you recruited her.’
‘Correct.’
‘And she said that meeting you this time was the most important thing of her life,’ Bernard reiterated, ‘and that Jenny is somehow involved.’
Dan licked his lips. ‘Yes.’
Bernard swivelled his chair to look over the Thames. ‘Ekaterina knew about the FSB agents entering the United Kingdom. That they want to find Zama Kasofsky.’
Long silence.
‘Why?’ Bernard swivelled back. ‘Who is this Zama Kasofsky? Why are they –’
He stopped speaking when one of the phones on his desk rang. He picked it up. He didn’t say anything, just listened. Finally, he said, ‘I don’t like it.’ Then, he lifted his eyes to Dan. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
Bernard hung up. He said, ‘Bad news I’m afraid.’
Dan felt his stomach hollow. Desperately he tried not to think of Jenny and Aimee.
‘Jane Sykes,’ Bernard said. ‘She was killed the day after she returned to England. Cycling accident.’
Dan stared at Bernard, nerves humming.
‘We have to find Ekaterina Datsik.’ Bernard’s eyes focused on Dan, intense. ‘We need answers, now.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When Ekatarina awoke it was the intense light she first became aware of. It seemed to pierce her eyelids and drill into her brain. She moved her head to the side and lay there, feeling the mattress against her spine, the dense pillow beneath her head. She tried to suppress the whimper as pain pulsed from her stomach and chest into every corner of her soul.
She knew where she was. She didn’t need to open her eyes. Hospitals always smelled and sounded more or less the same. A mixture
of antiseptic, stale urine and anxiety. Fyodor had brought her here. She’d wanted to dissuade him but she was so close to death she could no longer speak. He was sobbing as he left her in the emergency room, torn between letting her die in his arms and giving her a chance of survival in hospital, but with an uncertain fate.
She swallowed carefully. Her mouth was dry and tasted sour. How long had she been here? She had no idea of knowing. It could be days, or weeks. Everything was a blur of pain and terror. The last clear thing she remembered was Dan Forrester holding her in the back of Milena’s car.
Don’t give up.
His voice had been fierce, as though he remembered her, but he hadn’t, not really. Not like her. When she’d seen him at the Radisson she’d had trouble containing her hate. And when he’d put his arm around her waist, although her body had melted, seamlessly fitting against his, it had taken a huge effort not to slap him.
She was amazed he hadn’t seen her loathing, hadn’t felt it burning like a river of lava, destroying everything in its path. He’d been insouciant, almost blasé when she’d approached him, but when she’d walked away she’d felt his eyes follow her like they used to. Her body had responded in kind, her hips swinging a little more, her waist tautening. She’d forgotten how he used to affect her, how mercilessly attractive she’d found him. Broad shoulders, muscular waist, eyes grey and deep as the ocean, framed by charcoal lashes.
Milena had purred when she’d first seen him. Ekaterina hadn’t stood in her way, but Dan hadn’t been interested. He’d only had eyes for her, which had made her life easy since Edik had told her to befriend the Englishman. Poor Milena, she knew nothing about her and Dan, their twisted and bitter history. Dan had spoken Russian then, but he didn’t any more. Strange to think he didn’t remember her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this. She’d been angry for so long, nurturing her hate, that it was difficult to see past it, but life had a strange way of closing the past. She never thought she’d have anything to do with Dan Forrester again until she overheard Edik talking about Dan’s wife.
She’d been tempted to ignore what she’d learned, but the ramifications went further than Dan and Jenny, further than the FSB and MI6’s machinations. She couldn’t turn her back. She loved her country too much to do that. And now she’d been caught out and Dan was gone who knew where, she had to find another way of reaching his wife. She had to stop this train of conspiracies from reaching its hideous destination.
Cautiously, eyelash by eyelash, she unglued her eyes. Saw a linoleum floor. A glossy blue wall. She swivelled her eyes to the far end of the room to a small table where an old man sat. Aquiline features exuding a sharp intensity. He was looking straight at her. ‘Good,’ he rasped. ‘You’re awake.’
The wave of fear drowned out her pain. She couldn’t help it – she released a trickle of urine.
Leaning on his cane, he rose to his feet. Clicked his fingers. Five men appeared. Big men. Goons.
He said, ‘Bring it in.’
One man vanished. The other four stood quietly. Lazar Yesikov looked at Ekaterina.
‘I expect you think I’m here to kill you.’
A whimper fluttered in her throat but with a herculean effort she quashed it. She didn’t want him to see her terror. She’d heard it only irritated him, made him more brutal.
‘I considered it,’ he told her. ‘But you’re more useful to me alive.’
The man he’d sent outside returned. In one hand he held a heavy iron bucket. In the other, a metal rod.
Yesikov came and stood over her. He said, ‘I want you to be a warning to others.’
Dread drenched her. She clenched her teeth to stop him hearing them chatter.
Another click of the fingers. Four goons moved swiftly, pinning her to the bed. One man wound her hair around his fist then twisted her face to one side, pressing her head down into the pillow so hard she thought her skull might crack. She could feel tears trickling down her cheeks but she made no sound.
The fourth man came over with the bucket. Took off the lid. Immediately she felt a waft of scalding heat. Smelled the thick scent of blazing coals. The man raised his metal rod and she saw it had a design on the end, glowing white-red hot. It was a brand.
The whimper ballooned in her throat. Tears poured.
‘Suka,’ the old man said. ‘That is now your name.’
Suka was the prison word for traitor. It was also the word for bitch.
He looked at the brander. ‘Do it.’
The man brought the brand straight towards her. She was overcome with horror.
Not my face!
She tried to struggle, to fight, but she was already weak and barely moved against her captors’ grip.
The man thrust the brand against her cheek, then tilted it to sear the corner of her mouth, then moved up to her eyelid.
The pain was so huge, so shocking she couldn’t even take a breath to scream.
The last thing she remembered was feeling the brand push against her eyeball, melting it with a hissing, popping sound that would stay with her until the day she died.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dan stared out of the window and along the Embankment, barely seeing the people scurrying beneath their umbrellas, heads and shoulders hunched against the driving sleet. He was listening to Lucy on the phone with increasing bafflement, trying to find his way through the maze of information she’d imparted.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said. ‘You’re saying that this Nicholas Blain has a photo of me. And the man he showed it to is the lawyer for Adrian Calder, who apparently killed his family, and whose wife is the daughter of Irene Cavendish. Irene is of Russian extraction.’
‘Yes.’
He hadn’t told Lucy about his Russian visit, or that Jenny was in hiding. He never liked sharing information without good reason, even with the police, and unless he thought it might help Lucy open another avenue of investigation – or vice versa – he decided to keep his trip quiet for the moment.
‘Ask the lawyer about Blain,’ Dan said, ‘and why he has a picture of me. As much information as you can get, please.’
‘No problem.’
She was brisk and efficient and he pictured her vividly, her narrow, intelligent face, her vivid brown eyes. Although she’d laughed at his offer of working for the Security Service before Christmas, he thought she’d make an exemplary officer. She was tough, smart and resourceful, but most importantly, her thinking was original.
After they hung up, Dan tried to see how, if at all, any of Lucy’s investigation fitted with Ekaterina and the old man in Moscow. And what about the two FSB agents? Ivan and Yelena Barbolin? Had they found Zama Kasofsky yet?
He checked his watch to see it was past five p.m. He’d spent all day at Thames House North, looking at more photographs, talking to the Russian desk, reading up on Edik Yesikov, trying to piece information together, and he didn’t think he’d learn anything further. It was time for some fieldwork.
He took the Tube to King’s Cross. Exiting the station, he pulled up his collar against a bitingly cold wind and walked to Kings Place and the offices of The Guardian. Dan pushed open the glass door, welcoming the flood of heat that enveloped him. He shrugged off his coat and folded it over his arm. Told a receptionist he was meeting the editor, and absorbed the sleek and chic surroundings, the rumble of traffic, the unobtrusive down lighting, acres of space.
He was ushered up a stainless steel and glass staircase and into an office with a glass table and two designer-style squishy chairs in vibrant yellow and blue. The editor-in-chief, John James, was a lean, spare figure with dark skin and intensely dark eyes. When they shook hands, his grip was strong and dry.
‘I was sorry to hear about Jane Sykes’s death,’ Dan said.
‘We’re still getting our heads around it,’ James admitted. ‘Most of us cycle to work. It’s made us jittery.’
‘I can imagine.’
Small pause.
‘So,’ said James
. His look was appraising. ‘You want to talk about Jane’s recent trip to Moscow.’
‘Yes. Why she went, who she saw, that sort of thing.’
‘I couldn’t tell you anything in detail. She has . . . I mean had an apartment there, you see. She used to split her time between that and her parents’ place in Chiswick.’
James gave a rough outline of what Jane had hoped to achieve, listing a handful of contacts. Dan recorded them. He didn’t recognise any names.
‘Did she mention someone called Zama Kasofsky?’
At that, caution rose in the man’s eyes. He said, ‘Ah. So you know about that.’
Dan blinked. ‘You know Kasofsky?’
‘I know of him.’
‘And you know where to find him.’ It was a statement, not a question.
James scratched his neck with a finger. ‘Not really.’
Irritated by the man’s reticence, Dan said, ‘Please, this is important.’
‘Look.’ James swallowed audibly. ‘Your lot told me not to talk about this Kasofsky. Not to anyone. You gave me the gypsy’s warning.’ He glanced around the office, giving a nervous laugh. ‘You scared the crap out of me, to be honest.’
All of Dan’s hairs rose on the back of his neck.
‘Our lot?’ he said.
He looked at Dan as though he’d asked something stupid. ‘SIS. Same as you, right?’
‘What were their names?’
James blinked. ‘It was a couple. Ivan and Yelena Barbolin. They were undercover but they gave me a number to ring to authenticate their credentials. I checked, believe me. I even rang your office. I wasn’t going to let them take Jane’s stuff without ensuring they were legit.’
Ekaterina’s voice: Edik Yesikov secretly sent two FSB agents to your country last week. Ivan and Yelena Barbolin. Their mission to find a British journalist. Jane Sykes.
‘They spoke English?’ Dan asked.
‘Of course they spoke English,’ James said with a touch of impatience. ‘They were English.’
