by Dan Latus
The watchers on the cliff complicated things and worried me a little. If I was right, and it was the SAS, then that justified what Bill Peart had said. National security must in some sense be at stake. But how?
For all I knew, the intelligence services might keep a watch on all foreigners with big, expensive boats. But would Bill have been warned off if they were just keeping a watching brief?
Perhaps they were about to spring into action? Perhaps, like Sasha, they believed Borovsky was building up to some sort of climax, and possibly a departure. That could explain why Bill had been warned to keep clear.
Imminent events and the need for speed could also explain why Sasha was no longer here. I wondered if she had tired of waiting and gone to try to rescue Misha herself. It would make sense, certainly to her.
I shook my head. If that was the case, there was no time for me to waste. I had to find her before she ran into trouble, and took Misha with her. I didn’t want Bill to have two more bodies to add to the list. Three even, I thought grimly, thinking of Jac.
I gathered what I needed and prepared to launch out into the cold again. I wasn’t taking much. I didn’t actually have much with me that was useful and the Glock was missing. I’d left it with Sasha for self-defence and she seemed to have taken it with her. But I did have a knife, and I did have a small torch. I was as ready as I could be.
Then the phone vibrated and gurgled.
‘You have had time to consider,’ Borovsky said. ‘And you have had time to check on Miss Picknett’s whereabouts. So are you ready to deal?’
‘Maybe. I need to speak to Miss Picknett first.’
‘That can be arranged. I will call again in twenty minutes.’
I shrugged and switched off. Why did he need twenty minutes? Perhaps she wasn’t there? She didn’t have to be at Meridion House.
It didn’t matter much where she was right now. Everything that was about to happen was going to take place at Port Holland and Meridion House. That was where I needed to be.
30
Ihad options, plenty of them, but none of them was a hundred per cent great. I could call the police. Bill Peart would no doubt have insisted that was my only option. The trouble was it would take time to explain, time to convince them, and time for them to get here in force – if they ever did. While all that was happening, Borovsky could exercise one of his options and liquidate the hostages, thereby removing the evidence that he had abducted them in the first place.
You could say I had lost the option to trade with Borovsky when Sasha disappeared. Not that I would have considered giving up one woman for the other, but I wasn’t ruling out trading altogether.
Searching for, locating and freeing the hostages myself, by force if necessary, didn’t seem a terribly practicable possibility. I would be up against a private army. But I wasn’t ruling that one out either.
The more I thought about it, the more trading with Borovsky seemed a good idea. But for that to happen, I had to have something to trade with, something he wanted badly. I knew he wanted Sasha. But there must be something else. What?
Then it came to me. The best thing I could offer him was his own life. How could he turn down a trade like that? All I had to do was get close enough to make it happen.
My mind was made up. I was going for broke, for the jugular. Ignoring all Borovsky’s advantages – his money and his private army – I was going to get up close and offer him a trade he couldn’t refuse. I could think of no better option, for him or for me.
First, though, I was going to do some preliminary bargaining.
He called, on time. I was moving over the ground fast by then but I stopped and gave him my full consideration. I wanted to get it right.
‘I need to speak to her,’ I told him. ‘I need to be sure.’
‘A few words only,’ he said.
There was a lull. Then: ‘Frank?’
It was her.
‘I’m very sorry about this, Jac. How are you?’
‘So cold, Frank. The air conditioning…. And I can’t see because of the blindfold.’
I grimaced, feeling really bad. Then I tried to offer her some hope. ‘Try not to worry. I’ll get you out of there.’
‘I know you will.’
Such faith! I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate.
Borovsky spoke next. ‘Satisfied, Mr Doy?’
Satisfied? I kept cool and avoided telling him how I felt.
‘Here’s what we do,’ I told him. ‘Bring her to my house at Risky Point. We’ll do the business there.’
‘I assumed neutral ground would be your preference?’
‘And how am I supposed to explain that to Sasha? You think I’m going to tell her she’s the one losing out?’
There was a pause. I held my breath. I was taking a gamble I didn’t like to think about in detail, but it had to be this way. I couldn’t see how else it could work.
‘Your house, then. In one hour.’
The phone went dead. I stared at it but the call had definitely ended. I glanced at my watch. The clock was running. One hour.
There would be no trade. I was sure of that. I had no illusions.
First, I didn’t have Sasha, and even if I did have control over her I wouldn’t give her up. Second, Borovsky had no intention of trading either. I was sure of that, as well. Why should he?
My guess – and my gamble, if you like – was that his men would arrive at Risky Point intending to remove both Sasha and myself from the board permanently. That would put an end to any lingering danger to himself and his operations.
Jac must be at Meridion House, I decided. That was the implication behind her clever reference to air conditioning. If she was blindfolded she couldn’t see where they were but she had worked it out. Clever girl – and a brave one!
But I didn’t believe she had much of a long-term future either, not by Borovsky’s reckoning. Time for all of us was short, in fact. My decision to go for the man himself seemed more justified the more I thought about it.
To strengthen my hand a little, I left a message on Bill Peart’s phone. I told him a group of armed men were to visit Risky Point within the hour, and I asked him to arrange for Jimmy Mack to be protected. My house, too, by implication.
Then I got moving again.
From the top of the cliff overlooking the harbour I could see Borovsky’s men were hard at it. Floodlights had been set up and more heavy crates were being wheeled from the tunnel and along the jetty to the boat. People were doing things on the boat, too – getting ready to put to sea, it looked like. Sasha had been right. Borovsky was very close to departure time.
I stopped for a moment and studied a couple of the crates. I was too far away to read any markings but I began to wonder. Those long crates looked to be the wrong shape for housing works of art. I was uneasy. I had seen crates like those before. Usually they held things like rifles and machine guns.
I might be wrong. Borovsky might be no more than a dealer in forged art, but by now I doubted it. No wonder dealing out death to dissident painters came so easily to him.
Loading this stuff on to Meridion must be the climax Sasha had known he was working towards. But if she had known that, why hadn’t she said so instead of leaving me guessing? There was no time to ponder that one.
31
The grounds of Meridion House were well protected against intruders arriving by vehicle. The gatekeeper and the heavy-duty surrounding fence saw to that. A lone man on foot was a different matter. Short of erecting coils of razor wire and turning the place into a secure compound, it could hardly be otherwise. I circled round to the landward side, stepped over the fence and got up close through the woodland to study the house itself.
There was no one on duty outside. Probably it was all hands on deck inside. Every light in the place seemed to be on. Figures crossed in front of windows that were not shielded by blinds or curtains. My guess was that Borovsky had done with Meridion House. He would not be returning. What didn’t go with him w
ould be abandoned.
While I watched, a car drew up outside the main entrance. Two suits got out and went inside. I wondered who they were. They were well-dressed men in their late thirties or early forties. It was strange. There was something out of place about them. Somehow they didn’t seem to fit, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. But obviously they knew their way around. I shrugged and moved on.
It was hard to believe that the main entrance to the house would be completely unlocked and unguarded, and even in my hurry the exposure involved in going in that way seemed too great a risk. I circled round to the back, looking for the so-called tradesmen’s entrance. I found it. The door was open, with a van standing outside. Every couple of minutes a man came out to load stuff into the van.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I made straight for the open door and entered a kitchen just as the man doing the loading reappeared. He was carrying a painting wrapped in protective cloth. I wondered if it was one of the fakes or the real thing.
‘How many more of them are there?’ I asked as I stood aside for him.
‘Enough,’ he said, giving me a hard look.
‘Need a hand?’
‘Not now, no. The job’s just about done.’
‘OK. I’ll see what the boss wants me to do next,’ I said, continuing on my way.
I could feel his eyes burning into my back but I didn’t look round. He wasn’t sure of me. Best to keep him guessing.
I found the long corridor leading from the main entrance. Now the walls were bare. Every single one of the Old Masters was gone. It was quiet, too, the sibilant whistle of the air conditioning all that I could hear. That and my thudding heart.
Open doors revealed that most of the rooms I passed were also empty. Neither paintings nor furniture were left. Just the luxurious carpeting, and the air con that I was sure Jac had recognized. I was even more sure now that she was here. I had no idea where, of course.
Nor did I have any idea where Sasha was. For the moment I wasn’t bothered about that. There were limits to what I could do for Sasha. She had made her choice, and run out on me again. There was nothing I could do about that. I just had to hope she had run in the direction of safety. If she had returned to the cauldron, to be with Misha, it was her decision.
For all of them, all three of them, my hopes of pinning Borovsky were their best hope.
I found him easily enough. He was in his office, the big room where Jac and I had met him what seemed like a thousand years ago. He was sitting behind his desk, coolly administering the transfer of his establishment to the high seas. No doubt it wasn’t the first time this had happened. He would know what he was doing.
If he was surprised by my appearance, he didn’t show it.
‘Mr Doy,’ he said equably, giving me a cool look. ‘How are you this evening?’
I moved fast across the room and pushed him and the swivel chair he was using back from the desk. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ I snapped. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
‘Tut, tut! We had a business arrangement, I thought?’
‘Where is she?’ I demanded.
‘Miss Picknett?’ He smiled. ‘I could say where is Sasha.’
I pulled out my knife and pointed it at him. ‘Where is she?’
He stayed cool. I give him that. He looked up at me and chuckled in my face.
‘Laugh all you like,’ I told him, waving the knife, ‘but I want to see Jac Picknett here, with us – and alive! You’re going nowhere until I see her.
‘The longer we wait,’ I added, ‘the less chance you have of getting away. You’ve been under observation for some time and my guess is it won’t be long before the authorities move.’
Borovsky smiled. He didn’t look nervous at all. He should have been.
‘You don’t know what I do,’ he said softly. ‘You have no idea who I am, or how important I am – to both your government and mine.’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ I suggested. ‘Let’s sit here and wait.’
A shadow of annoyance crossed his face at last. He was a busy man. This was an inconvenience. I was a nuisance.
One thing I was sure of: Borovsky could forget all his plans unless I got what I wanted. He was going nowhere. Come to that, perhaps he wasn’t going anywhere anyway. I couldn’t believe the SAS was going to let Meridion sail away into the sunset, not with the cargo I believed it was carrying. What he’d just said about his own importance was nothing but fluff.
The door swung open and crashed against the wall. I glanced round, ready to do battle. Then astonishment overcame me.
‘Sasha!’
She came in carrying my Glock, held at the ready. She glanced my way but her eyes were only for Borovsky.
‘I thought …’ I began.
‘She was dead, perhaps?’ Borovsky said with a chuckle. ‘You are mistaken, Mr Doy. The last thing I want is to murder this young lady – either of the young ladies. Miss Picknett is my hostage, it is true, but with Sasha I wish to negotiate.’
‘No negotiations!’ Sasha snapped, levelling her gun.
‘You are wrong,’ Borovsky said. ‘Even now—’
‘Negotiations?’ I said. ‘Who with?’
Borovsky chuckled again. ‘Moscow, of course. This young lady represents the Russian government. Didn’t you know?’
32
My eyes bounced between Sasha and Borovsky. There was no time to process what Borovsky had just said. Sasha was raising the Glock to shoot him.
‘No!’ I yelled. ‘Sasha, don’t!’
I moved to stand in the way.
‘Frank!’
‘We need him,’ I said. ‘I need him.’
‘What do you mean?’
Her face changed, took on a puzzled look.
‘Don’t shoot him!’
‘What he means,’ Borovsky said, ‘is that he doesn’t know where Miss Picknett is. He doesn’t want you to shoot me until I have told him.’
Sasha looked even more puzzled. ‘Who?’
‘A client of mine,’ I told her, ‘and a friend. He’s got her somewhere.’
‘What does that mean?’ she said with contempt. ‘Your friend? He is my country’s enemy!’
I was shocked by these revelations but I stood my ground. ‘You owe me, Sasha!’ I told her, reaching for the gun.
She stepped back and moved sideways, so she could get a clear sight of Borovsky again. ‘Get out of the way, Frank. I owe nobody – especially not your friend. My friend is dead.’
‘Misha isn’t dead,’ I extemporized wildly. ‘We need to find out where he is as well.’
Sasha’s eyes swung back to Borovsky. ‘Not dead?’ she demanded. ‘Is this true?’
‘It could be,’ Borovsky admitted with a smirk.
The smirk seemed to prove too much for Sasha. She pulled the trigger. Borovsky yelped and fell backwards, clutching his arm.
‘Damn you!’ I yelled, lunging for the gun.
‘A flesh wound,’ she told me contemptuously, hanging on to the Glock and fighting me with surprising strength.
I managed to force the gun out of her hand. It dropped to the floor. Before I could swoop to pick it up, the room was suddenly full of feet and fists. The gunshot had brought Borovsky’s cavalry to the rescue.
The Glock was kicked away from me. Something hard crashed down on my head. I sprawled across the floor and took a bit of a kicking before things calmed down.
I spat out blood from a mouth injury and raised my battered head. I saw the new arrivals were no respecters of womanhood; Sasha had been knocked about, as well. She was struggling to get herself together. One of Borovsky’s men reached down, picked her up bodily and hurled her into a corner of the room. Then he towered over her.
I didn’t feel up to objecting on Sasha’s behalf. I was in no condition to protect anybody. Besides, I was also pissed off with her. The stupid bitch! She had brought all this down on us. Now what? What the fuck was going to happen now?
Borovsky spent several minutes having his arm attended to. Then he turned back to me. By then, I was back in the land of the fully conscious.
‘For your information, Mr Doy, Sasha and her colleague are agents of the FSB – not, perhaps, as infamous as the KGB, I think you will agree, but famous enough.’
I listened. I didn’t nod or shake my head in case the thing dropped off. I just listened. And I knew he was speaking the truth. Things fell into place. My questions about Sasha were answered. No wonder she was tough as old boots. She was a woman with a mission – and one full of lies.
‘Their role,’ Borovsky said, ‘was to infiltrate my organization and put a stop to my activities in the art world. The Kremlin was not truly concerned about art, not really. It was more concerned with stopping the erosion of the financial value of the collections of places such as the Hermitage, whence Sasha had come.’
‘And destroying my country’s culture,’ Sasha contributed.
‘Indeed,’ Borovsky said, bowing his head in acknowledgement.
This was of limited interest to me. What was bothering me at this point was less the thought of the financial value of Russia’s cultural collections and more how the hell was I going to get out of here. The future – my future, never mind anyone else’s – didn’t look promising.
Then something struck me. Negotiations? They had both spoken of them. That meant this game was still in progress. Borovsky hadn’t finished with us yet. Otherwise, we would have been shot and fed to the fishes.
‘So,’ he concluded, confirming my thinking, ‘now I must negotiate. These days Moscow likes to get its agents back. They are not thought so expendable as in former times. Cheer up, young lady! There is hope for you yet.’
I couldn’t see any for Jac and myself, though. The Kremlin didn’t have any interest in us.
‘Negotiate?’ Sasha snarled. ‘You are dead! There will be no negotiations.’
