by Jo Black
‘Fuck...you.’
Slow.
Deliberate.
Her first words as empowered as they were simple - a statement of intent that her will would not be broken. She prepared to disconnect her physical being from her mental and spiritual. An expired lease on her body that served no further purpose to her other than to be a weak link in her otherwise exceptional armour. She knew what he wanted. What he desired. What he would do, but she wouldn’t gratify him with anything other than an empty vessel of skin and flesh to derive his sadistic pleasures from. The essence of her being would remain locked far away with no route of access from her physical manifestation.
Something about her infuriated Amin. His usually calm and controlled demeanour suddenly enraged by the arrogance of such a sleight elfin creature — how could she possibly not understand the position she was in? What gave her the right to be so stoic? She was nothing — a woman, a useless emotional lesser gender that served no purpose other than breeding. For Amin the idea that he, The Rat, couldn’t break this fragile thing on a whim was an insult greater than his hubris could bear. The result was a punch so severe it knocked her clean unconscious as soon as it landed. Her head fell from his grasp onto her chest as a slow trickle of sticky red blood rolled down from her nose, across her lips and onto her chin. Amin retreated and sat back down on his chair, wiping his hands on a towel he stared at her with seething resentment. He fought against his urgent base instinct to violently rape her and slit her throat.
She began her retreat into subconscious, searching for some memory to cling to; visceral enough to transport her away to a place he couldn’t reach her. And it came: a perfect gentle winter’s day, she sat watching through the comfort of the window as snowflakes danced softly on the light breeze whilst a deep blue sky tinged to evening. A light crackling of apple logs on the open grate fire. A red-chested robin flitted from bush to bush, gathering berries, occasionally stopping to observe for predators, oblivious to her presence inside the cottage. She glanced across and there he was, stood wearing a rough old grey Arran sweater, three days stubble and a raffish mop of hair. He walked over and handed her a mug of hot chocolate. She wrapped her hands around the mug, comforted by its warmth as she returned her gaze out of the window. He didn’t say anything. He never needed to. It was simply enough to enjoy each other’s presence. She felt his comforting hand on her shoulder. He sat alongside her on the window seat and she felt his rough stubble press against her cheek as she let slip a soft contented smile. ‘In times of darkness remember this place,’ she imagined he had said, when perhaps he had said nothing at all. ‘You’ll be safe here always...’ Her smile melted away as she saw him: her tormentor, stood in the perfect snow-covered garden staring back at her. She felt him move from her side. She watched as he went outside and stood confronting the unwanted visitor to their perfect idyll. He took out a pistol. A shot with no sound and her tormentor was gone, vanished, leaving nothing behind. He turned to her and smiled softly, reassuring her as he put the gun away. ‘Alex...’ she muttered.
‘What?’ Amin asked, listening intently.
‘Alex...’ she repeated.
‘Who?’ Amin asked again with a frown. She gradually lifted her head slowly, deliberately, her eyes now burning with inflamed anger and fury, a built up seething furnace fuming out from her.
‘Alex Green is going to kill you!’ She spat out a mouthful of blood and spit at Amin. He didn’t react as it slid down his face, a palpable sense of shock uncontrolled and unguarded escaping from his pores as The Rat stopped gnawing, sat on its back legs and sniffed the air, sensing the sudden threat to its existence as another, greater, apex predator stalked it silently from the shadows.
‘The Dragon...’ he said, barely able to say the words.
‘You have no idea what you’ve done...’ she replied with a demonic knowing smile and a shake of her head. ‘You have no idea...’ she repeated as her head fell down into unconsciousness.
Amin swallowed nervously, he got up quickly and headed outside resisting the urgent temptation to vomit. He panic stumbled through the hallways and stared around the courtyard. Her words echoing in his ears. ‘Alex Green...’
He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He looked at each of his men in turn. Wondering which one...which one would be the one to betray him. Which one did The Dragon own. He staggered back inside to his office on the first floor, took out a small notepad and thumbed through it, punching the numbers in with a shaking hand.
‘Yes?’ the voice came.
‘What have you done to me? Who is she?’ Amin barked part nervously, part in anger.
‘What is the problem?’
‘Alex Green. How does she know him?’
‘Did you say Alex Green?’
‘Yes. What is her connection to The Dragon?’
‘That’s not important. Did you get the information we asked for?’
‘No. I want no part of this! You come and take her! You take her or I’m letting her go!’
‘Calm down. We’ll take care of it. Don’t let her go. I’ll call you back.’
The phone line went dead.
Amin slammed the receiver down. He took out a bottle of scotch from his lower desk draw and filled a tumbler with it then necked it down, choking on it. The protégé knocked on the old wooden door and entered. He stared at Amin in disbelief. The Rat’s eyes were now full of fear and suspicion. The protégé frowned. ‘What is it?’ The protégé didn’t understand. To Amin the mere mention of the name was as if she’d summoned the devil himself.
‘Take her back to her cell. You tell the men. Nobody is to touch her. Nobody!’ The protégé nodded. ‘Get out of here! Go on! Get out!’ Amin yelled throwing the glass at the protégé as he scurried out through the doorway.
Back in her cell, she tried to find some comfort on the barren wooden bench that served as a bed, her thoughts returned back to the cottage. A faint solo piano melody chimed in echoes through her head. She hummed its melodic tune softly and closed her eyes.
2
LONDON, UK — 19 DAYS LATER
He pulled the collar of his jacket up to guard against the biting wind tunnelling down between the towering buildings and studied his London visitor’s guide as he sheltered in the closed shop’s doorway. He occasionally glanced up and casually observed as the small army of office workers flooded out through the atrium glass doors of JP Morgan’s building, and then watched them as they hurried towards the London Underground station entrance or dashed into the cover of the nearby wine bars and public houses, now rapidly filling up with a raucous crowd of city workers drinking their way past the rush-hour into the early evening. The weather was seasonably dark and miserable; with everyone rushing to be somewhere not much attention was paid to the lone American tourist who was seemingly lost in the heart of the financial district.
It was past six p.m. by the time his target emerged, amongst a small mixed crowd of middle-aged city types escorted by a few attractive female companions. He watched as the group made their way down to the nearby Pitcher & Piano bar. He folded his tourist guide in half and casually walked to follow them.
The bar was already full to standing room with a noisy crowd emptying pints of premium lager, or demolishing through bottles of wine if they had female company. He pushed through the crowd to reach the bar, casually observing his target until the barman got round to serving him. ‘Pint of Amstel,’ he ordered. The barman returned a few minutes later and he paid in cash, sipping the top froth off his glass of beer before retreating to a quieter end of the bar. His target now sat in a corner table surrounded by colleagues.
‘You looking for company?’
He turned round. She was attractive. Smartly dressed in a black skirt and expensive Chanel jacket. Immaculately manicured nails and perfect make-up. His attuned nostrils picked up on the delicate expensive scent, recently shampooed hair, and bathed skin that indicated she’d not spent the last ten hours locked in a stuffy office p
erpetrating capitalist crimes against the poor, but likely got up sometime after lunch for a lazy afternoon of grooming before prowling the bar for a client / victim. Her English impeccable, but laced with an undertone of Slavic accent that suggested either opportunity was being pursued. He flashed a polite smile. ‘Sure,’ he said. A useful cover distraction to help blend in, although likely a short-lived subterfuge when she realised he lacked the several-figures bonus required for entry into her undergarments.
‘You’re American?’ she asked demurely with a smile as she took out a cigarette. He took out a zippo and lit it for her.
‘Yes Ma’am. What about you?’
‘Italian,’ she replied. He nodded politely. A standard cover story for many Eastern-European working girls lacking the right visa paperwork. His expert sense of accent placement had her born somewhere near Saratov, albeit probably having spent several years in Moscow given the harder-edged Muscovite tones seeping through.
‘So what do you do?’ she asked casually.
‘I’m in risk management.’
‘It’s very interesting. Do you like to make risk or stop it?’ she asked.
‘A little of both.’
‘It is good work?’
‘It has its moments...’
‘So you are married?’
‘Divorced.’ She nodded. A satisfied smile, the lonely divorcee male being an easy target for her predatory consumption.
‘I always wanted to go to America. My friend is married to an American man.’
‘That’s interesting.’ Which of course it wasn’t. The kind of painful small talk generated between two people who have no real interest in the other.
‘So it is your day off?’ she asked with a slight frown. He became self-aware of his casual tourist dress not being in keeping with the expected smart Savile Row suited clientele’s city dress code, as she continued to measure up if he was an appropriate target for a single night’s transaction, or a more profitable long-leasehold arrangement.
‘Yeah. Just popped in to check on things.’
‘On your day off? Maybe this is why you are divorced...’ she let out a subtle manufactured control of a sexualised laugh, designed to entice him in further. He just smiled politely and nodded. Too well trained in the art of the honey-trap, her amateur talent for discovery wasn’t likely to get much further. His target, now sat in the corner, had already made him. Their eyes met briefly before being averted. He continued to watch as his target made some polite excuses, took his coat, and headed out the door. He quickly finished his pint to not look suspicious. ‘Nice to have met you, I’ve got to run.’
‘So soon? You didn’t even buy me a drink.’
‘Maybe another time. I have a train to catch.’
‘You don’t live in The City?’
‘No, I live in Romford.’
‘I thought you said you were in risk management?’
‘I’m a security guard. Have a great evening.’ He brushed through the crowd for the door. Her face folded in annoyance at her wasted time on a mere proletariat, cursing in Russian under her breath.
As he stepped outside he looked in both directions before he spotted his target heading into the entrance to the tube station. He quickly rushed to catch up, following behind down the escalators then long tunnels at a discrete distance towards the westbound Central Line. As they reached near the platform, the rushing sound of air exiting the tunnel extinguishing the high-pitched electric whine from the motors and deeper bass hammer of brake compressor noise cut short his target’s brief attempt to dash for the train, he reached the now near-empty platform and glanced up at the board: six minutes to the next departure. He looked down along the narrow underground platform and their eyes met again before returning to stare at the wall of advertisements. Gradually the platform began to fill up again as the city workers slowly drifted in from their watering holes. When the train finally arrived it was already full. He squeezed into the carriage in a corner.
The train made its way from The City in the east across central London until it reached Notting Hill Gate where both men got off. He followed his target up the escalators and out into the busy street above. He casually browsed in a window as he watched the target pick up some groceries in a small convenience store before making his way up Ladbroke Grove reaching a smart period home on Lansdown Crescent. The target walked up the short flight of steps, unlocked the door and went in. He waited in the shadows as the lights in the house came on and curtains were closed. Checking he wasn’t being observed, he walked across the street and down the small flight of stairs to the house’s lower basement entrance where he waited. A few minutes passed then the door unlocked, opened, and he stepped in.
‘I thought you were dead.’
He smiled. ‘Hello Bob.’
‘Hunter...’ They shook hands politely. ‘I suppose you better come in.’ Hunter nodded and stepped through the small door. Bob closed the door behind him and locked it. He headed down the inner-hallway to the large basement kitchen. ‘Who was the skirt in the bar?’ Bob asked.
‘I believe she was a precious metals prospector,’ Hunter replied with a smile. Bob laughed briefly and took a six-pack of bottled beers from their cardboard carrier carton along with some pre-packed noodles from a grocery bag.
‘You eaten?’
‘Not yet.’ Bob threw the noodles into the Siemens stainless steel microwave. ‘No wife?’
‘Pilates night.’
‘Sounds a riot. You don’t go?’
‘What do you think?’ Bob opened two bottles and handed Hunter a beer. ‘So what the hell’s going on in Pak? Been hearing all kind of rumours on the wire.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Hunter replied.
Bob nodded. ‘We better order more chow and beers then.’ Bob picked up a menu for an Indian takeaway and handed it to Hunter. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t a social call to reminisce about good times at West Point.’
‘I need your help.’
‘You can’t go to The Agency?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘We took a burn.’
‘You better sit down.’ Bob gestured at one of the stools.
‘Nice place. Looks expensive. J.P must be generous. Maybe I should have followed your lead and got out early.’
‘Nah. They didn’t pay for this. It’s her money.’
‘That makes a change...’
‘Sure does. So what brings you to London?’
‘I’m looking for Bishop.’
‘Bishop? Last I heard he was stateside. Haven’t seem him since the September New York thing went down.’
‘You guys are still pretty tight though, right? He was stationed here in London.’
‘Yeah. You know. We throw each other a few bones work wise, play a few games of squash.’
‘What about the embassy? You still in with the station chief?’
‘Not so much. What you trying to get at? You think I’m dirty? How long have we known each other?’
‘About the same amount of time as you’ve known Bishop.’
‘Oh...so you think Bishop is dirty. Well I don’t know what to tell you. I guess you’ll have to go with your instincts. All I can say is I’m happy to be out. I have a good, if dull, life here. I don’t need to play those games any more to get my kicks.’ The microwave bleeped. Bob took the noodles out and emptied them into a bowl and handed them to Hunter. ‘We go way back Hunter. You saved my ass. If you’re in trouble I owe you. So whatever this thing is, I’ll do what I can.’
‘I was working with an M.I.6 agent in Pakistan. Zara Scott. She was investigating The Saudi Group. Bunch of financiers, N.G.O’s, minor royals — the usual crowd. We had some lead they were funding the cells behind the nine-eleven job. She was running a surveillance op against some Wall Street guys with Bishop. We tracked them to the U.A.E and some guy, we think was State Department, had some P.M.C cut-outs ice the financier. Zara’s spec-ops team got the whole thing on tape. Next thing we know the team sent in to kill Os
ama Bin Laden gets burned by a call from Pakistani Intelligence. Someone sends a car bomb in my direction, Zara goes missing, and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Well, you don’t need my help to know there are guys in State who are thick with the Saudis.’
‘Here’s were it gets complicated. I took a meet with Mossad’s chief head banger, what we thought was funding for The Saudi Group turned out to be, according to him, paying for a missile defence system for the Israelis.’
‘Well, that’s a hot mess altogether. So where does Bishop figure into this?’
‘Zara sent him the tape of the State Department guy to try and I.D him. He’s the only person who has that tape other than Zara. If they have Zara then he’s the only chance we have to get her back.’
‘So you don’t think the Saudis or Israelis have her?’
‘The Israelis say they don’t, but they can broker a trade. The Saudis...I don’t think they are part of this beyond setting up the initial intelligence for the nine-eleven trades.’
‘I’d like to help Hunter, but I haven’t seen Bishop since before he went back stateside. I’ve no idea where he is. I can maybe make a few discrete calls.’
‘It would be better coming from you. You’re already out clean so it won’t set off any alarms. Old friend concerned yada yada yada. Everyone thinks I’m dead, I need to try and keep that advantage.’
‘Sure. Let’s get some takeaway ordered then I’ll make some calls.’ Bob checked his watch. ‘Should be all up by now.’
Bob returned from his office and handed Hunter a multi-page fax print. ‘What you got?’ Hunter asked, examining the print out.
‘I spoke to an old buddy at the F.B.I. Bishop and your friend Scott are both on international arrest warrants for a double homicide. Some kid called Benjamin Kaminski and his girlfriend. They dragged him out of the East River and found her body in the boot of Bishop’s car in a parking lot at LaGuardia. They’ve got some Agency informant who claims Bishop had him hack all of Ben’s accounts and lift 120 million then wire it to an offshore account.’
