by John Connor
Tom knew Barsukov was here, because he had called him, using an ordinary mobile number his father had provided. Barsukov hadn’t answered, hadn’t even spoken to him. But what Tom had said had been enough to get this meeting set up. What Tom had said was that he wanted to negotiate over Sara Eaton, that if Barsukov didn’t cooperate then he would go to the police with a list of thirty-seven properties held by Barsukov. That Barsukov had bitten didn’t necessarily mean he was holding Sara Eaton at one of these properties, but it might mean that. It might.
Tom was trying not to focus on how speculative his reasoning was. At the moment his father was going along with it all – caught up in a fever of excitement at the absurd idea that Sara might be the missing Lauren Gower. Any little glimmer of hope that might shine a chink of light on his twenty-two-year-old case had to be worth following through. He had already had meetings and phone calls with colleagues from Operation Grenser, retired and ongoing, already involved the new Grenser SIO, ostensibly on his terms. Which at the moment were that they should proceed quietly, in secret, without even telling Freddie Eaton, because this was their only chance of recovering Sara alive.
But that would have to change soon. Before long someone was going to call Freddie Eaton with a ransom demand. Eaton was highly connected. He would certainly wish to use those connections. There was a deputy assistant commissioner, or some such, who had flags against Eaton on all the systems. So he should already have been told about John Lomax’s information and involvement. Maybe he had. If so, he hadn’t appeared yet. But he would appear sooner or later. Then Tom’s father was going to have no control over it. Tom had until then to test his hunch, to go for Barsukov.
The address was a high-profile recent development to cater for the super-rich, an address that even Tom had heard of. There had been carefully orchestrated media coverage when the place had opened, rumours that the penthouse apartments were going for over one hundred and forty million. The security was said to be provided by ex-SAS personnel, though if that was so they weren’t hanging around the atrium chewing gum and looking hard. The atrium was full of activity and people, but it looked more like the foyer of an expensive hotel than a carefully guarded residential address. Everything was normal – rich-normal, at any rate. There were men standing either side of the lifts up to the apartments, true, but they didn’t look like bouncers – more like off-duty waiters. Perhaps that was their skill. Tom couldn’t see any indication that they might be armed, though there had been press rumours about that too. It occurred to him again that – despite everything looking relaxed and normal, despite the luxury address in the heart of London – what he was doing might still carry a risk – the man he was approaching played by different rules, as he already well understood. But the fear was just a shadow behind the urgency. This was all he could think of to do, so he was doing it. And he wasn’t completely alone. His father was out there, on the street, in the car. And within the hour there would be proper back-up – his father was seeing to that. So there was some protection. Just not much.
The man dealing with him had been scrupulously polite, but it was obvious nevertheless that he regarded Tom with distaste, a stain on the pristine carpet, not the type they liked to let in via the main entrance. Tom was in clean clothes, but his face was a mess of cuts and bruises, one eye fat and swollen. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, which was blocked with clotted blood, and his lips were swollen and wouldn’t close properly, so that he had to keep wiping his sleeve across them to stop saliva dribbling all over when he spoke. He tried to keep on top of all this as discreetly as possible.
He was waiting about five minutes for the man to come back to him, and in the end it was another character who appeared at his elbow to tell him that Barsukov was ready. This one was a bit heavier, though not tall, and spoke English with an accent. He looked at Tom with hard eyes and indicated that he should follow him to a lift.
Once inside they stood side by side and took the ride to the top floor in silence. It was only when the doors opened that the fun began. There were three more waiting to greet him. Which meant drag him out and put him against the wall. It was done with enough force to make it clear that he shouldn’t bother arguing. He was into it now. There would be no turning back.
Two held him, tight enough for it to hurt, two searched him. When that was done he was propped between them and walked forcibly down a tasteful, short corridor to the door to Barsukov’s apartment. This they opened by one of them standing in front of a sophisticated piece of wall-mounted kit which Tom guessed was a retina scanner. Then they were in and Tom was released into a large, very bright reception room, walls and ceiling of glass and steel. The four of them stood close to him, facing him, hands at their sides. Barsukov was already there, lounging on a long, semicircular couch done out in cream leather, a big balcony window behind him, everything chrome and glass and minimalist, spotless, reeking of luxury. Except Tom. Barsukov looked at him with a scowl, then said something in Russian. One of the four answered, then there was a further exchange and they walked off through a door to the left.
‘That leaves me and you, Lomax,’ Barsukov said. ‘I let you up because I didn’t understand the message I was given and because …’
‘We already met,’ Tom said. ‘You hit me about a week ago, broke a tooth …’
‘Don’t interrupt me. I know who you are. What was the message – give me it again.’
Tom took a breath. ‘I want to talk about Sara Eaton …’
‘I got that bit – what was the rest, the crude blackmail attempt?’
‘Blackmail? Hardly. I said if you wouldn’t see me then I would go to the police with a list of thirty-seven addresses owned by you …’
‘That was it. Yes.’ He stood up and walked towards Tom. ‘Thirty-seven addresses. That was the part I didn’t understand.’ He looked angry, like he was going to throw another punch.
‘I’m not alone in this,’ Tom said quickly. ‘If I don’t make a call within the next fifteen minutes then it starts. I call every ten minutes after that. Or it starts.’
‘What starts?’
‘The information goes to the police, along with everything we know and those addresses. The police will start an operation to search those addresses. At the very least.’ He hoped.
Barsukov looked mildly surprised. He stood in front of Tom, looking up at him as if trying to read something written on his face. He was wearing a suit, no tie. After a little he sighed and nodded. ‘I don’t understand anything you’ve said,’ he said, quite loudly. He looked at the floor. ‘There is some error, surely. You’ve come to the wrong place, the wrong person. I’ve never heard of this Sara Eaton person …’
‘I meant it. We will go straight to the police …’
Barsukov looked sharply at him, then put a finger to his lips. Tom shut his mouth. ‘You do what you have to Mr Lomax,’ he said. ‘As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He smiled, then pointed off to a door – adjacent to the one the security had gone through. Tom frowned. What was he saying? That the place wasn’t secure, that there might be surveillance devices? Tom shrugged. That didn’t bother him. But then Barsukov suddenly leaned closer to him and whispered, so low Tom had to lean forward to hear – ‘We talk through there, or not at all. Your choice.’
‘OK,’ Tom said. ‘But remember …’ He took his phone out and looked at the time on it. ‘Nine minutes now. I call in nine minutes or it’s out of my hands.’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’ Barsukov replied, smiling again, as if there might be cameras on him too. ‘You do whatever you have to. But I think we’re finished here now.’ He walked over to the door, a big glass thing, inviting Tom to follow. Tom paused, unsure how to assess the risk. Barsukov opened it and Tom saw beyond an empty room, a toilet, or bathroom, it seemed, though big enough to be his living room.
He sighed then followed Barsukov through, the phone still in his hand. Once inside he saw that they were in a beautifully tiled bathroom/t
oilet – the guest toilet, presumably – with neat towels and soaps, like something in a hotel, fine art on the walls, separate shower, big circular bathtub and jacuzzi, two toilets, two bidets, flatscreen to watch while you did your business, a shelf full of medicines, or toiletries, even a little bar with drinks. There was nothing to suggest why this room would be any more secure than the last – from a surveillance point of view. But as Barsukov closed the door on the reception room he started to talk at once. ‘Just a precaution,’ he said. ‘This room is perfectly secure. No one can hear us here. No one at all.’ He wasn’t smiling any more. Almost as soon as he shut it the door opened again and the four heavies came in. Then there were five of them standing in front of Tom and he was feeling distinctly afraid. He was in the middle of the room, back to the toilets. There were no windows. The door closed again with a smooth click. One of the men turned and pressed a button on the wall, to lock it.
‘What’s the matter?’ Barsukov asked. ‘You look nervous.’
Tom held his phone up. ‘I meant what I said about the call.’ He wiped his sleeve across his lips. His heart was beating very fast now.
‘Take the phone off him,’ Barsukov said calmly. ‘Strip him and put him in the bathtub.’
‘Wait!’ Tom shouted. ‘Wait!’ But they weren’t waiting for anything. In a second they had tripped and pushed him, were pinning him to the floor and the phone was out of his hands. He started to struggle, kick out and shout, writhing around while they strained to get their hands on to his arms and legs, to hold him still, muttering instructions to each other in Russian. One of them caught hold of his head and told him to calm down, over and over again, but Tom was frantic now, his heart going crazy. He succeeded in getting a hand free and lashed out wildly. The one holding his head pushed harder, grinding his face into the tiled floor. He started to yell with pain and panic, still thrashing the arm around, blindly trying to hit or grab anything he could feel. He thought he could hear them laughing at him, like it was all some kind of schoolboy bullying prank.
It went on like that for a few seconds more before someone finally hit or kicked him in the upper belly so hard the blow left him prone. After that all he could do was curl into a ball and gasp. He could hear Barsukov talking, then feel them pulling his clothes off. As he got his breath back they picked him up and actually threw him across the room. They gave a shout as they did it. He caught the side of the big bathtub with a hard blow to his hip, then slid over and into it. Immediately he staggered to his feet and tried to get out. But they were right in front of him, blocking him in. As he stepped forward one jabbed into his face. The punch looked almost casual, but Tom’s vision went black, and when it came back he found he was sitting in the tub in a half-collapsed position, sucking in air, a terrible pain radiating out from his left cheekbone. He brought his hand up to his face and held it there, groaning.
One of them pressed buttons on a control panel and water started to gush from two taps. Tom looked down at himself. He was in his underwear with the water swirling around him. Above him Barsukov pushed between the men and sneered. ‘You stupid little man,’ he said. ‘We can drown you in this. Did you think of that? They will just hold you under until you drown.’ He was holding Tom’s jacket in his hands, going through the pockets as he spoke. He found and pulled out the folded paperwork Tom had brought with him, the proof that they really did have the details of thirty-seven addresses belonging to Barsukov. His father had taken it from copied material he had at home, information put together from the 2003 inquiry which had involved surveillance on Maxim Sidurov and Barsukov himself. Other teams had already been working Barsukov, of course, had already compiled masses of material preparatory to getting financial orders against him. Nothing had come of that, but Grenser had taken copies of substantial parts of it.
Tom saw Barsukov looking at some of the paperwork now. He said a silent, useless prayer. It was all old material. How much of it would still be current? His safety in coming here rested on the risk that one of those addresses or details might mean something. If Barsukov had Sara, then, even though she might not be being held at one of those places, she might have been through one, leaving enough traces – in DNA and prints and suchlike – to make it too risky for Barsukov to ignore the threat of the police showing up there looking for her. Or maybe if there was just enough material there to convince him that Tom really wasn’t alone, that there were police resources behind him – maybe that would be enough to make him cautious. Any police inquiry at all would be damaging for him. Even if he had nothing to do with kidnapping Sara, then that prospect might still make him think twice about doing anything further to Tom. That was the idea, anyway. Back at Tom’s father’s place it had seemed like a good idea.
And anyway, in a few minutes his father was going to make the call. He was outside, in the car, waiting. He would make the call. But how long would it then take for help to get up here? Ten minutes, fifteen? He had to stop them for that long. If they tried to kill or seriously injure him that was how long he had to fight for. In a kind of stunned daze, he watched Barsukov frown as he read through the paperwork, then push past the heavies and walk away, back to the door. He heard the door close behind him as he left, without saying anything, without giving any instructions.
Tom looked at the heavies and didn’t know what to do, what to say. They were staring at him, not doing anything. The water crept up around his boxer shorts. It was freezing. He started to shiver. He sat like that for four minutes, panting, his head and heart pounding. He counted the minutes in his head. He calculated that if he didn’t call within the next two minutes then the game was over, the gamble played out. His father would call his friends, the connections would be made. It would start. He tried not to think about what that might mean for Sara.
He didn’t hear the door open again, but suddenly Barsukov was back, saying things in Russian. The water was switched off, towels were held out to him, two of the heavies left. Everyone seemed to relax a little. Barsukov stood in front of him, holding his phone out, still looking very angry. ‘Not so stupid after all,’ he said. ‘You had better make your little call. Then we’ll talk.’
48
When the call came in, Arisha was sitting in the top study with Freddie, watching it happen, watching her plan unfolding perfectly in front of her, feeling like she might pass out with relief. It had been two hours since Freddie had taken the call from Max and he had been frantic the entire time since then. He was sitting on the phone now, delivering instructions to a broker in Monaco in a desperate, cracking voice.
He hadn’t been off the phone since Max had called. She had thought there would be some hesitation, that she might have to put some effort into persuading him, but he had swallowed it at once, not even querying the amount. Forty million sterling. It was – as she understood it – just about all he would be able to put together in the time frame available. It would clean him out. He wouldn’t look cleaned out, of course. Not yet. He would still live in big houses, still have yachts in harbours all over the world, still enjoy all the trappings of this absurd life, with no concern whatsoever for the price of things. But only for a little while. Because all that was an illusion. None of it belonged to him. Aside from roughly forty million sterling – an amount barely enough to maintain the annual expenditure for even one of his London homes – the reality was everything in his life had belonged to Liz Wellbeck and was destined elsewhere.
And Freddie knew that. Because what had started all this was that he had managed to get his hands on her will. He’d suspected for years that Liz had made some kind of provision for Sara. He assumed that the provision would be held in trust until Sara reached a certain age – probably twenty-one, which was now only two days away. But he had imagined, of course, that the sum would be negligible, that the rest of the staggering Wellbeck fortune would all come to him in due course. Then his contacts had got hold of the will and the mountain of other secret arrangements Liz had put in place to cut him off. He’d dis
covered that if Liz had her way, he wasn’t going to get a penny. What he had owned when he married her – or what was left of it – was what he would get when she died.
Emergency meetings had followed. Lawyers were found who would examine the stolen documents. But all they told him was that Liz had done nothing more than what he had agreed to before their wedding in New York in 1985. He had signed the paperwork, he had taken advice. He had walked into it with his eyes open. There were no bankable loopholes. Liz had been scrupulous, as ever. She had paid a small fortune to top lawyers to make sure she kept control of her family assets, that she decided who it would all go to.
And what she had decided was that every cent of it would go to Sara, on her twenty-first birthday. That was assuming the cancer killed Liz before then. Which it had. Sort of. But even if that hadn’t happened there would have been separate, secret trust provisions to ensure the same result. In that case, she would have retained enough to fund her palliative care in her own private clinic, but the rest would still have gone to Sara. All of it. On Friday this week.
So the money Freddie was desperately trying to transfer now was all he had, all that was actually his to dispose of. And twenty-five million of it was owed to Barsukov, according to Barsukov. That was why Dima was in on this, why his authority and resources were backing the entire enterprise. Freddie had always denied the debt to Dima, always laughed at the idea. There had been an arms deal somewhere in the past, something massive that had gone wrong owing to political issues in the corrupt African states they had been trying to sell to, back in the days before Arisha had sight of Freddie’s accounts. Freddie’s version was that he hadn’t seen a penny of Dima’s millions, he’d been a broker for Dima, nothing more. If it had all worked he would have taken a percentage. He spoke of it like it was a little game he’d played, and lost. Like a night at the casino. But Dima was exceptionally bitter about it, felt betrayed and tricked. The money Freddie had used as some kind of obscene bribery fund had been his. How Dima had got his hands on it wouldn’t bear close scrutiny, she imagined, but Dima had nursed his resentment very carefully, because that was what he was like – he never forgot.
