by Mark McKay
Dubrovsky complied. If he was armed, the weapon wasn’t in a shoulder holster. Not that it mattered right now.
The two men stared at each other. Nick aimed the gun at Dubrovsky’s forehead.
‘I have diplomatic immunity,’ said Dubrovsky. ‘You won’t shoot.’
‘After what you’ve done, you must be joking.’ Nick’s finger tensed on the trigger.
Then all hell broke loose. Two police cars came out of nowhere, lights flashing. At least half a dozen armed policemen spilled out, screaming at him to put the gun down. Across the road, Nick spotted the so called ex-policeman Curtis, standing outside the gallery. For a long second he kept the gun where it was, eyes locked on Dubrovsky’s. Then he placed it on the roof of the car and stepped back. Ten seconds later he was on the ground while handcuffs were applied. They put him in the back of one of the police cars and sped away. As they went, he could see Dubrovsky still standing in the same spot. Looked like he had diplomatic immunity after all, they were leaving him be. The briefcase had gone, though.
When they arrived at a police station some ten minutes later, nobody checked him in. They just took him downstairs, removed the handcuffs, and slung him in a cell. He sat on the bench and wondered what was going to happen next. He couldn’t see himself talking his way out of this. It looked like his first job for the Crimson Dragon Society had just prematurely ended. Once they found out who he was, they’d keep him here indefinitely.
It was several hours later that he heard the door being unlocked. A uniformed officer looked in, then stood back to admit two men in suits.
‘DCI Severance,’ said one of them. ‘Didn’t think I’d see you again any time soon.’
Nick looked back at the man, in astonishment. ‘Likewise,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
The man who had addressed him was Halloran, a Special Branch officer. The two of them had worked together on Nick’s last murder case, which had become a terrorist investigation. Their working relationship had been cut short when Nick had committed several killings of his own and subsequently fled the country.
In just over a year, Halloran hadn’t changed much. His chubby florid face bore its usual irascible expression and it looked as though he’d gained weight. He sat down next to Nick. The second man stayed where he was.
‘This is Mr Freeth,’ said Halloran. ‘He’s with MI6. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
Mr Freeth was a tall man in his forties. His face was lined and austere and his hair was thinning. His blue eyes darted around the cell before coming to rest on Nick. ‘We’d like to know what Max Blackwood’s been up to. Can you help with that?’
‘Max is dead. Killed in Germany, by friends of Dubrovsky’s.’
That slowed Freeth down, but only for a second.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. You see, when Mr Spencer got a call demanding money he got the police involved. Told them all about what happened in Berlin all those years ago. Then the police told Special Branch, who told us. We checked our files and came up with nothing. What the hell did Max think he was doing?’
Nick told them everything. As there wasn’t any more space to sit down, Freeth remained standing. He paced the width of the cell as the story unfolded. When Nick had finished, he came to an abrupt halt.
‘Right, then. Just to summarise. Yulian Dubrovsky, the Russian Minister of Culture, murdered a call girl in Berlin. He recovered the only evidence linking him to the crime and destroyed it. He also recovered other tapes that Max had made. And while he was trying to kill you and your colleagues, he decided to make a little on the side by blackmailing a few people. How am I doing?’
‘You’re getting it.’
‘So,’ continued Freeth, ‘you came here with the intention of stopping him. Permanently. But fortunately for Dubrovsky, the police intervened. And it is fortunate, because it would be very embarrassing for Her Majesty’s Government if a Russian Minister were to be assassinated on British soil. I suggest you give up any idea you may have about getting rid of Mr Dubrovsky. Is that clear enough for you?’
‘Crystal,’ said Nick. ‘As you can see, I’m hardly in a position to get rid of anyone.’
Freeth cast a glance at Halloran. ‘Tell him.’
It was Halloran’s turn. ‘When you left this country you were wanted for the deaths of three people. Two men in Hastings and Sylvie Dajani, outside the British Museum. We were all looking for Ms Dajani at that time, but you found her first and broke her neck. We got the whole thing on CCTV, shop camera across the street.’
Nick opened his mouth to intervene, but Halloran silenced him with a raised palm.
‘When we found an explosive device under the deputy prime minister’s car that same evening and we realised he’d been attending a reception at the British Museum, we put two and two together. Especially when we saw you knock the phone out of Dajani’s hand, on the replay. Anyway, the upshot of all this is you saved the deputy prime minister’s life. On due consideration, all charges against you have been dropped. Including the one we should be levelling at you now, by the way.’
Nick was dumbfounded. ‘You mean I’m free to go?’
‘Yes,’ said Freeth. ‘As far as your hotel to pack your things and then straight to the airport. We want you out of here, Mr Severance.’
‘You know Dubrovsky has several more tapes in his possession. When he identifies the other people on them, he’ll just carry on asking for money.’
‘That’s a nuisance, certainly. Don’t worry, someone from the foreign office will have a quiet word with him. We’ll get those tapes back.’
‘Come on,’ said Halloran. ‘I’ll give you a lift to your hotel.’
Nick stood up. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Freeth.
‘Not at all. Stop harassing Mr Dubrovsky. You’re free to come and go in the UK again, but I suggest you take a little time in Germany to cool off, first.’
‘I will.’
The uniformed officer led them back upstairs, where they parted company with Freeth.
‘You’re a lucky man, Nick,’ said Halloran. He looked relieved to see the back of Freeth.
‘I suppose I am. You know, I won’t get a flight to Berlin until tomorrow, now. Am I granted one night of freedom in my hotel?’
Halloran smiled. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. In fact, I think you owe me a drink. Let’s go back to your hotel and have one.’
After the events of the past few hours, it seemed like the perfect suggestion. Being free in his own country again certainly merited a celebration. The only thing that marred that sentiment was the fact that he hadn’t done what he’d come here to do. Next time, if there was a next time, he’d most definitely pull the trigger.
Chapter 13
He had a window seat on the flight back to Berlin. Once the plane was above the cloud layer and cruising peacefully through a clear sunny sky, he looked out. The carpet of rolling white cumulus passing beneath them stretched away for miles. You could almost believe you were in another realm; one totally removed from the realities of life below those clouds. He wanted to get out and walk on them.
He pulled his mind back to his own current reality. Where did the revelations of last night leave him? If he could live in England again then there was no need to keep working as an agent for the Crimson Dragon Society. But the police force wouldn’t have him back, exonerated or otherwise. The three deaths he’d brought about would exclude him from that fraternity. And there wasn’t anything else he could do apart from police work. He could go into the private security sector of course, there were plenty of ex-coppers in that business. Suddenly having options again was both liberating and confusing. In the short time since fleeing the UK, he’d changed. He’d killed people, and he’d lost people that he cared about. Mariko had told him the assignment had ended with Max’s death and technically she was right. But he didn’t share her detachment. It could only really be over when Marielle was safe and when Dubrovsky was if not dead, at least no longer a threa
t. Only after that could he really think about the future.
He still had the drugs; they were something Dubrovsky still wanted. He wondered if the Russian needed them himself, but was more inclined to think it was Svetlana. Her problem with her movement could have been down to a number of things, but he assumed it must be her. And he wondered what her relationship was with Dubrovsky; daughter perhaps. Definitely someone close. Yes, the drugs still gave him something to negotiate with.
When the plane touched down, it was as though someone had flicked a switch. The tension of the past few days and a virtually sleepless night precipitated a sudden lethargy in Nick. He would have happily stayed seated and gone to sleep for a few hours. He forced himself to his feet once everyone else had filed past and made his way to the exit. He could sleep later, at the hotel. He wondered what Marielle had done in his absence. He’d left her quite suddenly and with little explanation, only saying he’d be back within 48 hours. He hoped she’d had the good sense to keep a low profile while he was away.
An hour later he was back in his hotel room. He slung his case on the bed and began to unpack. He would try and stay awake for as long as possible; it was almost lunchtime and with a meal inside him he might get a second wind. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the adjoining door. He opened it to let Marielle in.
She was in jeans and a t-shirt and looked better than she had a couple of days ago. Her face was still drawn but it had more colour now, and those hypnotic blue eyes had regained some of their sparkle. It didn’t extend to her smile though, which was rather forced.
‘What happened in London? Did you meet the man who was being blackmailed?’
‘Yes, and a few other people. Sit down, I’ll tell you.’
She sat next to him on the bed and listened, without interrupting once. Until he got to the part where he’d been in the cell with Halloran and Freeth.
‘They dropped the charges - what charges are you talking about?’
‘Some people died, it was part of a case I was working on at the time.’
She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she decided not to press it.
‘Would you have shot him?’ she asked.
‘Dubrovsky? Yes, I would.’
‘The world would be a much better place without that man. But he got away.’
‘Diplomatic immunity is a useful thing to have. But they’re going to put pressure on him to hand over the remaining tapes. So I suppose I achieved something.’ He yawned. ‘What have you been up to? Did you stay out of sight?’
‘Mostly. I went out once.’
‘Where?’
‘To talk to some people. I’m going to Moscow.’
He forgot his tiredness. ‘You’re going where?’
Her smile at his astonishment was genuine, this time. ‘I went to see a man I know at Amnesty International. There has been a lot of publicity around Louisa’s group, here in Germany. All over the world, actually. He told me yesterday that the girls have got a Russian lawyer now. They’re all being brought to Moscow for an appeal hearing, four days from now. Amnesty want to keep the pressure up by taking me to Moscow and making a documentary about the case. And I can see Louisa, talk to her…’ She looked at him, eyes gleaming with tears.
Without thinking, he put his arm around her in a reassuring hug. ‘That is good news - I think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean it’s great that you’ll see Louisa. I was just thinking you’ll be right in Dubrovsky’s back yard.’
‘I’ll be surrounded by people pointing cameras at me. He would be mad to do anything.’
‘You’re right. Would you like some company?’
‘You want to come?’
‘Absolutely. Amnesty can point cameras and I can watch your back. And if the appeal is successful, this will all be over. You’ll have your daughter back.’
‘There’s a long way to go before that happens, but yes, that is my hope.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’ve been shut up here for far too long. Can we go out for lunch? I finally feel hungry, again.’
‘Me, too. You can choose where to eat. Get your jacket and let’s get out of here.’
The next two days passed swiftly. Marielle did some preliminary filming in her room with two young Amnesty people. Lothar and Cornelia were twenty-something Berliners who arrived with a video camera, lighting gear and a huge external microphone. They set everything up and began to put together Louisa’s back story, from her mother’s perspective. Nick managed to secure a seat on the same flight to Moscow and then did nothing much other than watch the film-makers at work. He did call Japan, to let Mariko know where he was going. He said nothing to her about his visit to London, or the fact that he was no longer the subject of a murder investigation. He’d gone to England in direct violation of her orders and thought it best to keep that to himself. She seemed amenable to his travel plans.
‘How long will the appeal take?’ she wanted to know.
‘About a week, I think. When we get back I’ll talk to you again, about the future. I’m not sure about going back to India.’
‘You could always come to Japan. We never intended for you to stay in India forever. There are plenty of places you could go, just not England.’
They agreed to make some decisions once he was back from Moscow. He ended the call feeling somewhat duplicitous about what he’d not said. That conversation would keep till later.
On the third day, they flew to Moscow. The hearing was scheduled to start the following morning at the Moscow City Court. They were all staying at a hotel nearby, within walking distance. That evening they met with the lawyer on the case, a Ms Veronika Orlova. Louisa’s group, otherwise known as ‘Beaver Rampage’, had arrived at a holding centre in Moscow just a few hours ago. This was Marielle’s chance to see her daughter before the appeal began.
‘You may take in the camera,’ said Veronika. ‘But you will be monitored by someone who understands German and English. Do not discuss politics.’
Marielle was only too happy to omit politics from the conversation. As they prepared to leave the hotel, Nick cornered Ms Orlova.
‘How optimistic are you about the success of the appeal?’ he asked her.
Veronika was a brown-haired, dark-eyed, well dressed woman in her forties. There was a thoughtful and earnest air about her.
‘We will argue that the charge is politically motivated and has no legal credibility. The group was exercising freedom of expression. The most that could be said is that spray-painting the Kremlin walls constitutes vandalism, not anti-government activity.’
‘Is freedom of expression tolerated here?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Of course it is. We live in a free society. These charges are nothing but a gross overreaction on the part of the authorities. I think our chances are excellent.’
He wasn’t entirely convinced by Veronika, but decided not to ask any more questions for the moment. He couldn’t go with Marielle to the holding centre, so just watched as she, Veronika, Cornelia and Lothar marched down the hall, camera and microphone in tow.
A few hours later, they were back, minus Veronika. The two Amnesty members retired to edit their footage. Marielle came into his room to sit with him for a while.
‘How is Louisa?’ he asked her.
‘Subdued. Thin and pale. She is in a camp about 300 miles east of Moscow. The prisoners are kept in barracks, she said there are about 100 women in her barracks. There is no privacy. They get up every morning at 6am and work all day, sewing uniforms for the emergency services. Then it’s lights out at 9pm. It’s a harsh place.’
‘Are the other girls there, too?’
‘The English girl, Maria, is with Louisa. Natalia and Viktoriya are somewhere else. Some of the inmates have tuberculosis, Nick. There are murderers, drug pushers. It’s a nightmare.’ Marielle looked scared and deflated.
‘Stay strong,’ he told her. ‘Veronika Orlova seems pretty confident about getting them off.�
��
‘She looks like a child. All the joy has gone out of her, she’s small and frightened. She won’t survive if she has to stay in that place.’
‘Try and get some sleep. In that courtroom tomorrow, she needs to feel your strength and your determination. OK?’
Marielle made an attempt at a smile. ‘Sure, I can do that. I haven’t come all this way for nothing. See you in the morning.’
She rested her hand on his shoulder briefly and then got up to return to her own room. When she’d gone he lay back on the bed and wondered just how lenient the courts would be. He could only hope that Veronika’s confidence in the outcome of the appeal was well founded. They’d know, soon enough.
At 10am the next morning, the appeal hearing began. It was an open court, which meant the public, journalists and organisations like Amnesty could attend. Veronika had requested permission to use the video camera in court from the panel of three presiding judges. Her request had been granted. There was a lot of media interest in this case, so they had arrived early to beat the crush and get seats close to the front of the courtroom, where the holding cage was situated.
The four members of Beaver Rampage were brought into court, accompanied by armed guards. They were placed in the holding cage and for a minute there was a minor pandemonium as their supporters shouted encouragement and cameras flashed. The two Russian girls were getting the most attention, returning their friends’ greetings with smiles and waves. Louisa and the English girl, Maria, stood and smiled valiantly for the press. Louisa caught sight of Marielle, who was no more than twenty feet away. Her face lit up, and Nick had his first look at Louisa. He was struck by the resemblance between mother and daughter. Louisa had the same facial structure; high cheekbones, wide shapely mouth and those brilliant blue eyes. Marielle was right, though. She was pale and thin. Fragile would have been a more fitting description. Once the courtroom had settled down and the defendants were seated on the bench inside their glass cage, the appeal judges came in. Veronika was seated alone at a table in front of the judges’ platform. Just to the left of her at another table, sat a man who Nick thought must be acting as the prosecutor. He stood and began addressing the court.
