Fire Hawk

by Geoffrey Archer

  Sam’s hand hovered by the stop button. He’d always felt uncomfortable at finding this stuff stimulating. There’d been plenty of it in the Navy, the best tapes to be found in the chief petty officers’ mess.

  The camera cut back to the girl’s face, her eyes closing in feigned ecstasy as the man shot his load. When he pulled back, she let his ejaculate dribble from her lips, then hooked it back in with her tongue.

  Enough, thought Sam. Quite enough. He reached for the stop button.

  But he didn’t press it. Because the scene had changed again and what he saw now sent a shiver down his spine.

  The girl was on her back this time, writhing on a bed, with the man kneeling in the fork of her widely spread legs. There was a mark on her stomach. A mark that looked alarmingly familiar.

  ‘Shit,’ Sam breathed, remembering.

  The man thrust into her, supporting himself so the camera could linger on her breasts which were shiny with oil. She rubbed them with her hands, fingering the nipples. Thrusting buttocks, close-ups of faces, hers and his; the camera changed angles every few seconds. Then to a side view as the man withdrew for the cum shot.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  The eye-line of the man now – looking down at her scut of pubic hair as he jerked off onto her belly.

  A belly with a mark on it.

  A mark that was a tattoo.

  The camera zoomed in. He hit pause.

  Suddenly his world fell apart. The tattoo filled a corner of the screen.

  It was a globe. A blue globe with a blob of red for land, and beneath it the letter B.

  The same damned mark in almost the same damned place that he’d seen on Chrissie’s yellowing body in that miserable mortuary at Akrotiri.

  34

  BY THE TIME Oksana rang on the bell to be let back in, Sam was starting to get his head straight again.

  He went into the yard and opened the front gate. Oksana bustled in, laden with two brown paper bags full of supplies. He didn’t want conversation at this point and encouraged her into the kitchen to make coffee.

  Rybkin’s warning rang in his ears like a dinner gong. The more questions you ask about her, the more you will hear things you don’t like. But he had to ask. Particularly now. Had to know what the fuck this was all about.

  The smell of brewing coffee caused a stirring in the bed. Taras raised himself on an elbow and frowned, trying to recall who the stranger was sitting on his sofa.

  Sam stood up, grabbed the video-cassette from the player and took it across to the bed.

  ‘Where’d this come from?’ he demanded in the best Russian he could muster.

  The Ukrainian’s frown darkened as he recognised the tape, then he waved a dismissive hand and lay down again.

  Oksana emerged from the kitchen carrying a plastic mug of coffee and a plate of bread and sausage with a pickled cucumber on the side.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, nodding at the video-cassette.

  ‘A tape,’ he replied evasively. ‘I need Taras to tell me where it came from.’

  She rattled off the query but Taras remained dismissive.

  ‘Why you want to know?’ she asked Sam, her curiosity aroused. ‘What is this tape?’

  ‘It’s pornography, Ksucha. Sex . . .’

  Her eyebrows arched as if seeing him in a new light. ‘You boys having some fun while I out shopping, yes?’

  ‘Fun?’ he croaked. ‘Not exactly, Ksucha.’ He was struggling to think of a way to explain his interest in it without showing it to her. ‘There’s a girl on the tape . . .’

  ‘Well, I hope so,’ she answered, her voice heavy with irony. ‘If it just picture of boy then I begin worry about my cousin.’

  ‘Look. Ksucha. This woman on the tape, she has a mark on her body. A tattoo. You know what I mean by that?’

  Oksana nodded, the humour draining from her eyes. ‘Of course. Many men have tattoo. And now become fashion for young girls, so Luba tell me.’

  ‘Yes, but this one’s an unusual tattoo,’ he went on. ‘I’ve seen it before. On the body of a woman who was murdered.’

  Oksana recoiled. Something of Sam’s past was emerging and it scared her.

  ‘I think better you show me,’ she told him. ‘And show Taras – maybe he know what it mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure you should be seeing this sort of stuff.’

  ‘Oh Sam, you so gentleman,’ she mocked, to conceal her unease. ‘Is all right. I promise not be shocked. Taras . . .’ She explained to her cousin what this was about. He protested, but she overrode him. ‘Put tape in machine,’ she said to Sam.

  Before he’d removed it from the player, the VCR had spooled back a few seconds. When he pressed play now, the picture was of the man masturbating.

  ‘Oh!’ Oksana stifled a gasp. ‘Oh, that too big, I think,’ she added, trying to sound worldly. ‘Not comfortable for woman.’ She flushed bright red.

  Sam froze the picture on the close-up of the tattoo. Taras had pulled on some black trousers by now and stood in front of the screen, clutching the coffee that Oksana had brought in for Sam.

  ‘You see that globe and the letter B under it?’ Sam touched the screen. ‘It has to mean something.’

  Taras turned away. He flopped onto the sofa, coughing like a miner. He put the coffee mug on the bare wooden floor between his feet and rubbed his temples, then began feeling down the sides of the upholstery for a cigarette packet. Oksana rounded on him, demanding that he reveal whether or not he knew what the tattoo meant.

  ‘Nyet,’ he coughed. He found the half-smoked butt of a cigarette on the floor and lit it with a plastic gas lighter.

  Sam didn’t believe his denial. ‘Ask him if the tape was made in Odessa.’

  She did. Taras chewed the tobacco smoke as if it were stringy meat. When he spoke, his words had the texture of wet gravel.

  ‘Yes. He think so,’ said Oksana. ‘He say Odessa has big film studio, but now no money for normal work so they make sex video.’

  ‘And who owns the studio? Who’s making these tapes? Mafiya?’

  ‘Of course. All such biznis is Mafiya,’ Oksana confirmed.

  ‘Yes, but ask Taras. Which Mafiya? I need names.’

  Taras ignored his cousin’s query.

  ‘He not want to talk about this,’ she explained. ‘Because of what happen to him. You understand?’

  ‘Tell him he has to talk,’ Sam snapped. ‘Tell him thousands of innocent people are about to be murdered. Explaining this damned tattoo might even save them!’

  Oksana gaped. ‘What you talking about?’

  It was nonsense. The answer he sought was to solve a personal riddle, not the anthrax case. But if it kicked Taras out of his stupor, all well and good.

  ‘It’s connected with the VR-6 being sold to Dima Grimov. Tell him.’

  She looked extremely doubtful as to how that could be, but did as he asked. Suddenly Taras rose up from the sofa, spreading his feet wide to steady himself. He prodded at Sam’s chest, growling out a string of questions.

  ‘You understand what he ask?’ Oksana whispered.

  ‘Wants to know who I am and what I’m doing in Odessa?’

  ‘Yes. What I tell him?’

  ‘Whatever you have to tell him to persuade him to talk.’

  He snatched up the plate of food that she’d prepared for him and took it back into the kitchen, leaving her to sort her cousin out. There were two more mugs of coffee already poured. He grabbed one and drank it. The liquid was thick and strong. He wolfed down the bread and garlicky sausage. Twelve hours since his last meal. The dialogue in the main room was hard for him to follow, half in Russian and half in Ukrainian.

  When he’d finished the food and the coffee he waited for a while until the silences lengthened before stepping back in there. He offered a mug to Oksana.

  ‘Thought you could do with this.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Taras looked away from her but she prodded him.

 
‘Okay,’ he said eventually, in English, staring at the floor.

  Oksana sighed.

  ‘He will tell you all he know about Mafiya in Odessa,’ she announced simply. ‘He say maybe he not have to be afraid of them any more, because they already do everything bad to him. Only new thing they can do is kill him and he say he don’t care about that.’

  This readiness to die, Sam wondered – a family affectation or a national one?

  Taras began to talk in a low, weary monotone. Oksana let him ramble on, assuming he would pause for her to translate. When he didn’t, she began to interrupt.

  ‘In Odessa, Taras explain, big new crime gangs first appear in about nineteen-eighty,’ she translated, ‘at time when private business starting in Soviet Union, but still illegal. In Odessa, because of port, many businesses trade with foreign currency – dollar, German mark – but hard currency was forbidden here then. Very strict law. So, some criminals they realise they can make money from this. They say to businessmen, pay us some dollar, otherwise we tell Militsia and KGB what you doing with foreign currency.’

  ‘Blackmail,’ Sam prompted.

  ‘Yes. Blackmail. And businessmen they can do nothing, because if they complain to police about what criminals do to them, then they get labour camp.’

  ‘Easy money.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She prompted Taras to continue.

  ‘He say Odessa criminals became into two strong gangs. Big enemy each other. One called “Repin” gang because leader was very good artist. You know of Russian painter Ilya Efimovich Repin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nineteenth century. Great realist painter before revolution,’ Oksana explained, ‘Friend Tolstoy and Mussorgski. Maybe like your painter Constable from Essex.’

  Taras continued his history.

  ‘At end of nineteen-eighties was big gang fight in Odessa. Like war. All big boss men in Repin group were killed.’

  Taras suddenly spat out the name Gorbachev, following it with a torrent of abuse.

  ‘Taras talk about what Gorbachev do to economy of Soviet Union. Gorbachev call it reform, but it more like robbery. He allow criminals to take everything. Oil, chemical, metal, machine – Ukraine was rich in such things. But criminals and party bosses they buy all this from state for nothing, then sell to foreign country for much, much money.’

  ‘I know all that, Ksucha,’ Sam nudged. ‘But what of today? What’s that damned tattoo mean?’

  ‘Sure. Sure. I ask Taras.’ She prompted her cousin to speed up.

  ‘Okay,’ she went on, after another torrent of slurred and monotonous Russian, ‘He talk about situation today. Taras say now maybe there are fifteen gangs in Odessa that they call Mafiya. All leaders are survivors of that gang war six, seven years ago. Mafiya now control everything which make money in Odessa. One gang control petrol. Each time you fill car, you pay money to Mafiya. Other gang control bank, casino, restaurant, selling vodka, cigarette, car – anything people need and can pay for. Much fighting between gangs. Many schpana and gangstery get killed. And journalists too are shot dead if they write truth about Mafiya.

  ‘And Militsia do little to stop them. Why? First reason. Officer in Militsia get paid very little. So, many police take bribe from gangs. Second reason. Mafiya have more guns than Militsia, faster car, better radio – and . . .’ She paused for effect. ‘Blat. Connections with government. You see, many gang leader they member parliament now, and law in Ukraine say if you are in Rada you cannot be prosecute. So they have protection from top. Right at top of government. Understand?’

  ‘Totally.’ He knew most of this stuff. ‘But what about the gang making these porn videos? Who the hell are they?’

  Oksana pressed the question on Taras. Her cousin sighed and replied with a slight shake of the head.

  ‘He not absolute sure,’ she explained. ‘He say tattoos are tradition with all gangs. Many gang, many design. But this tattoo he think belong to Mafiya which have strong connection in Russia, America, Israel – many countries in world. That why tattoo is look like world.’

  ‘But that damned letter B? What does that stand for?’

  She checked with Taras. As he answered her jaw dropped.

  ‘Sam! You see, that letter you call B . . .’ She shook her head.

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  He knew what she was about to say. How stupid. How incredibly bloody stupid of him.

  ‘Not Roman alphabet,’ she whispered.

  ‘No . . .’

  Of course it bloody wasn’t.

  ‘Is Russian Cyrillic alphabet. Letter is like V.’

  ‘Yes,’ he wheezed.

  ‘And Taras think it stand for Voroninskaya.’

  He turned away from her, covering his mouth with his hands. The hurricane was back in his head. Chrissie had borne the stamp of Grimov’s gang. Branded like a steer, a mark to show who owned her. The suspicions lurking in the darkest corners of his mind now came thundering out.

  ‘No!’ he croaked. It simply wasn’t possible. He tried to beat the suspicions back.

  Oksana saw how shaken he was and her heart went out to him. She had no understanding of what this was about, except to believe that the tattoo was a personal matter, nothing to do with the VR-6 drone. She got to her feet and put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Sam?’

  His mind was back in Cyprus. When had they tattooed her? On the night they killed her? All part of some sadosexual ritual demanded by Dima Grimov, which she’d gone along with in the hope it would enable her to extract secrets from him?

  ‘Please Sam,’ Oksana begged, cutting through to him. ‘Can you explain me? Why this tattoo it matter so much to you?’

  He turned round. Her eyes were almost turquoise now, moist eyes full of concern. Her mouth had become a red bud. He shook his head. He couldn’t possibly tell her about Chrissie.

  The danger of what lay ahead hit him anew. He’d brought Oksana this far but it would be criminal to involve her further. And yet what else could he do? He needed her still, needed her language and her knowledge. Needed her company so he wouldn’t stand out.

  He was so close now. So close to the answers he sought. He knew what he had to do next. Knew too that he couldn’t do it alone.

  ‘Ksucha,’ he whispered, taking her hands in his. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me . . .’

  This was wrong, he told himself. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But there was no other way.

  35

  Shortly before midday

  THE BUS THAT took them to the centre of Odessa was packed solid. Oksana stood pressed against the man into whose hands she’d as good as entrusted her life, close enough to smell the animal tang of his body. She’d decided to shut her mind to the potential consequences of what was happening.

  Throughout the journey she’d watched him staring through the window, knowing that those brooding eyes of his were seeing nothing of what they passed. She’d tried to concentrate her own mind in an effort to see into his, and to understand why he had such extraordinary faith. In her country no man would have the courage or the foolhardiness to confront the Mafiya in the way he was planning.

  She felt mesmerised by this Englishman. He was an agent for the esteemed MI6 of James Bond, a man, she imagined, whose courage and judgement must have been honed by brushes with danger all over the globe. To have been enlisted by such a person, a man who believed in a concept of justice that Ukrainian people could only dream of, had brought a trace of purposefulness into her life where there’d been none before. And if it proved to be brief or illusory, then so be it. But while it was there she would cling to it, because to be on this man’s side against the forces of evil was irresistible, however terrifying.

  She knew she was being absurdly fanciful. But why not? Her life had become a drudge. She felt a euphoria being with him – even if in reality it was hysteria. She imagined it might even have been this way for the disciples of Christ. A belief that no harm would come to her, because no har
m could come to him.

  She kept her eyes on his face, drawing on the strength of it, fired up by its power. The feelings she was experiencing from his presence were increasingly sexual and she knew why. Back in that revolting room in Moldovanka, Taras had gone out for nearly an hour to track down a friend who knew more about the Voroninskaya organisation than he did, and Sam Packer had lain on the sofa with his eyes closed. Before long he’d been snoring and she’d taken her chance to play the videotape again, watching it from the beginning. She’d never seen such explicit images of submissive sexuality before and had found them disturbingly exciting.

  The bus lurched to a halt a block away from the Opera. The early mist had fully cleared, leaving a blue sky and bright sunshine which bathed them in a warmth more appropriate to late summer than autumn.

  Sam eyed the bustling crowds warily, subconsciously searching for the scarred face of Viktor Rybkin. When he found the man – as he felt sure he would – it was important that he was alone, not with Dima Grimov, if there were to be any chance at all of tweaking his conscience. From everything he’d learned about Grimov himself, that man had none.

  Taras had served him well in the end, pulling himself together enough to find out the address from which the Voroninskaya ran their businesses – a renovated block on the vulitsya Artema. Dima Grimov was definitely known to operate from there, and wherever Grimov lodged so, Sam assumed, would Viktor Rybkin.

  Sam had put on the light check suit and an open-necked blue shirt for the ‘business’ meeting he was planning, but the air was so warm he took the jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. Oksana had changed into a pink cotton blouse embroidered with a relief of flowers and a smooth, slate-grey skirt that ended just above her knees, in order to look like the personal assistant she was pretending to be. She’d brushed a shine into her hair and sprayed herself with an eau de parfum that smelled appealingly of rose petals. From a thin strap over her shoulder hung a small bag in artificial leather. She hooked her hand through his arm again, her extra-firm grip on his biceps the only sign of her nervousness.