The Tides of Change

by Joanna Rees

  Eli looked at Emma, his eyebrows knitting together, but Emma could tell that Frankie didn’t want to be crowded. She nodded to him and David to go. She watched them walk outside into the garden and light cigarettes. The low mumble of their conversation drifted in on the breeze and Emma suspected that Eli was telling David what he’d just told her. Emma focused her attention back on Frankie. She looked so fragile, like a ghost of her former self.

  ‘Come, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Come in here.’

  She took Frankie’s hand and pulled her gently into the study off the hallway and shut the door.

  ‘Your face,’ Frankie mumbled, looking at Emma. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Something was very wrong. The bubbly confident Frankie was gone. She seemed spaced-out and frightened.

  ‘Where did they take you?’ Emma asked, still holding Frankie’s hand.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Frankie said. She gripped Emma’s hand tightly and Emma could tell how frightened she was. ‘I can’t remember anything. I can’t seem to . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Take your time,’ Emma said, moving some magazines and helping her to sit down on the sofa. ‘It’ll come back. You’re here now. You’re safe.’ She tried to sound comforting, but Frankie just looked even more confused.

  Maybe it was just shock that was making Frankie act this way, Emma thought. Emma had read an article about it in the paper: how sometimes car-crash victims, even though they’d suffered no actual physical trauma, erased the entire incident from their mind.

  She poured Frankie some coffee from the jug on the side and brought it back to where she was sitting.

  ‘Tell me what you do remember,’ Emma said, silently hoping that any memory loss was just temporary.

  Frankie reached for the memory stick hanging on a cord under her T-shirt and she picked it up in her hand. ‘I remember getting into Detroy’s office. I’ll still have the files on here,’ Frankie said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Emma would have been lying if she’d claimed she didn’t feel a jolt of excitement on seeing the stick. She couldn’t believe those pigs had been stupid enough to let Frankie walk away with that around her neck. But maybe they hadn’t known what it was, Emma reasoned. After all, Emma herself had only known because Cosmo had taken to wearing one at school like a necklace. She couldn’t believe their luck that Frankie still had it on her.

  Emma waved her hand. ‘We can talk about that later. Right now, I’m worried about you. I think you should rest. Sleep. Is there anything you need? Are you hungry?’

  ‘No, let’s see what I managed to get,’ Frankie said.

  Emma tried to stop her, but Frankie seemed so determined. She suddenly got up off the sofa and plugged in the USB stick into the back of David’s laptop.

  It was good to see Frankie typing. Whatever it was that had affected her memory, it certainly didn’t seem to have affected her aptitude.

  Emma watched as the information downloaded. Hope spiralled inside her. There had to be something about Platinum Reach on here, didn’t there? Some definitive evidence that would prove where the money had gone? Emma bit down on the knuckle of the thumb of her right hand. It was a habit she’d made herself grow out of after her tenth birthday, but she couldn’t help herself now. She kept gnawing as she watched row after row of icons spread out across the screen as if Frankie was dealing with a deck of cards.

  Emma hardly knew anything about computers, but this looked like a lot of information to her. The tension was unbearable. Had Detroy really slipped up and left all this evidence for them to find? What secrets did each of those brightly coloured boxes have to share? Had all the risks they’d taken been worth it after all?

  Emma watched Frankie turn to face her, but the triumphant smile she’d been expecting wasn’t there. A look of strained incomprehension was in its place.

  ‘What is it?’ Emma asked. She felt herself being hijacked by a feeling of dread. It was obvious something wasn’t right.

  ‘I’m not sure. The files I copied last night aren’t here. There are just dozens of jpegs instead.’

  ‘Jpegs?’

  ‘You know . . . picture files,’ Frankie explained. ‘Photos.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ Emma said. ‘Photos of what?’

  Frankie’s skin had drained to the colour of alabaster. ‘I suppose we’d better find out.’

  The two women stared into each other’s eyes for a second. Although of course she had no real way of knowing, Emma somehow felt that their minds had set out upon the same horrendous logical journey.

  The three Russian thugs weren’t stupid at all. They hadn’t simply not noticed the memory stick around Frankie’s neck, or the information she’d downloaded from Detroy’s hard drive. They’d known exactly what it was worth. If they’d let her keep it, it could mean only one thing. They’d corrupted the information saved on it. They’d switched it for something they wanted her to see.

  Frankie turned back to the screen. Her finger hovered over the mouse button as if she was taking a deep breath. Emma found herself doing likewise as she stared on.

  Then Frankie hit the button. They watched the jpeg activate, ballooning to fill the whole screen. Then both Emma and Frankie’s worst fears were confirmed.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Emma gasped, covering her mouth.

  In the image, Frankie was naked on a chair. Two men were standing over her, their erect penises above her mouth.

  ‘No . . . no,’ Frankie gasped.

  She started to retch. She wrapped her arms around herself, clawing at her back. Emma tried to hold her, but Frankie violently shook herself free. Frankie tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She lurched sideways across the desk and began to whimper.

  Emma glanced at the screen, over her shoulder, horrified. She could hardly bear to look at the vile image, but she needed to check something. She looked at Frankie’s face on the screen. Eyes white. Barely seeing. Eli had been right, then. Rohypnol: the date-rape drug. No wonder Frankie couldn’t remember anything.

  Emma thought about all the other jpegs there’d been just now on the screen. What else had those sick bastards done?

  The door behind them clicked. Emma quickly turned and hurriedly waved David away. She stood guard in silence over Frankie as her moaning turned to heart-wrenching sobs. Emma felt so helpless and shocked, she wanted to cry herself for the violation Frankie had suffered. It was so horrible. And so unfair.

  She searched for words of comfort and for the first time since Julian’s death she truly remembered her strength. She gently placed her hands on Frankie’s shoulders and took a deep breath.

  ‘Listen. Whatever they did to you,’ she said with absolute certainty, ‘it doesn’t change who you are. It’s over now. You’re alive. And you’re still you. Whatever they’ve tried to take from you . . . we won’t let them. You hear me? We won’t let them.’

  Frankie looked up at her and wiped her face. ‘Oh Emma,’ she said.

  ‘Can you remember anything at all? Any of this?’

  Frankie shook her head firmly, clearing her throat. ‘Nothing. Just being in the office with you when they cut your face. And . . .’

  Frankie’s expression switched again. Something flashed in her eyes. Anger? Fear?

  ‘Yes?’ Emma encouraged, squeezing her hand.

  ‘I remember now, them saying something about Alex seeing pictures. They meant these.’ Frankie clutched Emma’s arms so hard she nearly cried out in pain. ‘They’re going to show Alex,’ she whimpered, ‘and—’

  ‘Shhh,’ Emma soothed, gently prising her hands free. ‘You look exhausted. You need to rest. Then we can talk about all of this. We need time to think.’

  It was true. Emma did need time to think. Her mind whirred now with all the implications of those pictures on the screen. Were they evidence against Detroy? Would Eli have to see them? How bad were the rest of the images? Who else were those thugs intending these pictures for apart from Alex?

  Frankie sat in silence fo
r a moment, as if she saw the sense in what Emma was saying. But then she quickly turned back to the computer. She stared hard at the screen. At the image of herself. The two men violating her. She continued to stare for five seconds, ten, fifteen. She didn’t even blink.

  ‘No,’ she said then. She gripped the mouse and shut the jpeg. She dragged it along with all the others into the trash icon at the corner of the screen.

  ‘No,’ she said again, her voice rising.

  ‘What?’ Emma asked, panicking now, fearful she was out of her depth. Frankie probably needed a doctor, a counsellor, or a psychiatrist – someone who could help. And surely these pictures, however vile, were evidence. She couldn’t just put them in the trash, could she?

  But before she could tell her to stop, Frankie tore the USB stick from the computer, put it down on the desk and brought a polished paperweight smashing down on it.

  ‘Wait—’

  ‘No,’ Frankie said as she spun around to face Emma. ‘We can’t stay here. They left you for dead in the fire, but they let me go for a reason: to find out who else we were working with. To find out who else knows about Platinum Holdings. That stick could have been bugged. Or someone could have followed us here. The rest of them might be on their way already. We’ve got to get out of here now.’

  ‘We can’t,’ Emma said. Frankie was being paranoid. She was exhausted, not thinking straight. She had to stop her. ‘I’ll get David,’ she said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

  Frankie grabbed her arm. ‘The longer we stay here, the more danger we’re putting him in. Trust me, Emma. I know about this. I used to work for the Government in South Africa. I know how quickly people can wind up dead.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘What you just told me,’ Frankie said, ‘about them having taken nothing from me, about me still being myself. Well, I am.’

  Emma stared into Frankie’s eyes. They were bloodshot, but calm. Far from insane.

  ‘If we’re going to make right what they did, then the first thing we need to do is get out of here alive.’

  Somehow Emma knew, right then, that Frankie was telling the truth. She also knew that she had no choice but to back her up. She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of David’s home, but if they were putting him in danger, then she’d have to leave.

  ‘But where will we go?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a friend. An American. He’ll be able to protect us. He’ll know what to do. They’ll never go after him. He’s worth too much money to them, and he’s way too famous. Now quickly give me the phone.’

  Emma did as she was asked and watched in confusion as Frankie punched in a number. Who on earth was this person she was calling? Who was too famous and powerful for even the Bratva to touch?

  ‘Get me Todd,’ Frankie said. ‘Todd Lands. Tell him it’s Frankie and I need his help. Tell him I need it now.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In Tenzin Marisco’s studio, TV pin-up girl and topless model Monica DuCane straddled a black chair as a make-up artist applied one final brush of powder. Monica’s famously ample breasts were poured into a white lace basque, her waist-length, white-blond hair piled into an elaborately curled beehive. She reached up and clawed her long red fingernails over the black codpieces of the two semi-naked male models who stood over her. The assistant tilted the light reflector disk just a fraction to bounce more light on to Monica’s sultry pout and Peaches gave the thumbs-up. A second later, Tenzin, LA’s most famous glamour photographer, started to shoot, crouching down, circling Monica DuCane with a telephoto lens, calling out a steady stream of superlatives, ‘Yeah, baby, that’s fabulous, fantastic. Look at me. Wow. Sensational . . .’

  ‘So what happened then?’ Ross Heartwood asked. Peaches could hear the shock in his voice. She hadn’t meant to tell him so much. She hadn’t meant to confide that she’d been on Pushkin and had been beaten up by Khordinsky. Nor that Alexei Rodokov had been responsible for getting her away from him.

  But this was Ross, her dearest friend. The man she’d trusted her body to – and now her secrets. His phone call had come at a time when Peaches desperately needed to talk. In sharing the facts, she hoped that the pressure of them building inside her would go away.

  She turned away from the set and quickly walked over to the back door of the studio. She pushed down the Exit bar and found herself standing in the small concrete yard in the fresh air. She leant back against the brick wall and held her cell phone close to her ear. She closed her eyes, remembering Alexei Rodokov’s face.

  ‘I swear to God, Ross, I thought he was going to kill me. But he didn’t,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘He fired into the ground. Then he hissed into my ear. He told me to play dead if I wanted to live. It must have been because he wanted the bodyguard to think he’d done what Khordinsky had ordered him to.’

  Peaches adjusted her large shades and baseball hat. She was still nervous as hell. What had happened on Pushkin had scared her shitless. She still had bruises on her cheekbone from Khordinsky’s beating and her kidneys ached whenever she peed. She’d been checked out by a friend at the hospital, who’d told her that it was a miracle, but she had nothing seriously wrong with her that time and rest wouldn’t fix. Even so, every time she thought about it, it made her feel sick.

  And yet Alexei Rodokov had spared her.

  ‘Why did he do that?’ Ross asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  It was a question Peaches had asked herself over and over. Right at the last moment, he hadn’t done his master’s bidding and Peaches didn’t know why. Was he a coward, or was he merciful? She hated owing anyone a nickel, let alone a guy like Alexei Rodokov her life.

  ‘I guess he didn’t want it on his conscience. He took off pretty quickly.’

  ‘Hoods don’t have consciences,’ Ross said. ‘People like Khordinsky and Rodokov waste people all the time. Christ, you don’t even get initiated into those kind of gang circles unless you’ve got a string of murders under your belt.’

  Peaches knew Ross was right, of course. On paper, at least. On paper, Rodokov had to be a butcher himself to be running with a psychopath like Khordinsky.

  But off paper . . . in the flesh . . . well, Alexei Rodokov didn’t quite fit the mould. Peaches remembered how he’d looked when she’d first seen him in his office on Pushkin: like a businessman – a banker or a broker. Peaches had a nose for these things. She had to, after the life she’d had. She’d come to rely on her knack of summing people up in a blink. Nine times out of ten, her first impressions were her last impressions too. Rodokov hadn’t looked like a gangster the first time she’d met him. Hadn’t acted like one at the party his boss had thrown for him. And – most crucially – hadn’t acted like one when he’d been ordered to blow her away.

  The word ‘why’ multiplied and flocked inside her. But she could find no answer. All she knew was that she was damned lucky to be alive.

  ‘Do you think he told Khordinsky he’d killed you?’ Ross asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ Peaches said. ‘Because if he finds out otherwise . . .’

  ‘Jesus, Peaches,’ Ross said. ‘You don’t think he might come after you, do you? Because if you do – even for a second – then we’ve got to get you someplace safe.’

  ‘No. I’m sure I’m safe for now,’ she said, although the truth was that she felt anything but safe. Since meeting Khordinsky, she felt as if she’d been marked out. That she was being watched all the time. Dark sunglasses staring out at her from the crowd at LAX. The black Hummer behind her on the freeway more than once. A Russian accent in a deli on Sunset. A tall man standing too close to her on a bar terrace in Bel-Air. Peaches hoped she was just being paranoid. She told herself that there was no way Rodokov would tell her master that he’d disobeyed his order – not without incurring Khordinsky’s wrath himself.

  Plus, she reminded herself that her true identity hadn’t been compromised. Khordinsky had no idea who she was. She’d managed to find out that the other girl
s hadn’t been questioned. They’d been whisked off the yacht the moment the trouble had started. They’d been paid off and dropped ashore, with all protestations about the whereabouts of Tammy brushed roughly aside. All of them had got home safely, according to Mandy who had called Peaches a couple of days ago looking for more work. And any thought that that girl Nicki might have been a plant had turned out to be paranoia on Peaches’ part. If the authorities had been on to her, they’d surely have made their presence felt by now, wouldn’t they?

  Even Valentin had gone quiet. She’d wondered at first whether he’d come after her, but either he hadn’t heard about what happened on Pushkin, or he hadn’t told Khordinsky that Peaches had been his contact for the girls.

  But not all the loose ends had been so neatly tidied up. Peaches couldn’t believe, in retrospect, how stupid her valedictory swipe at Khordinsky had been. How could she have taunted him with Irena’s name like that?

  So, she’d thought she was going to die. So what? How could she have thought that there wouldn’t be repercussions to people other than herself?

  The first call Peaches had made after she’d succeeded in getting Angela to wire her some money to a cash shop in Cannes was to Yana, her mother’s nurse in the Moscow hotel. She’d told Yana to stay vigilant and tell no one where they were staying. And she’d made her promise that whatever happened, she wouldn’t tell anyone Peaches’ name.

  Perhaps, Peaches thought, she should tell Yana to move with Irena to a different apartment. But Irena was too sick, and Peaches couldn’t risk scaring her.

  Peaches knew what a brute Khordinsky was. She was terrified he would track Irena down. And if he did, what the hell would he do?

  Khordinsky. How easily he could have snubbed her life out.

  Having raped her first.

  Her own father . . .

  Peaches wished everything had been different. She’d screwed up and she hated herself for being so sloppy. She hadn’t had a proper plan. She’d been so blinded by the need to see Khordinsky in the flesh that she hadn’t thought through how to exact her revenge. Instead, stupidly, she’d relied on opportunism. She’d been impulsive, hoping she could rely on her instincts, and it had backfired.