by Alex Coombs
* * *
Dead of a drugs overdose, found in the River Evenlode near Oxford. Foul play wasn’t suspected, but Lizzie knew that the girl from Donetsk had escaped from Belanov and his cruelty the only way she had felt certain would work.
She wondered what this Hanlon had done to them to make them both hate her so much. The two Russians were keen to keep all of this from another Russian, sometimes they called him Konstantin Alexandrovich, sometimes Miasnik, the Butcher. She gathered that this campaign against Hanlon was of their own devising, that she had humiliated them in some way that they didn’t want to tell their boss about. Miasnik wasn’t to know. Then they started talking about yborka doma, house
cleaning, and Lizzie really started to pay attention.
Lizzie woke Joad up from his sleep in the armchair in a state of agitation. She switched the TV off.
‘Calm down,’ said Joad, yawning. ‘What’s the matter?’
She started talking. Myasnikov had decided on a compulsory redundancy scheme of his own devising of his UK staff. Vse izmenniki umrout. Death to all traitors. Curtis was dead and Joad was next on the list. Joad nodded, entirely unfazed by this development. And what about the man from the council, he asked, Steve Berlington? Him too, said Lizzy, and do you know someone who is Chinese?
‘The Chinaman?’ said Joad.
Lizzie nodded. ‘He’s the one who’s going to do it.’ Joad asked when and where and Lizzie said, ‘In the next two weeks. This Myasnikov flies home soon. He wants to make sure everything is arranged and in place before then.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Joad.
Lizzie nodded. ‘This man Enver. They want to keep him alive to use as bait to catch some woman called Hanlon. They don’t know how, but that’s their plan.’
* * *
‘Any idea where they’re keeping him?’ asked Joad.
‘Either a farm or a cottage, does that mean anything?’ Annoyingly, it didn’t. Lizzie carried on. ‘Their boss doesn’t know about any of this plan concerning the woman. It seems to be their own pet project.’
‘Is there more?’ asked Joad.
Lizzie nodded. ‘Myasnikov wants them to up the pressure on someone called Anderson. Myasnikov wants Anderson to sell him a place in London in the next two weeks. He’s very clear that he doesn’t want Anderson dead until he’s signed off on this place in Marylebone.’
Joad nodded, satisfied.
He did a swift mental recap of his own position: the Russians wanted him dead; the police (as epitomized by Huss) wanted him out or in prison; he had no friends; he had no allies.
Business as usual then. Ian Joad versus the world. So far, Joad was winning.
On the other side of things: he wanted the Russians incapacitated; the police off his back; Belanov’s Mercedes and a suitable amount of money to enlarge the Joad pension pot. He’d also like sex with Huss, despite the potential erectile problems, but he figured you had to be realistic.
He’d settle for shafting the Russians.
Lizzie looked at Joad with concern. She didn’t exactly like him, but she felt some concern for anyone she knew who was going to cross swords with Belanov. There was an odd look on Joad’s face.
Even Huss wouldn’t have been able to fault Joad’s ability to rise to a challenge. It had also rekindled his appetite for sex in a way that the hard-core porn had failed to do. Action made Joad horny.
* * *
Lizzie placed her hand firmly between his legs. ‘My, my,’ she said automatically, with practised skill. God knows how often she’d said it. ‘Is that all for me?’
As they stumbled up the stairs together towards her bedroom, locked in a firm embrace, Joad’s lips against hers, she realized that the strange expression on Joad’s face was one of happy anticipation.
He’s madder than I realized, she thought.
26
Serg Surikov stretched his long, muscular body luxuriously in the goosedown comfort of Francine Edwards’s large double bed and looked at her shapely nakedness as she checked her emails on her laptop.
She was sitting cross-legged with her back to him. He gently ran his index finger down the ridges of her vertebrae at the nape of her hairline downwards. She tilted her head left then right, freeing the tension in the muscles at the base of her neck. She grinned at him over her shoulder; she had a goofy, infectious grin that was incredibly attractive.
Her fingers clicked away at the keyboard.
Golaya, obnazhenniy. Those were the Russian adjectives. In English naked, thought Serg, nude, in the nuddy. Unclothed, unclad. Other synonyms floated through his mind – bare, stripped. And not just single words but collocations, birthday suit, and slang, stark bollock naked. What a rich language English was. He loved words. I’m a vocabulary junky, he thought. Of course, appropriateness of language was always tricky, a thorny question, he thought, pleased with himself. Could he say that Ms Edwards was stark bollock naked, given that she was female, or would that only refer to men like him? He didn’t like to ask. He’d had ample experience of adverse reactions to questions relating to non-erotic matters while making love.
* * *
His attention would wander from his partner and he’d follow a train of thought unrelated to sex. It was unpopular, that much was undeniable.
‘How long have you worked for Thanatos?’ asked Edwards. She scratched her thick dark hair and the heavy silver bracelets that she wore jangled as they slid down her forearm.
‘A year or so,’ said Serg. It wasn’t true; it was a lie, an evasion, a falsehood, a porky. That was so beautiful, he thought, porky, a porky pie equals lie. Rhyming slang, fantastic, although now, sadly, beginning to die out.
‘And they brought you over as Charlie Taverner’s replacement?’ Serg nodded. ‘I did a lot of work for him, information gathering, in Moscow. And, of course, I know Edward Li quite well.
He was a good friend of my father’s.’ Edwards looked round. ‘Was?’
Serg shrugged. ‘He died. Well, he was killed, in the first Chechen war.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edwards.
Serg shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. Another porky, he thought. His hand moved further down her body, gently massaging the muscles that ran down by her spine, and he noted Edwards’s breathing deepen. She logged off and clicked the laptop shut, then turned round.
Serg’s eyes, she decided, were kind of feline; they even gleamed like a cat’s. He had the sensitive face of a poet with a hint of Cossack warrior, she thought. Was that fanciful? She didn’t care. He was beautiful and she wanted him. She ran her eyes over his long, lean body, his elegant muscular thighs. She traced his ribs with one blood-red fingernail. She pushed her hair away from her face with both hands. Serg’s eyes widened appreciatively as she knew they would. She had great breasts. She leaned her body over his. ‘Darling,’ she breathed.
* * *
Betrayal, thought Serg, as her dark hair brushed his face and her tongue sought his. Stabbing in the back, duplicity, treachery, deception.
Later, afterwards, Edwards was in the shower.
He opened her laptop and typed in her password, which, glimpsed over her shoulder, he’d memorized earlier. A nice, strong password. He had a couple of decryption programs on a memory stick but now he wouldn’t need to use it. Just as well, he thought, it’d take too long. Quickly, his fingers an efficient blur, he found an address book and Hanlon’s work address and mobile number. He had what he’d come here for. Bingo!
He closed down where he’d been and entered the details into his phone.
Edwards reappeared in the bedroom and started opening drawers and pulling on underwear. Serg watched her, half lasciviously, half running through his underwear vocabulary database in his head. A German word for vocabulary, and Serg’s German was good, was wortschatz, word treasure. And this was, in a way, how Serg felt about lexis – a treasure chest of shiny adverbial rubies and ingots of noun gold and filigreed strings of verbal pearls that he could dive his hands
into, like a miser with a hoard of Krugerrands or Maria Theresa thalers.
Pants, panties, knickers, he thought. But she’s not wearing a thong or bloomers; they’re different. Opposite ends of the underwear spectrum.
Francine Edwards looked at him sternly. ‘You’re a foreign national,’ she said with mock severity. ‘You shouldn’t be looking at Foreign Office briefs.’
Serg pointed at the triangle of black fabric she was wearing. ‘They are briefs?’
‘They are indeed,’ said Edwards.
‘It is a pun?’ She nodded. Fantastic, thought Serg.
* * *
‘So what is the other meaning of brief? Not, I would estimate,
short as in Brief History of Time.’
Wearily, Francine Edwards started to explain.
27
The Huss family farm lay at the end of a private road. Thick hawthorn hedgerow bushes grew alongside the main road and bordered the fields that lay on either side of the lane.
Huss glanced in her mirror, indicated left and turned into the narrow track, wide enough for only one car at a time. The car jolted over the cattle grid near the road with a rumbling, crashing sound and then she stamped on the brake as a Volvo estate pulled out of a passing place and drove straight towards her. She braked savagely, suddenly furious at this interloper on Huss property.
Huss’s Golf and the Volvo were practically bonnet to bonnet like two snarling dogs, each unwilling to back down. Huss unbuckled her belt and angrily got out of the car, as did the other driver.
‘Hello, Melinda,’ said Joad with an unpleasant smile. His hands were hidden behind his back.
‘What the fuck do you want, Joad?’ spat Melinda Huss. It was a sign of how preoccupied she was that she hadn’t noticed who was driving the other car. Unconsciously her fists had balled as she took a step towards him.
‘Just this,’ said Joad, bringing his hand forward and showing her what he had in his grasp.
Huss recoiled in horrified disbelief.
* * *
‘That’s right,’ said Joad. ‘Take a good look at it.’ He gave what he was holding to Huss. Joad nodded grimly. ‘I think you’d better come with me, don’t you?’
Huss nodded unhappily.
‘Now,’ said Joad, ‘reverse back, let me out and follow my car, have you got that?’
Huss complied. She followed Joad’s car in her own, her thoughts dulled both by misery and confusion.
She followed him up to the main highway, her mind full of unanswered questions. They drove down some minor B roads until they came to a car park in the middle of nowhere surrounded by Oxfordshire woodland. There were several vehicles there, all estates, all with either mesh screens in the back or cages to restrain dogs.
Joad got out of his car and into the passenger seat of Huss’s Golf. She held Enver’s bloodstained warrant card in one hand. She had been crying as she drove. Now her eyes were dry and hard. She wasn’t going to weep in front of Joad.
‘You want to explain this?’ she demanded.
Joad said, ‘You don’t much like me, do you, Huss?’ He could see the rage in her eyes. Even Huss’s blonde hair seemed to bristle with anger and distaste. Her blouse was unbuttoned a couple of notches and Joad stared with frank admiration at the top of her breasts. She was a very attractive woman in her own large way. He pulled his wandering attention back to the business in hand.
‘If you’d like to listen, Huss, I might be able to help you save Enver Demirel.’
‘Go ahead, Joad,’ she said, a threateningly angry undertone in her voice. ‘You go ahead and do that. And, Joad, it had better be good or I’ll rip your balls off.’
* * *
Joad smiled at her. ‘It’s the real deal, Huss. We both happen to want the same things. Now, if you’ll allow me to begin?’
And he started to talk.
28
Enver Demirel came to lying next to a wall in a small, windowless room lit by a single bulb. His hands and his feet were manacled together.
Another day, another radiator, he thought, staring at the only thing in the room beside himself. He was vaguely surprised to find he was still alive. Memories flickered and coalesced in his mind as his brain started to function again. Memories of Dimitri; memories of Slough and Chantal.
He sat upright with a great deal of effort and explored his aching body. In fairness, he had sometimes, once or twice, felt worse after a twelve-round fight. That had meant thirty-six minutes of being punched repeatedly. How long had Dimitri worked on him? He couldn’t say.
He remembered the hammer; he remembered the chisel; he remembered the blowtorch. His body remembered the pain.
He explored his mouth with his tongue. His teeth were miraculously intact, but his eyes didn’t open properly. He guessed his face and head were pretty badly swollen as he gingerly felt them. His hands were nightmarish. Agonizingly sore, they looked like fleshy oven gloves. Two or three fingers on each hand were probably broken; he was missing fingernails. He turned his gaze away. Just looking at them was making him feel sick, and every time his heart beat the puffy, tight, hot flesh on
* * *
each hand throbbed as the blood tried to force its way through the constricted vessels. He wondered what he was doing here and where he was. He guessed he would find out eventually.
Dimitri and Arkady Belanov were not happy men. Normally, neither of them had to think long term. Arkady was a problem-solver. As a teenage hood, he’d beaten people up to order. As a conscript soldier, first in the regular army then Spetsnatz, he’d fought or killed to order. In prison, he’d provided the muscle for the vor and, of course, now Myasnikov gave the orders and he followed them.
But Hanlon, like all women in his view, had confused things. She had got in the way of his relationship with the Butcher. He’d been too proud to tell Myasnikov of his and Dimitri’s humiliation at her hands. He could barely admit it to himself. Now Joad had informed him that Hanlon was determined to save Demirel, that they could use him as bait. It was his plan, but taken over and refined by Joad.
‘It’s what you said you wanted, Hanlon. I can find her now.’ Joad’s voice on the phone was clear and confident.
‘How?’ Arkady had asked. Suspicion and hope both waged a battle in his heart.
‘I work with Demirel’s girlfriend. She knows Hanlon. I can tip her off; she’ll tell Hanlon. Hanlon will come.’
Joad’s voice on the phone was calm and relaxed. It was an unusual experience to be more or less telling the truth to disseminate a lie. It made life a lot easier. Arkady looked at Dimitri, who shrugged.
‘How do we know the police won’t turn up?’ asked Arkady suspiciously.
Joad sighed. ‘Because both Hanlon and Huss know you have someone who works for you in a high place in the force. You
* * *
can’t mobilize an armed response unit discreetly. I’d know and so would that other copper you’ve got working for you. You’d know immediately if either of them made it official.’
Arkady nodded. It made sense. From what he knew of Hanlon she would prefer acting alone. It had happened in the past; it would happen again.
‘What will you tell Huss to make her believe you?’
Joad grinned broadly as he held the mobile phone to his mouth. He was glad Dimitri couldn’t see his face. ‘DI Huss thinks I’m a bent copper, so I’m going to tell her a little bird told me that you were thinking of retiring me. Permanently. You follow me so far?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Arkady. It was his turn to grin broadly now; so did Dimitri. ‘It makes sense.’ Of course it does, he thought, since that is what we were planning to do to you anyway.
‘So,’ continued Joad, ‘I get her to fetch Hanlon to take you out. Now, you’ve met Hanlon. She’s not one for sitting around, twiddling her thumbs. One of her ex-sergeants is in a coma, thanks to her. She’ll do anything to avoid losing another one. I think we can safely say she’ll be down at your gaff like a rat up a drainpipe. Oh, and,
Arkady, Huss will almost certainly want to hear Demirel’s voice or she won’t believe me. Don’t do anything stupid like kill him. Not for the moment.’
Silence on the phone. For an agonizing second, Joad thought, Christ, I hope they haven’t killed him. Then relief washed over him.
‘I like this idea,’ said Arkady with approval. ‘And this woman, Huss, afterwards?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joad tetchily. ‘You could shut her up, permanently, but Huss lives with her parents. I’m sure that you can explain to her what the consequences of her talking would be, not just to her, but to them. But she’s not my problem, mate.’
* * *
‘Yes, that would work,’ said Arkady. ‘You have their address and details?’
‘Yes,’ said Joad. ‘Thing is, Arkady, I’m going to find it hard working with Huss after this. I’ll have to go for early retirement, until the pension kicks in. I don’t want to lose money, even for a friend like you.’
‘How much?’
‘Hundred and the Merc. I’ve got attached to it.’ ‘One hundred, no Merc. I am attached to it.’
‘Jesus Christ, Arkady,’ protested Joad. ‘Even Judas got thirty pieces of silver.’
