by Tom Wood
She shrugged. She didn’t want his thanks, only his help.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It’s still early days. Keep listening. Pay attention to everything.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘You already told me that.’
There was frustration and annoyance and condescension in her tone. He didn’t blame her for that.
‘We have a deal,’ he reminded her. It was better than saying he was only helping her so she could help him in return. ‘Did you have a chance to speak to the other woman you arrived with?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘And now I’m the only one left. She’s gone too.’
‘So where is she?’
She shrugged, sad but also numb to the inevitability. ‘Dead.’
‘Not necessarily. Rados considers the women he’s trafficking to be valuable assets. Remember he had three of his men killed and Zoca beaten as punishment for losing two women the night you arrived. He wouldn’t have tolerated losing a third, so if this other woman isn’t here, she must have been moved on somewhere else.’
‘What was she like?’ she asked. ‘I don’t remember.’
He said, ‘Young,’ thinking she wasn’t as young as the blonde girl with blue eyes.
‘Prettiest?’
‘That’s subjective,’ he said, ‘but yes, you could say that.’
‘So he has another brothel. Where the youngest and prettiest women are,’ she said, mimicking his own conclusion.
‘Yes,’ Victor agreed. ‘Somewhere I don’t know about. Somewhere that Rados probably goes to himself. Maybe the one place he will be without his guards in the room.’
‘Maybe he keeps the best girls only for himself.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Victor said. ‘Rados is a man, yes, but a businessman first. He wouldn’t have a harem. It would be a waste of assets. He would rent out his best women for top prices from the wealthiest clients. Somewhere respectable but anonymous.’
She saw a plan emerging. ‘Then you need to get invited there.’
‘Indeed. But first we need to find out where it is.’
‘Why?’
‘So that when I’m invited there with Rados I know the layout and have a plan in place. Maybe even a weapon hidden. I want to be prepared. I need to be, if this is going to work.’
She nodded, understanding the generalities he was talking with, even if the nuances of his profession were beyond her comprehension. He saw the elevation of her mood now that she was a survivor with a plan one step closer to success.
She said, ‘If there is another place like this, I’ll find it for you.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Banik wanted to meet. He required some more face time. It was far from ideal to interrupt preparations at this stage, but Victor was working to his own schedule and Rados didn’t need him for anything at the moment. He was still recovering from the bullet wound. Victor was still on down time.
He didn’t know what Banik wanted, but there were only two subjects that would warrant another meeting. Either there had been a development in the Rados contract that couldn’t be transmitted digitally, or Banik had learned more about the contract on Victor’s head. He envisioned some new intelligence gathered from Leonard Fletcher’s phone or laptop, or by tracing his movements; maybe some electronic fingerprint he had left behind before Victor had convinced him to kill himself.
He caught a flight out of Serbia to Hungary, and from there a train took him to Austria where a taxi ferried him across the border into Germany, before another train took him back into Austria for a flight to Scotland and a domestic flight over the UK brought him to London. In total he was on the move for almost twenty-four hours, but when he arrived at Stansted airport he could almost be sure no one was following him.
He was tired from the travelling but airports always made him alert. He passed through without incident and picked a hotel at random, taking a room on the second floor and falling asleep within minutes of securing the door behind him.
When he woke he sent a coded message to Banik giving him a time and place to meet. Both the hour and venue were Victor’s choice; he was in no mood to tolerate another excuse for Banik to watch his team on company time.
A club in north London was hosting a Romanian music festival. Victor bought a couple of tickets in the daytime, paying cash at the door, and received two plastic wristbands to allow in-and-out access. He performed a reconnoitre of the club and the surrounding area in the afternoon, ready for the meeting with Banik in the evening.
The club was little more than a hall with a stage at one end and a bar at the other, but the acts were seasoned pros. Victor was early, as per protocol, and listened to a band performing with relish and skill. He didn’t watch, because with his ears full of rock music – the band had two drummers – he had to rely on his eyes alone to warn him of potential threats. It wasn’t something he liked to do, but the trade-off was worth it. The club’s patrons were almost all Romanians and almost all under twenty-five. Any professional would stand out as obviously as Victor did, especially a German assassin with greying hair.
The band were as popular as they were talented and the previously subdued crowd were going wild by the end of the set.
A set Victor listened to the whole of, because Banik didn’t show.
Traffic was hell in London, and even with an extensive public transport network, it could still take forever to cross the city – tube strikes, signal problems and suicides could all have delayed Victor’s handler.
When it was obvious Banik wasn’t coming, Victor waited. He waited because protocol said to leave with haste. If this was a set-up, he wasn’t going to do what they expected. The crowded club was a terrible place for anyone to move against him even if he wouldn’t see them coming a mile away. A team would be outside. They would make their move when he was on the street, empty at this time of night apart from Romanian kids smoking outside on the pavement.
He waited because he had taken the precaution of providing himself with a protected exit. He waited until the band had finished their set and returned for a much-appreciated encore. He waited until the encore had finished and they had left the stage for the last time. He waited until the crowd began filing out of the club and slipped away among them.
He stood out, but no sniper could hope to make a shot and no grab team could get anywhere near him. He saw no evidence of either, but stayed within the bulk of the Romanians until he was in the nearest tube station, where he waited again to see if anyone followed.
No one did that he could see, but he spent two hours on the tube, swapping trains and doubling back and waiting on platforms and circling stations before he headed to Heathrow for the next flight out of the country.
He didn’t return to his hotel. He didn’t check his messages. He spent another day on the move – trains and flights and taxis – before he returned to Belgrade. It was a risk returning, of course, but there was as much chance of a message waiting for him from Banik with an innocent explanation as there was of any danger. Victor wasn’t prepared to abandon his preparations without good reason when he had made so much progress.
It was late in the day when he disembarked the plane and made his way through the airport. He saw no one that caused a tremor on his threat radar until he neared the exit.
Victor didn’t like surprises. There were few things he disliked more. He needed to be in control to survive. A surprise demonstrated his inability to orchestrate every facet of his existence. He knew this was impossible, of course, but the less he could control the more at risk he found himself. He’d spotted the woman and read her sign from across the hall, which gave him a little time to decide on his response.
She stood out because her skin had a dark brown tone and her features were sub-Saharan. She was the only non-white person in the terminal as far as Victor could see. Serbia’s only notable immigrant population hailed from China, and even they m
ade up an insignificant percentage of the population.
She also stood out because she held a sign before her stomach.
It was an A4-sized whiteboard with a name written on in thick black marker.
Leonard Fletcher.
FORTY-EIGHT
She ate with the other women, those that had been here for weeks or months, who didn’t talk to her because she was trouble. She would get them in trouble. There was always plenty of nutritious food available to keep them healthy and looking their best. The kid with the bad skin did all the cooking, and though not a chef, he knew his way around a kitchen well enough to create decent meals. She had no appetite these days. She couldn’t remember the last time she had craved food. She ate because it would be noted if she didn’t. Those who didn’t follow the rules were disciplined by Zoca.
There was no conversation around the dinner table. A few words were exchanged, but no one knew anyone else, and everyone was too afraid to say something wrong that might trigger Zoca’s wrath.
She washed and cleaned up afterwards, shooing away anyone who wanted to assist her, so it was just her and the kid.
‘That was nice,’ she said. ‘You’re not bad at cooking.’
He shrugged, awkward and shy.
‘I can teach you a few tricks someday,’ she said. ‘If you like.’
He nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘What kind of question?’
‘A simple question. I’m curious about you, that’s all.’
He frowned, nervous and unsure how to respond.
‘What are you doing here? You seem nice. You seem normal.’
He shrugged. He couldn’t answer.
‘You’re cute too.’
He reddened. ‘What?’
‘You heard me. It’s a shame we couldn’t have met in the normal world. Instead of in here.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
He couldn’t look at her. He found a dish to dry.
‘You should let your hair grow,’ she said. ‘It’ll suit you better.’
He fumbled to put the dish away.
‘Why do you work for Rados?’ she asked. ‘You want to be a gangster? You want to be a tough guy?’
The kid shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
Then he was an idiot, but she kept the thought to herself. ‘Do you like Rados?’
‘He’s the boss.’
‘That’s not the same thing. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone anything. I’m only making conversation. Don’t you get bored only ever talking with Zoca? He can’t be much fun.’
He sniggered to himself.
‘What happened to Zoca’s face? He was ugly anyway, but now…’
He chuckled. ‘Rados was mad at him.’
‘Why? What did he do?’
‘He messed up. He lost Rados money.’
She tried not to think about the reality of what that meant. She had to focus on her objective. ‘The other woman who wasn’t taken for the Slovakians, the one who went elsewhere. She went to the other massage parlour, right?’
He was reluctant to answer.
‘Don’t worry if you don’t know.’
He frowned. ‘This is the only one.’
She nudged him on the arm with a playful elbow. ‘Rados has her for himself?’
‘No, he’s married,’ the young guy said, as if Rados was some upstanding citizen. ‘He keeps some girls for his special parties.’
She acted as if this was inconsequential. ‘Parties are fun. Do you go to them?’
She knew the answer before he shook his head. ‘They’re only for his friends. I’ve never been to one.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she said, pretending to offer sympathy, ‘I’m sure you’ll be invited to one eventually, like Zoca.’
He was quick to shake his head. ‘Zoca isn’t allowed to go either. He only delivers the champagne to the house.’ He smirked again, happy to talk down his superior.
‘How often does Rados have these parties?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
The kid stiffened, and she felt uneasy. She glanced over her shoulder to see Zoca standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long he had been there.
‘Why are you asking all these questions?’ he asked.
‘I’m making conversation. There’s nothing else to do.’
‘You should only have time to work.’
‘When there are no clients?’
Zoca approached and she tensed, uncertain of his intent or even mood. He gestured to the young kid. ‘Get out of here.’ When he was gone, Zoca said, ‘Your new lover came to see you again, I see.’
‘He’s not my lover.’
‘He likes you.’
She exhaled. ‘Well, I don’t like him.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Think what you like.’
He said, ‘I think you’re asking questions at his bidding.’
She did everything she could not to react.
‘I don’t know who he is or what he’s after,’ Zoca said. ‘But don’t make your life any harder than it needs to be. Don’t be fooled by him. Don’t be taken in by his suit and his air of superiority. He doesn’t care about you. He’ll grow bored of you in time. He’ll move on to someone else. However kind he seems to you, he’s not. He’s just like the rest of us.’
‘I know that,’ she said, because she did.
FORTY-NINE
Her skin was a few shades too light to be a native African, so it wasn’t a stretch to make her as British of Afro-Caribbean descent, and therefore one of Banik’s people. MI6. A spy.
Even without Victor’s photographs on file she would have his general description or had maybe even seen a sketch, but she didn’t seem to notice him. He was used to hiding in plain sight. Nothing about his attire or actions made him stand out here. He didn’t slow his pace or adjust his trajectory. He continued his walk towards the exit with his gaze on the middle distance – a business traveller like many around him.
Her woollen overcoat disguised her build but her long neck and solid calves revealed she was slender but fit. Thick tights covered her exposed legs and her shoes were plain and black. Her lack of boots told him that this had been a last-minute assignment. Anyone with time to pack would have brought more appropriate footwear. The coat, shoes and tights were adequate protection from the chill of the UK at this time of year, but not the cold of Serbia.
She had been standing there a long time. The sign, even though it couldn’t have weighed more than a couple of hundred grams, was resting on one of the buttons of her coat, which was still fastened. She hadn’t been waiting for him at arrivals because she hadn’t known which flight he was coming in on. That was something, but he didn’t like that anyone had been able to predict the day of his arrival, even if the trip to London would have provided a big hint.
Why was she here? The easiest way to find out would be to approach and ask, but nothing useful ever came out of taking the easiest option. Victor continued on his way and exited through the automated doors. He stepped through the downward blast of hot air from the overhead heating vents and into frigid air that stung his face and made his eyes water.
Presumably Banik had an urgent message for him, or an explanation as to why he’d missed their meeting in London. He’d had no communication from the MI6 man since that initial request for face time. Then again, he’d been in transit the last twenty-four hours and unable to check his messages, so it was conceivable that Banik had tried to contact him and panicked when Victor hadn’t replied. Either the woman had been sent in the hope of intercepting him, else the message had to be delivered in person and the woman was the only person able, or trustworthy enough, to deliver it. It was possible she was tired not through waiting for a long time but because she was operating on a sleep deficit; Victor couldn’t be sure. Either way, her presence was significant and foretold bad news.
He waited in the cold and dim
afternoon light. He figured he had less than an hour to wait in total. Flights would be arriving for another seven or eight hours, but the woman wouldn’t be standing there the whole time. Not because fatigue would force her to give up – she could time rest breaks between arrivals – but because she wouldn’t be alone.
There would be someone backing her up. If the information was critical enough for Banik to want it delivered in person, it would be too valuable to risk to one courier. The same principle applied if there was something else going on – a set-up in the making; there was no way she would be alone.
Victor hadn’t noted anyone else inside the airport, so they must be outside, waiting in a nearby vehicle, ready to ferry the woman away or rush to her aid. He didn’t know if this second person would swap roles with the woman inside, or if they had already swapped, and he didn’t know which of the two had the message if they were rotating roles. They wouldn’t both know it. Whoever was the more senior would be the messenger.
Victor figured on the sub-hour waiting time because the backup would spot him given enough time. Either they had eyes on the main entrance and taxi line from their vehicle, or they would make regular passes on foot. With people coming and going to disguise his presence, and without a photograph to go on, it would take time for the second person to identify him.
In the end, it took only half an hour. There was a lull between flights and the line for the taxis became thin. It was the woman from inside the airport who approached him. The second pair of eyes must have called her. Victor hadn’t seen them in return, which meant it had to be a skilled operative or someone keeping surveillance with a pair of binoculars so that he had no hope of making them.
She walked towards him at a slow pace to give him plenty of time to see her coming, as if she might catch him unawares otherwise. Victor acted as though he spotted her long after he had.
He allowed her to draw near and turned to face her square on.
She was maybe thirty-five, but it was hard to be sure. She had the firm smoothness of youth but her eyes seemed to have the wisdom of age and experience. Her make-up was minimal, except on her lips, which shone with gloss. Her hair was short and straightened by chemicals. She had no earrings but he saw the scars to her lobes.
