Gemini

by Mark Burnell

  'Very classy, Viktor.'

  Sabin apologized to Javinder, who was politeness itself – if there's a sale, I'm happy to wait – and then asked Stephanie if she wanted something to eat. 'Don't be put off by the apparent lack of hygiene. The food is very good here.'

  'I'm not hungry but if they can run to a cup of coffee …'

  'Good idea. The best coffee in Hong Kong.'

  Six floors up in Chungking Mansions? Stephanie doubted that. The café was a less appetizing prospect than any of those she'd seen in the arcade during her previous visit. On that occasion she'd confronted Savic for the first time. She wondered whether there was a connection, or whether it was coincidence. And when she considered that, she tried to imagine what the oversight might be.

  'The stones aren't for Irina, are they?'

  Sabin stayed mute.

  'The last time I saw you, Viktor, you were entertaining Irina and Katya. You remember, don't you?'

  Amazingly, his face began to turn redder than it already was. But then the recollection appeared to mellow into fond remembrance. 'How could I forget? Although I have to admit that I had forgotten that you interrupted us.'

  'I wish I had too.'

  'Don't be cruel. Why are you here?'

  'The list, Viktor. The one Anthony Yu passed to Carleen Attwater.'

  'Ah.'

  'Anthony Yu didn't know who you were. All that linked you was your choice of courier. You could have hired anyone. You could have picked a neutral. Then I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be in trouble. Why Irina?'

  He peeled the wrapper off a pack of Viceroy. 'Laziness, I guess.'

  'Come on.'

  'I mean it. And if that disappoints you, I'm sorry.'

  He lit the cigarette. Stephanie's coffee arrived. In the kitchen there was an argument, raised voices just audible over the grind of a pointless extractor fan.

  'Who is it, Viktor?'

  He looked her straight in the eye. 'Mostovoi.'

  'That doesn't make sense.'

  'Don't ask me to explain it to you. I don't know the details. Just the name.'

  Stephanie cast her mind back to Marrakech. Mostovoi in the Mellah but, before that, Savic masquerading as Lars Andersen at the villa in Palmeraie. They were close. Or supposed to be.

  'What's Mostovoi doing, Viktor?'

  He shrugged. 'Making a move.'

  'Farhad Shatri and Carleen Attwater make sense. They have a vested interest in seeing harm come to Savic.'

  'True.'

  'What about you?'

  Sabin looked offended. 'Absolutely not.'

  'So why did he pick you?'

  'We know each other. I seem to remember telling you that before.'

  'So you're doing it for friendship, then?'

  'Of course not. I'm doing it for the same reason I do everything. I'm doing it for money.'

  There was a swish as the bead curtain parted again. A small man entered the café, wearing a grey short-sleeved shirt, filthy trainers and nylon black slacks. In his right hand there was a Beretta. He was followed by a second man, carrying a Czech Skorpion. There were nine of them. They fanned out because they had to; there wasn't enough space for them to congregate on the customers' side of the counter. Seven of them were Chinese. Stephanie noticed that two of them had thick chopping scars on their forearms.

  The Indians who ran the café stuck their hands in the air and said nothing. The Indian in the avocado suit attempted to scrape the rubies off the table until one of the gunmen stuck the tip of a LA France M16K submachine gun behind his ear. Then he raised his hands.

  The tenth man to enter looked like a clean-cut teenager: small, round glasses, the latest Nike running shoes, Calvin Klein jeans, a white Lacoste tennis shirt. There was a nylon duffel bag over his right shoulder. The last man was Vojislav Brankovic.

  In the sickly green light of the café his skin looked paler than ever. His blond hair was in need of a brush and he was sweating as furiously as Sabin. Stephanie could see how much he hated it. It was hard to imagine anywhere on earth more distant from rural Bosnia than Chungking Mansions.

  It was Stephanie who wanted to do something but it was Petra who knew that six of the nine guns were pointing at her. It was Petra who kept still.

  Brankovic walked up to her and said, 'Milan sends his love.'

  The first blow knocked her out of her seat, catching her on the right cheek and eye-socket. In two strides Brankovic was at her side, his boot thumping into her stomach, punching the breath from her lungs. She curled into a ball but Brankovic was too experienced for that. He grabbed her by the hair, hauled her up and drove his knee at her, aiming for the face, catching the collarbone instead.

  She did her best to protect herself and nothing to provoke him, knowing that was the best she could do. For a while he devoted himself to her. Between strikes, Stephanie wondered if he'd ever devoted himself quite so fully to any woman. When he'd had enough, one man was assigned to the bead curtain. The two cooks, the server and the Indian in the avocado suit were corralled into the next-door unit, which was vacant. Two men watched over them.

  Brankovic left the rubies on the table. 'Troy, open the bag.'

  Troy, the clean-cut teenager, opened the duffel bag, took out her Sony Vaio, then emptied the rest of the contents onto one of the other tables: cash, a few toiletries, her passport, the Siemens phone.

  Stephanie and Sabin were dragged through the kitchen. It was an inferno. The two gas-rings were no longer on but since there was almost no ventilation – the air-extractor being almost cosmetic – the temperature was excruciating. The rings were fed by a rubber pipe that disappeared through a ragged hole in the wall. Opposite the cooker and microwave was a sink that hadn't been cleaned in ages and a humming fridge. The space between was so narrow, one person could barely pass by another. Especially if they were the size of Viktor Sabin. There was an ultraviolet fly lamp in one corner. The collecting tray was full.

  They ended up in the store-room at the back. Brankovic switched on the light. One of the men brought a chair from one of the tables at the front. Stephanie looked along the shelves: cans of vegetable oil, small sacks of rice and flour, spices, dried vegetables, pastes.

  There were two men behind her, both armed. There was blood in her mouth and seeping from her nose. Her stomach and ribs ached, her legs trembled. Brankovic pressed Sabin into the chair so that he was facing Stephanie, the Bosnian Serb's mighty hands weighing heavily on his shoulders. Not for the first time, Stephanie thought Sabin might be about to have a heart attack.

  Brankovic said, 'Who is selling Gemini?'

  He was looking at Stephanie but it was Sabin who answered. 'Mostovoi.'

  Brankovic continued to look at her. 'Maxim Mostovoi?'

  'Yes,' gasped Sabin.

  'Is it true?' he asked Stephanie.

  She shrugged. 'Sure.'

  Just casual enough to cast doubt. Brankovic was good with pain but not with questions. He glared at her, the menace flaring in his eyes, just as it had with Sevdie in the apartment on Hobrechtstrasse.

  'Is it Mostovoi?'

  'That's what I said, wasn't it?'

  Savic's driver, Figueiredo, the Macanese, pulled a knife from the waistband of his trousers. The handle was swathed in a leather strap, the blade a tapering crescent.

  The remains of Sabin's fragile nerve failed. 'It's Mostovoi. I swear it! It's Mostovoi!'

  Figueiredo grabbed a handful of Sabin's polo shirt, then cut it, vertically, shredding it. In effect, skinning him as he watched, the blade never quite touching him. Sabin looked as though he was about to vomit. Stephanie was sure his heart wouldn't resist for much longer.

  Figueiredo took three strips of the material and used them to secure Sabin's wrists behind the back of the chair. Brankovic then moved behind Sabin.

  He said to her, 'Right from the start I knew you were trouble. I could smell it on you. Milan, though, he smelt something else. Something that went right to his head. The bitch on heat drivi
ng him crazy. But he's back to normal now, thinking straight.'

  Brankovic reached inside his shirt, pulled out the spoon on the chain and lifted it clear of his head. He smiled at her – the first time she'd seen him do that – and then cast Sabin in a ferocious head-lock, the biceps swelling horribly, the sinews rippling along his forearm. Sabin gasped, his eyes bobbing with fear, completely restricted by the grip. The sweat was rolling off Sabin's chin onto Brankovic's arm.

  'Like tendon cutting, this is a Balkan speciality.'

  Very slowly, he dug the spoon into the edge of Sabin's right eye. Sabin screamed, then froze, not daring to move, the impulse to protect the eye greater than the pain. Or the fear. Stephanie felt sick.

  The Spoon revealed. He wasn't a novice, she could see that; he was itching to go deeper, to plunge the spoon into the socket, to gouge the eye out.

  'Okay. It's not Mostovoi.'

  Through clenched teeth he muttered, 'I don't want to know who it isn't. Tell me who it is.'

  'Simic.'

  No matter how discordant, the name struck a chord. 'Goran?'

  Stephanie nodded. 'Or Aslan Shardov.'

  'His Gemini name.'

  'That's the name Farhad Shatri knows him by.'

  Brankovic's grip of Sabin remained unyielding. 'I don't believe you.'

  'You don't have to. I have evidence.'

  'Where?'

  'On my computer.'

  Brankovic stared at her, not blinking. 'Explosive evidence, I expect.'

  Petra matched his look. 'Shatri's made a down-payment to Simic. I've got bank records, transaction details. I've got two phone transcripts. I've got …'

  'Why would you have such things?'

  She looked away, prompting him to repeat the question more forcefully.

  'Because I have a buyer.'

  It took Brankovic time to work it out. 'That's what this is about? Money?'

  'Don't be naïve. It's always about money.'

  'Not with us.'

  'Not true. Milan opened up Gemini to those who could pay.'

  'He opened it up to those who could help.'

  'Who could help his interests. That still translates into money. It's the same with Simic. He's processing Afghan opium in Kazakhstan and running it down to the Caspian. Shatri has connections there. They're making money. You should see the palace Simic is building for himself in Almaty. You should see his girl friend. It's all perfect. Except for his past. Except for Milan. Except for Gemini.'

  'You're lying,' he growled, giving Sabin's eyeball a sharp prod.

  The Russian yelped.

  Stephanie focused on Brankovic's eyes. 'Why don't you get your geek to have a look?'

  'And blow us all to pieces?'

  'I'll deactivate the tamper.'

  'Stay there. Tell him how to do it.'

  'He can't.' She held up her right hand. 'It's palm recognition.'

  'Bullshit.'

  'Fine. Give it a go.'

  Brankovic hesitated, then released Sabin's head and said to her, 'If you screw this up I'll take out your eyes and make you eat them. Then I'll kill you.'

  As the two Chinese walked her through to the front of the café, she could almost feel the invisible thread that ran from the tips of their guns to the centre of her spine. Troy was sitting at the table, in front of the laptop.

  Pressing the power button, she said, 'Just as well you're not the curious type.'

  He looked at her blankly. Brankovic was behind the counter, watching. Stephanie nudged Troy out of his seat and waited for the screen to materialize. Then she pressed a dozen keys, including three simultaneous depressions of two keys, one of which deactivated the tamper. Afterwards she pressed her palm to the screen, an entirely cosmetic touch for Brankovic.

  On the screen a password box formed, the cursor winking. She punched three random letters, then 20, then another three random letters and hit 'enter'.

  'It's all yours.'

  'Move away,' Brankovic ordered her, before she could delete anything.

  She got up and stepped aside.

  'Come back here.'

  She moved behind the counter.

  'Where's the evidence?'

  'Hidden in the system files. The file name has a two letter designation. KP. For Kosovo Polje.'

  Brankovic wasn't amused. He turned his back on her. Which was when she dropped to the floor and pulled herself into a ball. In Berlin she'd told Savic about the tamper device to help win his trust.

  She'd never mentioned the timer.

  For a split second it occurs to me that I've miscalculated. Or that the device is faulty.

  Then it goes off

  I've seen how little explosive goes beneath the keyboard. But the force of it is stunning. A moment later a second explosion rips through the café: the gas cylinder serving the rings in the kitchen. The solid air punches into me, driven by a pulse of scorching heat. It feels as though it's coming from below, the shockwave bursting through the floor.

  For several seconds I'm too dazed to do anything. There's blood everywhere. It could be mine. It could be someone else's. I'm caked in dirt. All I can see is debris, dust and smoke, punctuated by tongues of fire. The ringing in my ears is painfully loud. When I breathe, I cough.

  Petra rises to the surface and takes charge of me.

  Viktor Sabin is lying motionless on his front. Beside him there's a hole in the floor. It's dark, almost every light blown. I can just make out Brankovic's feet, the soles of his boots twitching. Two partition walls have completely vanished. Part of the ceiling has come down. An overhead light has fused, sparks dripping off the connection, black smoke swirling around the plastic box. The counter that stood between me and the computer has disintegrated. I can just see one of Troy's feet protruding from a mound of rubble, smoke curling off it.

  My right hand is a bloody mess, a grid of cuts across the palm. Much of the skin over the back has been scraped away. I get to my feet. There's a sharp pain in my left hip and I have no left shoe. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool. I wish my nose was. Blood is dribbling over my mouth and down my shirt. I lurch towards a source of dim light.

  Got to get out. Got to lie low. Got to recuperate and reorganize.

  In the corridor people are scurrying in both directions, some running for their lives, some carrying what they can: a half-made suit, a cash-box, a glow-in-the-dark Madonna and Child, a widescreen TV.

  Figueiredo is on his hands and knees, spluttering. I grab the Russian PSM from his side. Behind me Brankovic shouts, the sound peculiarly distorted to me. I look over my shoulder at the empty space where his twitching boots once were.

  The stairs are to my right but there are two armed Chinese blocking my path. They haven't seen me yet. I go left. It's even darker down here. Behind me shouts cut through the ringing. Then gunfire, some of it tearing away a loose panel. A stray bullet pierces a water-pipe, water gushing down one wall. Thick black smoke snakes along the corridor, hugging the ceiling.

  A single shot whistles over my right shoulder, past my right ear, and smacks into a door. I spin round, drop to a crouch and fire back. Three bullets. At least one of them connects; I feel the thump and hear the gasp.

  I try the nearest door: an empty waiting area. Through the next door, into an acupuncturist's treatment room, the bench vacant, the needles laid out on trays. Through another door, into another passage. I can't stop. I don't have a clue where I'm going. It's like a dream, where you run as hard as you can but you barely move. No matter what you do you can't escape. Left and right, in and out of darkness, my body screaming, my senses scattered.

  Breathless, I lurch through an open door into a small workshop. The owner, an elderly Chinese man, is filling a leather holdall with ivory carvings. On the work-bench, there are magnification glasses, small chisels, a screwdriver; a saw, an array of fine brushes, six pieces of ivory.

  I kick the door shut. He yells at me to get out. I point the PSM at him and put a finger to my lips. The rin
ging is subsiding a little and I'm just able to hear my pursuers charge past the door. We wait in silence. I try to catch my breath, then kick off my right shoe; one is worse than none.

  I look around. There's another door on the opposite side of the workshop. But before I can try it, the men are back. They're not running. They're creeping, trying to be quiet. I turn to the man and motion him to the floor with my hand. He sinks to his knees and crawls under the work-bench, mouthing silent curses at me.

  The door gets kicked in. Three men charge into the room. The lack of space works to my advantage. I shoot the first one before he can fire. The other two run into him, the second one discharging his gun accidentally into the man I've already shot. I fire once more before the PSM is knocked out of my hand by the second man, who lunges at me. I flatten myself against the wall, taking him with a blow to the throat. Choking, he falls on top of the first. The third skips over both of them, as I retreat. He unleashes a series of blows which I parry with battered arms. The second one is rising. I duck and swivel, lash out with my injured left foot, driving the heel into the third's mouth. He spirals backwards. I'm exposed long enough to allow the second to land a massive blow to my bruised ribs. As I crumple, he throws a kick. I do just enough to avoid the full force. Stumbling, I scoop a chisel off the workbench. He doesn't see it and throws himself at me. Coming in from the side, I drive the chisel between his ribs to the depth of the handle.

  He hisses through his teeth as though he is, quite literally, deflating. I grab his Steyr TMP instead of my Russian PSM – it has an eight-round magazine and I've already fired five – then plunge through the far door into a lightless passage. There's another door at the end. I can't see a handle but I find a lock and shoot it, then kick the door with my right foot. It flies open at the second attempt.

  Another cramped workshop, this one illuminated by dim ultraviolet. The owner has fled. And it's a great shame he didn't take his stock with him.

  I'm surrounded by snakes and spiders. In cases of glass, of many sizes, stacked from floor to ceiling, on free-standing aluminium shelves. It's intensely hot and humid, the air rich with eucalyptus.

  Some of the snakes are solitary, others are two or three to a case. The spiders are social, small or large, patterned or plain, or just hairy, there are dozens per case. The shock of my entry has excited them. In the eerie purple half-light, entire cases of glass are alive, flickering legs and trembling bodies. The room is quivering around me. Even though my ears are still ringing I can hear the collective rustle, and it's the most sinister sound I've ever heard. I look straight ahead, walk to the workshop's front door and open it.