by Tomas Black
“We have time,” said Misha. He reached inside his suit and retrieved a slim silver case. As he did so his jacket parted, revealing the grip of a heavy looking handgun. And here’s me, thought Drum, without even a screwdriver.
Misha flipped open the case, one-handed, with practised ease, revealing neat rows of black cigarettes. He offered one to Drum.
Drum shook his head.
Misha took no offence but retrieved one of the slim black smokes and placed it between his lips, snapping the case shut and returning it to his pocket. With his other hand, he produced a battered old lighter which he flipped open, striking the thumbwheel in one smooth motion before putting flame to tobacco. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smoke.
Drum thought he recognised the crest on the lighter. “Spetsnaz?”
Misha examined the worn and faded crest as if seeing it for the first time. “Da. You are a military man?”
“I served my country, yes.”
“Your country. Da. I’m sure your country is very … grateful.” He gave Drum a sardonic smile and put the lighter back in his pocket.
The bearded man returned and poured a black liquid from the urn into the two glasses, before departing to whatever corner of the market he had surfaced from. Misha continued lazily smoking his cigarette and proffered his hand towards the tray. Drink.
“It’s been a while since someone has poured me tea from a samovar,” said Drum, taking a glass of the steaming hot liquid. The tea had a rich, smoky aroma to it. “And these must be Nuql, sugar covered almonds,” pointing to what he first thought were biscuits.
The big Russian regarded Drum through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He picked up his glass and drank some tea. “You served in Afghanistan, I think.”
Drum tasted his tea. It was flavoured with cardamom. It reminded him of cold desert nights spent in Helmand with the local militia. “Two tours,” said Drum. “And you?”
“Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya – too many, I lose count.”
“And now you’re a gun for hire.”
The Russian looked at him. “We are all – how you say – guns for hire, Benjamin Drummond.”
He tapped his watch. “We go now, I think. Please stand up.”
Drum stood up. He knew the drill. With thumb and forefinger, he parted his jacket. Misha stood and merely nodded. It wasn’t the most thorough of searches.
“Where are we going?” asked Drum.
“Mr Abramov would like to speak to you. He is waiting for us. I drive.” He stood up, and Drum felt very small. “I park over here.” He pointed to one of the side entrances. A silver Mercedes was parked beneath a sign that said ‘Emergency Vehicles Only’.
They walked towards the car. Drum knew it was pointless to argue. If he’d refused, Misha would have probably just picked him up and stuffed him in the boot. Sooner or later he would have to talk to Abramov. At least the big Russian hadn’t tried to kill him – yet.
Misha stopped. Something was on his mind. “The policewoman …”
“You mean Alex Fern?”
“You sleep with her?”
Drum smiled. “No, at least not on our first date.”
Misha nodded approvingly.
They reached the car. Misha paused and leaned on the car’s roof. “I know what you are thinking.”
“Not to play poker?”
“You are thinking you can take me. I think not. It would be foolish to try.”
Drum grinned. “No, Misha. I can’t take you.” He opened the passenger door. “But I’m sure Alex Fern could.”
The big Russian looked surprised, then roared with laughter. People turned to look. He slapped the top of his Mercedes. “I think you are right, Benjamin Drummond! I think you are right.”
~~~
Misha drove at a leisurely pace, keeping to the speed limit. It wouldn’t have been wise for him to have been stopped for speeding when carrying a concealed weapon. He left the market via Commercial Street before turning into Whitechapel. He made no small talk, and Drum was content with his own company. After a few miles of light traffic, he headed South towards Wapping and the river. At least he wasn’t smoking.
It was no coincidence that since the raid on the bank his life, once more, was full of Russians. It was a fair assumption that the thug in custody was Abramov’s man; he’d wanted Pinkman’s laptop, which meant that Abramov wanted Pinkman’s laptop. Somehow it was connected to Victor’s visit to the vault.
They drove through the backstreets of Wapping and turned into a narrow cobbled street, between a canyon of Victorian warehouses, fashionably refurbished. Where once there had been a bustling dock, filled with the flotsam of global trade, there was now the chink of cappuccino cups and apartments filled with the City’s elite. William must be laughing: he had bought property here when they were tearing down the place.
Misha slowed and turned into the narrow entrance to a large warehouse complex. The enormous lintel embedded in the scrubbed Victorian brick proclaimed this to be Regency Wharf. Security cameras were everywhere. The car squeezed through a narrow passageway and emerged into a small, cobbled courtyard surrounded by apartments and offices. He cut the engine and sat back in his seat and turned to Drum. “Abramov is not a patient man. Don’t be smart ass.” With that succinct piece of advice, he exited the car.
A brick staircase, with wrought-iron balustrades, lead up to another level and a pair of faux warehouse doors. A security camera monitored the entrance. Misha took the steps two at a time and waited for Drum to catch up. A buzzer sounded, and one of the doors snapped open with a loud clack.
The Russian waited for Drum to enter first. It was never a good idea to have a potential adversary at your back. They emerged into a spacious apartment, or it could have been an office; Drum couldn’t quite tell. Whoever had designed the place had done well to incorporate the industrial fixtures of the original Victorian warehouse, with its exposed iron roof beams, supported by ornate, iron columns. Drum noticed a rusty pulley wheel, hanging from one of the beams. Industrial loft meets Mafia chic. Handy if you wanted to restrain an uncooperative visitor.
The walls were of the same bare tan brick as the outside of the building. A large oval window looked out onto the small courtyard and flooded the room with natural light, illuminating a large couch against one of the walls where Victor’s PA lounged.
“Hello, Anna. Fancy meeting you here.”
She acknowledged him with just the slightest of nods then looked away as if bored by his presence. As before, she was impeccably dressed in a pale-grey pencil skirt and matching jacket. A simple low cut blouse completed the ensemble. She looked every bit the corporate moll.
Misha placed a large hand on Drum’s shoulder and pointed to a red leather couch in the centre of the room, indicating he should take a seat. In front of the couch was a large oak desk. Various papers lay scattered on its surface. Placed in a prominent position on the edge of the desk was Drum’s screwdriver.
He sat back on the couch and waited, doing his best to relax. A door opened at the back of the room. A bearded man in his mid-forties wearing a tailored black suit entered, followed by two henchmen dragging a dishevelled Victor Renkov.
The bearded man took up his position of power behind the oak desk, while the two henchmen manhandled Victor roughly into a chair on the opposite side of the room. He looked like shit. His ordinarily slicked-back hair was messed up and matted; his once immaculate suit was now dirty and torn, and his shirt was tieless and bloodied. Drum looked up at the pulley. Every Mafia home should have one.
“Hello, Victor. Been burning the candle at both ends, I see.”
Victor looked up. One eye was half-closed and bruised. He smiled at the joke. One of the henchmen cuffed him hard about the head, almost knocking him off the chair. Don’t be smart ass.
Drum glanced at Misha who was leaning against one of the columns. He looked bored by the whole opera. Drum said nothing.
“Benjamin Drummond,” said the bearded man, in heav
ily accented English. “My name is Vladimir Abramov. You have heard of me, perhaps?”
Vladimir Abramov looked at him over hooded eyes, as black as coal. A sharp angular face intensified his gaze, while his thin hard mouth was without mirth.
“Only by reputation,” said Drum, as pleasantly as he could.
Abramov seemed to notice something and spoke rapidly to Anna in Russian. She shrugged.
“Forgive me. We have no manners. You would like coffee, perhaps?”
Drum bit his tongue and forced himself to be civil. Just another Saturday morning, hanging out with the hood. “Yes, coffee – espresso, a little cream.”
Abramov spoke curtly to Anna. She nodded and got up from the couch. She gave Drum a hard look as she left the room.
“Victor tells me you are old friends?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Drum. Misha laughed under his breath, and Victor groaned.
“No? That is a pity. Victor says you can help us. Vladimir, he says. My old friend Benjamin Drummond will help us. Leave it to me, he says. I think not, perhaps.”
“Help with what?” asked Drum, although he thought he knew.
“Here is the problem,” replied Abramov getting up from his chair. He moved to the front of the desk. “Victor comes to me. He has a business proposal. Vladimir, he says, the markets are shit give me your money, and I will keep it safe. I say, are you sure Victor? Gold Vladimir, I’ll turn your money into gold. It is safe as houses.”
Victor groaned. One of the henchmen shook him and spoke roughly to him in Russian.
“So,” continued Abramov, “I say to Anna, keep an eye on Victor. I like him but – how you say – he burns his candle at both ends.”
That was one way of putting it, thought Drum. “Victor told me about his visit to the bank. As I said, the gold is probably in another vault –”
“This is bullshit,” interrupted Abramov. He stood and began to pace in front of the desk. “Total bullshit. Harvey Pinkman is missing.”
“The Vault Manager?” said Drum.
“No one has seen or heard from him since Monday. And now my gold is missing,” continued Abramov.
Drum had to admit it wasn’t looking good. He looked at Victor. His nose had started to bleed. “You need to find Pinkman,” said Drum.
Abramov stopped his pacing and sat on the edge of the desk. He picked up the screwdriver and looked at Drum. He smiled. Drum thought it more of a grimace.
“No, Benjamin. You need to find Pinkman.” He tapped the screwdriver in his hand.
Anna came back into the room carrying a single espresso cup. She sashayed over and leaned close to give him the cup and whispered in his ear: “say yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little confused about her message. She walked back to the other couch, sat and carried on looking bored.
Drum sipped his coffee. He was between a rock and a hard place. If he told Abramov to go fuck himself, it wouldn’t bode well for Victor; he was also sure that Abramov would insist on returning his screwdriver, but not in a nice way. If he said yes, it meant he’d be working for the Russian Mafia, and that wouldn’t look good on his resume; Alex Fern wouldn’t be too pleased either. Drum drained his coffee.
“Look, Vladimir,” he said, placing the cup on the arm of the couch and standing up. One of the henchmen flinched and moved towards him. Misha stood from his slouch at the column. “I’m going to have to decline your invitation.”
Victor groaned loudly, and Anna turned swiftly to face Drum.
“That is unfortunate, Benjamin. Not only for Victor –” he tapped the screwdriver against the table “– but also your father –”
Drum advanced quickly towards Abramov who was taken aback by the move. He had taken only a few strides when he was met halfway by the henchman who was already drawing his gun. Drum opened the palm of his hand and, keeping his fingers straight, viciously jabbed the guy in the throat just as the gun cleared his holster. The henchmen’s hand reflexively moved to his neck as he wheezed and gasped for breath. His eyes bulged and his head bent down allowing Drum to snatch the gun from his hand. He finished him off, by smashing the butt of the handgun against the side of his head, before bringing the weapon to bear with both hands into the face of a surprised Vladimir Abramov.
Drum heard the distinctive double-click of a gun’s hammer being cocked at the back of his head. The soft, calm voice of Misha whispered in his ear: “Benjamin. Big mistake.”
There was a banging on the door. Time froze. Nobody moved. Drum held the gaze of Abramov’s black, soulless eyes. The banging became more insistent. Then a familiar voice: “Open up. Police!”
Drum heard the click, click of a gun’s hammer being carefully replaced behind him. He stepped back and lowered his own gun. Abramov looked shaken but undeterred. He straightened the jacket of his suit and moved behind his desk. Misha returned his gun to its holster and was walking towards the door. Abramov waved at the remaining henchman, who holstered his weapon. Drum stuffed his newly acquired gun down the back of his jeans and covered it with his T-shirt and jacket. Victor groaned quietly.
Misha opened the door just a crack. He spoke softly, almost sweetly to the person on the other side.
“Go fuck ya self, you bloody idiot, shouted Fern, pushing past the big Russian and into the room.
Abramov sat back down. “Ms Fern. How can we help?”
“Noise complaint,” she replied, unconvincingly, waving her warrant card. She looked first at Drum and then Victor. “Bloody hell, what happened to him.”
“Accident,” replied Misha.
“No shit,” said Fern.
She pointed to the henchman lying unconscious by Drum’s feet. “What about this guy?”
“Accident,” replied Drum, straight-faced.
“Good grief, Drum. Let’s go.”
“Give me a hand with Victor,” said Drum.
Fern strode over to Victor, pushing the remaining henchman roughly to one side.
“Mind the windows,” said Drum.
“Piss off and give me a hand.”
Drum stepped over the prone body at his feet and bent down to help Victor up. They shuffled him over to the door. Misha was waiting, holding the door open.
“Wait a minute,” said Drum, letting go of Victor’s arm.
He walked back over to the desk. Abramov sat there, looking amused. Drum took the screwdriver from his hand. “This is mine, I think. Part of a set.”
“Drummond,” said Abramov. “I still want to hire you.”
Drum looked at the Russian, wondering what made the guy tick. “I’ll think about it.” He walked back to Fern and helped carry Victor out of the door.
CHAPTER TEN
A Russian Problem
It was late afternoon when Drum and Fern finally made it back to Butler’s Wharf. For the second time that week he had a Russian’s blood on his hands. Fern had said very little on the drive back. They had taken a detour to Victor’s apartment in Canary Wharf and dropped him off. He had refused to go to a hospital and resisted Fern’s attempt to persuade him to make a complaint against Abramov, a course of action that would have inevitably resulted in his swift and untimely death. But you couldn’t fault her for trying.
Alice was waiting in his office.
“You look like shit – oh, sorry,” she said as Fern walked in behind him. “I’m Alice.” She held out her hand to Fern.
“Alice meet Commander Fern of the NCA. Fern, Alice.”
“Your mother?” asked Fern, taking Alice’s small manicured hand in hers.
Alice cocked her head to one side and let out a cackling laugh. “Good Lord, no. Office Manager.” She turned sharply to face Drum, with a look on her face that said he was in deep trouble. “And you need to call William. He’s worried sick. All I could do to stop him from calling the police.”
“I am the police, Alice,” said Fern, slumping down onto Drum’s couch.
“No, my dear. I mean to say, the NCA is not the regu
lar police. I’m talking about the plod.”
Fern let out a hearty laugh. “The plod! Crumbs haven’t heard that expression in a while.”
Drum was about to sit down when he remembered he was still carrying the Russian’s gun. He took off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair, retrieving the gun from his jeans and placed it on the desk.
Alice looked at the gun and frowned.
Drum sat back in his office chair. He noticed Alice staring at the gun and realised he’d been thoughtless brandishing the weapon in front of her. He’d probably terrified the poor woman.
Alice moved over to the desk and picked up the gun.
“Alice,” exclaimed Drum, “be careful. It’s loaded.”
“Good grief,” sighed Fern. “Put it down, Alice. You’ll shoot someone.”
Alice smiled as she examined the weapon. “I don’t think so.” She turned the big gun over in her hand, feeling the weight of the black metal casing, examining both sides, then held it in both hands, one hand under the other for support and pointed it at the wall. She sighted down the barrel, both eyes open. “Glad to see you’ve kept the safety on.” She looked up from the sight and turned the gun over, flipping a small lever on the side. She deftly caught the gun’s magazine as it slipped smoothly from the recess in the grip; she pulled back the slider on the top of the barrel and checked that the firing chamber was clear. She placed the magazine on the desk.
“A Sig Sauer, P320, recently upgraded. Magazine carries seventeen, nine-millimetre rounds. It’s been fitted with a mag-well for fast loading.” Before Drum could say anything, her hand moved swiftly back to the magazine and, in an instant, the gun was reloaded.
Fern looked at Alice open-mouthed. Drum was speechless.
“Oh, tsk, tsk. It’s nothing, really,” she said, ejecting the gun’s magazine once more and checking the chamber. “Army brat. Father was a Colonel in the guards. Taught me to fire all sorts of weapons as a teenager.” She looked at them in turn and smiled. “Well, I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me all about your adventures with the Russians.” She turned to walk out of the door taking the gun with her. “I’ll lock this in the safe – and call William.”
