by Rob Aspinall
10
Tradecraft
Late afternoon the next day, we switched to hand-to-hand combat. Grapple holds. Mixed martial arts. Knife fighting.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Philippe said. “Don’t pull any punches.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m a bit handy.”
“Throw everything at me.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I hit him with the kind of moves that put those four Manchester morons in hospital and some of JPAC’s finest in the morgue. Philippe took me down each time on a crash mat that had seen a mile of judo throws. He made it look easy, too, making me more and more angry with myself. Especially when he fought me with one hand behind his back.
The following day was mission tactics and dummy raids. We practised moving and splatting targets placed around the outside of the cabin with paint guns. Philippe said it was all about learning how to move right, making yourself a small target and executing the mission as quickly, cleanly and quietly as possible. He taught me hand signals and code talk, stuff like The chicken’s in the pot and Elvis has left the building. He also showed me how to handle, set and detonate different kinds of explosives using smoke grenades and fake bombs. It all seemed so familiar, yet all so new.
Finally, we moved on to advanced, high-speed driving. Well, as fast as you could go in a clapped-out Polo with dials and gear knobs that came off in your hand.
“If you can do it in this car, on these roads,” Philippe said, “you can do it in anything.”
Compared to the ambulance chase, this was a doddle. And, actually, a whole lot of fun. We did weaving, drifting, handbrake turns, donuts, reversing at speed, you name it. Even Philippe had a half-smile on his face as I flipped the car one-eighty, mid-drive.
“I think we’ve found something you’re good at,” he said, holding tight to the handle above the door.
Ha. Lorna No Skills Walker, a demon behind the wheel. Who would have thought?
With the advanced driving nailed, I learned a little spycraft. I even got to eat and drink like a real, live human in the café of a nearby town. I can’t tell you how good everything tasted after days and days of protein pig vomit. We practised dead drops, pick-pocketing, watching and following people without them noticing. Philippe demonstrated how to lose a tail and how to take discreet photos. We bugged another table and listened in on a guy talking to his wife about getting some cream for his itchy arsehole. I laughed so hard into my straw, my banana milkshake turned to bubbles.
The muscle memory for all this stuff was starting to stick. And by the final day of training, I actually felt in control of my new skills. When Philippe got me in a hold, I reversed it and threw him onto the mat.
Once. Twice. Three times in a row. Chew on that, Vasquez!
When we played camouflage cat and mouse in the woods, I stepped out unseen from behind a tree and put a knife to his throat. When it was time for target practice, I blew double-tap holes a centimetre apart in the chest and head. I even hit one from five hundred metres using a sniper rifle. I also planned the dummy raids, taking the lead and giving the hand signals. I jumped on the boxes and ran up the mountain. Helga, back with a surprise fitness test, only called me Lazy Ass once, which in Helga lingo meant I’d smashed it.
I was even used to the porridge, the stew, the ice-cold baths and the outdoor dig ’n’ dump toilet arrangements. When the lightbulb dinked on and the spoon rattled in the metal cup, I was already outside, limbering up. I was looking toned, too, with a tan from all the Indian-summer hours on the mountain. My bum felt tighter and my calves were nice and defined. Even my skin and hair looked better, thanks to all the mud and ice baths. Someone pass me the hair straighteners. I was ready to take on the world.
11
Financial Crisis
Of course, there was one eentsy weentnsy problemo. Wasn’t there always?
Philippe came back from town with groceries, a newspaper, weapons and mission gear. You know, the usual. He also brought back a look of thunder on his face. He levered a pair of large grey plastic boxes off a portable blue trolley and shoved them up under the window of the cabin. The weapons he’d bought all looked the same to me. Learning to shoot was a lot faster than learning the difference between a Glock, a SIG and a Heckler & Koch. So long as it stopped a JPAC stooge from ripping you a new one, who cared what it was called? I watched on from the top bunk as Philippe ran the rule over his new toys.
“Where did you get all those?” I asked, as he spun out a few inches of cable from a grappling gun, checking its condition.
“A dealer I know,” he said. “Not too far from here.” He flung a folded newspaper at me. “Here.”
“What’s got into you?” I asked.
Philippe clipped the lid on the top box of weapons and moved on to the next. “Nothing, why?”
“You’re even more grumpy than usual.”
Philippe stopped and straightened up. He turned and dumped part of a sniper rifle on the table in the middle of the room.
“JPAC,” he said. “They found my personal accounts. Drained them and shut them down.”
“Ah, you’re shitting me.”
“They tracked down all but one.”
“How much have you got in it?” I asked.
“Not nearly enough.”
“For the next mission or your retirement?”
“For anything. Meds included.”
I leafed through the newspaper, not reading, just giving my hands something to do other than rip out my own tongue in unspeakable frustration. I poked my head over the paper and saw Philippe sitting below on the edge of his bunk, hands over his mouth in thought.
“Hey, but what about your treasure trove in Sweden? It’s worth millions, surely.”
Philippe looked up at me and raised an eyebrow.
“They found that too?” I asked. “Even the cash in the floor?
“They cleaned the whole place out,” Philippe said. “I’ve got the CCTV linked to my phone.”
He took his mobile from his pocket and held it up for me to see. “You can watch if you like.”
“No thanks,” I said, returning to the paper. “Too depressing.”
The cabin fell silent. I wondered what the hell we were gonna do next. No money to fight. Not even enough to run. We’d have to spend the winter on Cold Mountain and live off porridge and water while the world went to shit. Go back to my old meds too.
I decided to read some of the articles in the local newspaper. Take my mind off the bad news. It was full of stories about the warm early-autumn weather, how it could disrupt ski season, and a fascinating piece on the rising price of sausage. I turned the page. A picture of a beautiful blue diamond caught my eye. The story was short and sweet.
“Hey,” I said to Philippe, “how far are we from Montafon?”
“About an hour,” he said. “Why?”
I flung the newspaper back at him. “Check out page seven.”
Philippe leafed on through to the page with the picture of the diamond. Worth millions and recently bought by a Ukrainian billionaire called Vladimir Antonenko, who was hosting a one-time viewing of the piece for some pals at his second home.
Here’s what the article said:
Formerly known as “The Royal Blue Diamond”, the Arina Diamond, renamed after the new owner’s wife, went for $48.2 million at auction in Vienna last week. Once part of the Austrian and Bavarian Crown Jewels, the diamond is a 35.62 carat, vivid blue diamond of flawless clarity. Measuring 25 millimetres in diameter and 8.6 millimetres deep, the Arina Diamond becomes the second most expensive in the world. The winning bid came from Ukrainian oil billionaire, Vladimir Antonenko. Never one to avoid the spotlight, Antonenko plans to hold a one-time viewing party at his Austrian home in the Montafon valley – rumoured to be one of many tax havens – before the diamond is locked away in a secret vault owned by a private Austrian bank. Guests are said to include a select group of family and friends
, including billionaires and business associates such as fellow oligarch, Yevgeny Sokolov.
With questions still hanging over Antonenko as to the nature of his rise to financial power following the breakup of the Soviet Union, the extravagant billionaire has long been connected to a web of organised crime running throughout Eastern Europe and now expanding into the West – rumours he has always strenuously denied.
Some sceptics have suggested that the diamond could be a form of money laundering or tax avoidance. Antonenko, 59, says the diamond is simply a declaration of love – a first anniversary gift for his young wife Arina; wife number four and thirty-three years his junior. The diamond cost more than the $30 million luxury home it will be displayed in, a mountain-lake retreat featuring two swimming pools, a Roman spa, helipad and bulletproof glass throughout. Whatever Antonenko’s motivations behind the bid, expect to see an influx of jet helicopters and supercars in the area over the next few days. The diamond is sure to draw attention, but if you were hoping the owner would open his doors for locals to take a look, prepare to be disappointed. The diamond is set to be flown in from Vienna in secret and protected by the oligarch’s own private armed force, comprising former Russian and Ukrainian special forces, and, it is alleged, a much-feared mafia security detail.
Philippe closed the paper and folded it up. He threw it on the table.
“Well?” I asked.
“You’re going to need something to wear,” he said.
12
Party Dress
The long mountain road to Montafon passed briefly over a short iron bridge painted green, running a hundred yards over a bottomless gorge. Philippe lay in leathers beneath a red Yamaha superbike he’d turned up with at the cabin. He’d promised to take it slow on the way over here, but his idea of slow was my idea of white-knuckle terror ride, koala-gripping around his waist in biker gear of my own, wearing the helmet he wore now. I stood off the road, just before the bridge, a giant boulder behind me and a large, prickly bush in front, browning at the edges. The sun was out in full. A blue sky stretched as far as the neck could crane, not a fluffy white thing in sight, except for the trails of cruising passenger jets thousands of miles overhead.
“Be advised,” Philippe said in my right ear. “Target approaching.”
I peeked through the thorny leaves of the bush. A white, stretch SUV limo glided around the bend of the mountain road, gleaming in the early-afternoon sun. I slipped out of my ridiculous sparkly silver heels, thinking I’d be faster and quieter barefoot. I was so nervous I could have wee’d. The limo came when Philippe said it would. How did he know these things?
“It had better be the right one,” I said.
“It will be,” Philippe said, waving an arm to get the attention of the limo driver.
The limo had no choice but to roll to a stop where the bridge started, the gas-guzzling engine chugging away, no more than ten feet in front of me. The driver got out. A stocky young guy with short, sandy brown hair. Full uniform. Black suit and cap. Shiny shoes, black tie and a crisp white shirt. The driver shouted for Philippe to move. Philippe said he couldn’t. The bike was too heavy. Could he give him a hand? The driver reluctantly walked forward and helped Philippe heave the bike up on two wheels. With Philippe affecting a slight limp, they rolled it forward together, a rucksack on Philippe’s back containing my folded-up bike leathers and unassembled sniper rifle parts.
I skipped out from behind the bush and over to the nearside door towards the back of the limo, the tarmac rough and warm underfoot. As Philippe and the driver steered the bike off to the side of the road at the far end of the bridge, I opened the door of the SUV and climbed inside.
Phew, it was the right one. Girls in skimpy party dresses, no more than seventeen or eighteen. Stunning, all three. And all three wondering what the hell I was doing in there. I closed the door behind me and took a seat. A second or two passed before I realised just what I’d stepped into.
It was a fucking nightclub on wheels! Long, grey leather seats either side with giant pink cushions. Neon blue and purple mood lighting, even coming through the floor. A mirrored ceiling and illuminated mini bars in the middle of the seats, full of champagne, vodka and crystal flute glasses. The inside was huge and dance music played low through hidden speakers. It smelled of alcohol and perfume.
So about the three girls. We had a red, yellow and purple dress. All tiny, tight outfits coupled with outrageous strappy heels. High-class brass. I fitted right in, wearing a backless, sleeveless green number with a high neck that fastened in a collar, threatening to strangle the living daylights out of me. Still, it went well with the new dark-brown hair colour I’d had professionally dyed in for the job.
“Who are you?” Red Dress asked in Russian, a stick-thin leggy blonde with bombshell lips and tits.
“Where did you come from?” asked Yellow Dress, a dusky, dark girl who looked halfway between Latino and Asian. Another Eastern Bloc beaut. In fact, if it was under different circumstances, I’d have said this was my lucky day.
“I got dropped off just now,” I said, easing into Russian without a problem. I saw the driver giving Philippe the thumbs up and walking back to the limo.
“They asked for one more, so I had to play catch-up,” I continued, running a hand through my freshly straightened hair, just about maintained underneath the bike helmet.
Oh yeah, straight hair. Essential to the mission, I’d told Philippe. One set of brand-new straighteners later and my recent big-hair days were over.
Purple Dress was an auburn-haired beauty. I couldn’t tell which was fake, the hair colour or the tan. She poured a fresh glass of champagne from an ice bucket in one of the drinks compartments. She offered the glass to me.
“I’m Irina,” she said. “This is Katya,” she said pointing to Yellow Dress, “and Christina,” pointing to Red Dress.
“I’m Yana,” I said.
“Here, Yana, drink this. You’ll need it.”
I slipped on my heels and took the glass. “Need it for what?”
“What do you think?” asked Christina, the testier of the three.
I took a sip and tried not to hiccup from the bubbles. The driver climbed back into the limo without so much as a look over his shoulder at us. We set off across the bridge and past Philippe, who was pretending to be on his phone, the driver tooting him as we rolled on by.
“So far, so good,” Philippe said in my ear. “Stay on comms.”
The ride to Antonenko’s mega-digs was another twenty minutes, by which time I’d worked my way through a glass of champers and been topped up with another, talking this and that and trying not to gawp at Katya’s awesome boobs.
I wondered who the girls where exactly. Family friends? Models for hire? Maybe they were on the lookout for a mind-bogglingly rich husband who’d buy them an Arina Diamond all of their own. All Philippe had said is that a bunch of girls always got shipped in to these kinds of shindigs. I didn’t want to ask what the deal was and break my cover before we even got in there. So I sipped on my champagne and listened for clues. Mostly, they talked about their families, back in Ukraine. Mothers, fathers, little brothers and big sisters they’d left behind. I wondered if we were actually speaking Russian or Ukrainian. I didn’t have a clue. Only that I knew instinctively what the girls were saying and what to say back. To be honest, I found I understood much better when I didn’t overthink it.
Finally, as we were pulling up to the gates to the front of the property, the subject of the party came up.
“Okay, girls,” said Christina, “game faces on.”
As we topped up our lipstick, checked our hair and fiddled with our dresses, I couldn’t help thinking that the three of them looked a little sad. Each one with a Monday morning face.
“They’d better have some fucking coke,” said Irina.
“The bosses will be there. Of course they will,” said Christina.
“Maybe we should steal that diamond,” Katya said, arranging her cleav
age. “Buy our way out.”
The girls laughed. I giggled too, like I got the joke. But buy their way out? What did Katya mean by that? The limo came to a stop. The music stopped too. We’d reached the home of Vladimir Antonenko.
13
Little White Lines
The limo driver got out and opened the nearside door. I let the other girls get out first and tucked in behind. The driver didn’t bat an eyelid at me. He simply shut the doors and strolled over to where a couple of other limo drivers and helicopter pilots stood, smoking and chatting out front.
Antonenko’s Austrian pile was unbelievable. I mean, seriously, wow. It sat on a huge slice of diagonally sloping land with a mountain face on one side and stunning valley views on the other. Deep green forests. Sparkling blue lakes. Fresh Alpine air. I’d never experienced anything like it.
A giant stone driveway packed with limos and supercars led to a huge, white, ultra-mod mansion; a series of giant white boxes colliding at weird and wonderful angles, with tinted, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Off to the right was a perfectly cut grass lawn with a helipad big enough for two jet helicopters, sitting idle while their owners were inside; to the left, a spotless blue tennis court, shaded by the soaring mountain face. I looked behind me as we trotted up towards the house, our heels clacking over the driveway. We’d come in through a solid set of gates the height of a double-decker bus, a guard hut just behind them, and a couple of guys in dark suits and shades on duty with submachine guns. The long, sweeping lane to the house was made of the same white stone as the driveway, lined by solar light posts and small, preened pine trees.
It may have been the altitude or the bubbles in the champagne, but I felt a little light-headed as we trotted into the house, led by a svelte woman in a dark suit playing hostess. She clicked her fingers and a waiter in traditional black and white ghosted over with a silver tray full of more champagne flutes. She handed them out and told us to mingle. None of us said a word as we wandered around the place, slack-jawed, taking in the eye-spanking wonder of the lobby. There was a cream circular sofa in the middle with twin staircases leading to the upper levels. The floor was buffed limestone and the ceiling a glass roof full of blue sky, forty feet up. Open-plan rooms broke off to the left and right with glass walls that squeezed every inch of beauty out of those Alpine views. A little wander took us into a vast living area with sofas as long as trains and a dining room with a never-ending table full of high-class nibbles. Not to mention a conveyor belt of fresh sushi. Finally, we ended up in a bar. Yup, the guy had his own drinking hole towards the rear of the ground floor, an all-marble affair with cream leather stools and a cocktail-making table behind the bar, chock-full of exotic booze and fresh ingredients.
