Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  He had enough contacts to avoid arrest and extradition to the UK while in Serbia, but he would need more cash if that situation was to stay permanent. He cursed Novak for causing him all those problems.

  All he had now was the stashed jewellery that he’d secreted in a rural hide in Switzerland after one of the heists he and some others had pulled just before his arrest. The gems and watches he’d buried would be able to set him up in a new venture; he just needed the dust to settle before he could travel to retrieve them. He smiled; once he had the money then there would be many good business opportunities coming his way.

  Arriving back at his hotel, he yawned and checked his watch; it was just after midnight as he walked through the glazed doors into the grimy and dowdy reception area and nodded at the concierge, a grey-haired, yellow-skinned man called Yuri who barely spoke to anyone.

  He staggered up the stained, carpeted staircase to his small, impersonal room which overlooked the car park at the rear of the building. Searching through his pockets, he located the room key which was attached to a large wooden fob upon which the hotel’s logo was printed in chipped gold paint. Putting the key in the door and pushing, he entered sleepily, desperate to slip between the faded floral sheets, fraying though they were.

  Taking his jacket off as he entered, he back-heeled the door behind him, closing it with a loud slam. He fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on, bathing the room in a dim, yellow light.

  The impact he felt against the side of his neck was sudden and agonising and he fell to the floor as if electrocuted, his vision failing as he fell. He felt like he’d been shot and couldn’t organise his thoughts as his limbs refused to work. He felt himself being dragged along the floor and his wrist being secured as his vision went black.

  Branko had no idea how long he was unconscious for, as he slowly began to come around. He was confused that he couldn’t move his right hand to try to stand up. Looking around, he could see that it had been secured to the radiator he was sitting against, his legs extended out in front of him.

  The room wasn’t empty; a white clad figure wearing a face mask sat on the threadbare armchair in the corner of the room, appraising him coolly.

  ‘I told you I was coming for you,’ Tom said in a low voice that managed to combine calmness and menace in equal quantities.

  Tom was dressed in a white, paper, forensic overall with the hood up, a face mask, blue nitrile gloves, and black plastic overshoes. He looked just like the crime scene examiners Branko had seen on the TV after murders or other serious crimes.

  He seemed utterly calm and completely in control. Branko couldn’t see his features but the dark, almost black eyes and calm, low voice were unmistakeable. Branko’s heart sank; he knew what was about to follow.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Only one thing. To kill you. You die tonight, Branko. But before I kill you I want you to hear something, so you know why I’m here.’

  Branko tried to speak but Tom silenced him with a raised hand.

  ‘You don’t need to talk, you just need to listen. I know everything that has happened and everything that you have done. You know what, that’s not even the reason I am here. The reason I’m here now is down to what you did to a little boy once in 1992 back in Bosnia, when you were a murdering White Eagle. You deprived that twelve-year-old boy of his father, you brutalised his mother, and you forced that boy to lose his childhood and flee his homeland. You murdered my father, Branko—my father, Jacov Novak—because he wouldn’t join your White Eagles, and you raped my mother, Aishe. And that’s why I’m here today. To kill you for costing me my childhood and making me the man I am here today who has killed over and over again. I killed your sons and your friends, and do you know how I feel about that? I’ll tell you: I don’t care. I feel nothing, and you did that to me. You robbed me of the ability to feel. That’s why I’m here and that’s why you die today.’ Tom spoke evenly, quietly, almost a whisper, but the raw hatred for the man before him shone out despite his clothing and the slight muffling of the mask.

  Branko didn’t say anything straight away. A heavy, thick silence enveloped the room, almost like a palpable gas, before Branko broke it with a light chuckle.

  It began as a low snigger, his shoulders moving almost imperceptibly, and an unpleasant smile began to creep across his pock-marked face, his scar visible like a vivid white slash.

  ‘You think your father was a hero, Novak? The great Jacov Novak? Yugoslavia’s Olympic hero.’ The sarcasm was redolent in his voice. ‘My goodness, Tomo, you are naïve. Your father was a thief; he stole from me, diamonds that were to secure me forever. Your father was a killer, he worked for Tito’s secret police and he would eliminate his opponents for him,’ he continued, still chuckling.

  Novak didn’t waver, instead remaining impassive. ‘My father was a government interpreter; you are a liar.’

  Branko’s chuckle became louder, almost a guffaw.

  ‘An interpreter? Don’t be so naïve, boy. Your father loved Tito. He worked for him for years and would do anything for him; the blood on his hands is real. Only after Tito’s death did he begin his silly work. He believed in Yugoslavia, the deluded fool, when Milosevic was showing us the true way of Serbian superiority. He had his chance to be a great patriot but then he met your Roma mother and became soft, especially once you were born. He lost his balls and became a subservient pussy.’ Branko’s unpleasant chuckling continued. ‘I would have let him live but he stole from me and wouldn’t fight on the right side. That’s why he died; I shot him between the eyes and laughed as I did it.’ He began to laugh hysterically now, tears coursing down his scarred cheeks, his eyes shining with manic, unhinged fury and mirth.

  Novak’s expression and demeanour had not changed at all as he watched the big Serb’s hysterics.

  Branko composed himself and looked at Tom, ‘You should be thanking me, Novak. By killing your weak father and having my fun with your whore of a Roma mother I gave you the gift of strength. Not for us the weakness of compassion, but the strength and power of ruthlessness. The weak deserve to die and leave the strong behind, Novak, you must realise this. We are the same, Novak. It is us, and those like us who will triumph,’ Branko hissed through gritted teeth, his red-rimmed eyes blazing with hate.

  Tom paused and his eyes betrayed a smile that had appeared behind the mask.

  ‘We’re not the same,’ Tom said in a hoarse whisper as he stood.

  Tom’s extended fingers flashed towards Branko and drove into the cartilaginous tissue of his windpipe, just below the Adam’s apple, crushing it completely. Branko’s free hand clutched at the ruined trachea, but it was too late and the damage was too devastating. Unable to draw in air he began to panic and thrash, clutching at his throat and trying to clear the destroyed airway. The more he thrashed and panicked the greater his need for oxygen. His legs kicked and he tried to pull away from the radiator, his eyes beginning to bulge and his tongue lolling. His struggles soon weakened as his face grew red. Soon he lay still. Tom sat back down on the chair and waited.

  ‘We. Are. Not. The. Same.’ Tom spat every word at the corpse.

  He quickly removed Branko’s watch and freed his wrist from the radiator. He took his wallet and mobile phone from his trouser pockets, which he put in a small carrier bag he’d picked up from the floor.

  Opening the door to the hotel room, he put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle. With luck, housekeeping wouldn’t find Branko until late morning at best and even then, the cause of death probably wouldn’t be ascertained until after a post-mortem.

  Without a glance at the corpse, he opened the sliding balcony door and exited the room onto a small, tiled space occupied by two plastic chairs and a broken table. The car park behind the hotel was almost empty apart from half-a-dozen cars. There was no sign of life anywhere, so Tom quickly climbed over the balcony wall and lowered himself over the edge. Using the balcony below, he silently dropped to the ground and walked awa
y calmly.

  He quickly stripped off the forensic suit, mask, gloves and overshoes and stuffed them in the bag, together with the items taken from Branko. He then picked up a rucksack he’d left on the balcony when making his entrance into the hotel room, put all the items inside and hefted the bag onto his back.

  He walked a block away, to where his rented Hyundai was parked in a side street. He unlocked it and got into the car, stowing the rucksack in the passenger footwell. He would dispose of the forensic protective gear and items taken from Branko en route back to the airport, where he had a plane to London leaving in just over five hours.

  The US passport and credit card he carried in the name of Thomas Chandler had been secured by an associate of Lucky D in London in exchange for five hundred pounds. Fortunately for Tom, Branko had not been careful in Belgrade, leaving electronic traces of his presence that were easy to find.

  Tom searched for any adverse feelings he was experiencing, either negative or positive, and was once again a little disturbed to find no trace of what may be referred to as normal emotion after the events he’d just experienced.

  There would be no trace of Tom having left the UK, let alone entering Serbia or travelling to a seedy hotel in backstreet Belgrade and killing Branko. Not a computer trace, not a CCTV image, not a forensic fibre or fingerprint.

  Tom smiled as he began the short journey to the airport. He was hungry and fancied a bite to eat and a cold beer, and hoped somewhere would be open after he’d checked-in.

  38

  Michael Adebayo had enjoyed a fine evening at a fundraiser for a children’s charity at the mosque affiliated to the housing development his new home occupied. He was a fairly observant Muslim, as many converts were, but he had to admit that his reasons for worshipping at present were more about finding useful contacts and associates than being close to Allah.

  He was keen to imbed himself in the community of fellow wealthy residents and had been generous with his donations at the fundraiser, making some good new business contacts with mosque elders as well as some of the more up-and-coming members as well. All a good investment for his future, especially as it looked like he wouldn’t be returning to London.

  He had settled into Lagos quite nicely and quickly, helped by the fact that he already had a comfortable, well-furnished home in the gated suburb community which was well-managed, affluent, and immaculately maintained. Not for him the dire slums and grinding poverty of downtown Lagos.

  Adebayo had a sneaking suspicion that the charity, Lagos Community Mosque for Syrian Orphan Relief was a cover for ISIS, but he didn’t give it too much thought. He wasn’t politically active and certainly had no desire to live under the restrictive Sharia laws, enjoying, as he did, the finer things in life.

  He missed London and his wife and children, but not so much that he wanted to return and risk prison and asset confiscation. His wife had point-blank refused to accompany him, citing the children’s education, which he understood, but he did not enjoy the dishonour it brought him in his new community. He hated the pitying eyes of his new friends when they learnt that his family were still in London, no matter how much he assured them that they would be joining him in due course.

  He had no shortage of female company, however. Men of his means rarely did, and he often entertained lady guests at his mansion. Not that night though; he had an early meeting with an important businessman who he hoped would offer him some opportunities to grow his nest egg with a possibility that was very interesting.

  Pulling his Range Rover up to his house, he pressed the remote control on his keyring and the iron gates swung open, revealing a sweeping drive that led to his modern, single-storey home. The double garage door was already rolling open as he approached, the lights automatically activated. He edged the big car into the immaculate space with its red-painted, glossy, concrete floor and parked next to his sleek Mercedes.

  He was yawning as he exited the car, having to pull the hem of his kameez robe up as it caught on the gearstick. He had taken to wearing traditional Islamic dress more and more often, as it seemed appropriate and many of his neighbours dressed the same.

  A voice in English cut through the silence behind him, causing him to almost jump out of his skin, ‘Mr Adebayo, may I have a moment of your time please, sir?’ A tall, heavily built bearded man stood at the entrance to his garage. He was distinguished looking with a neatly trimmed beard and was wearing an immaculate tailored suit that Adebayo could tell was not off the peg.

  ‘You startled the life out of me. Who the hell are you?’ he replied.

  ‘State Security Service. My name is Major Okafor. I would like to speak to you, Mr Adebayo,’ he smiled, showing perfect, white teeth.

  The man came a little closer, flipping open an identity document which depicted a photograph together with the logo of the SSS depicting an owl on a green crest.

  Adebayo reeled nervously: the SSS were the national intelligence agency for Nigeria, universally feared by all.

  ‘What, err, what can I do for you, sir?’ Adebayo stuttered, trying to keep the real and naked fear from his voice.

  ‘Perhaps you could accompany us to our local office. I have a gentleman who would dearly love to have a conversation with you. Something to do with your charitable donations here and back in the UK.’ He spoke with charm that carried an undercurrent of menace and utter confidence that, frankly terrified Adebayo.

  ‘Well it’s not convenient right now, Major Okafor.’

  Major Okafor held up a manicured hand and smiled. ‘Mr Adebayo, I’m afraid I must insist.’

  Two headlights pierced the darkness from the far side of Adebayo’s sweeping drive and a dark VW van slowly eased from its parking spot towards the men.

  The van pulled alongside them and the side door slid open, allowing an enormous, bulky man to unfurl himself from within. He was dressed in black combat trousers and a black leather jacket. He was shaven-headed, bearded and looked tough and dangerous as he stood to the side of the van door, his hand directing Adebayo inside.

  ‘Major, please. I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Adebayo stuttered again, a fleck of spittle flying from his lips as the terror began to take hold.

  ‘Mr Adebayo, please, let us not create a scene. My colleague, Captain Oni, is not a patient man; he really wants to go home to his wife as he recently got married, you see. If you delay him unnecessarily, he will be very displeased.’ Okafor smiled without even a trace of humour.

  39

  Six Weeks Later

  Tom ran at pace through the Camden streets and onto Hampstead Heath, enjoying the burn as he pushed himself round the perimeter of the park and along past the bathing ponds, his breath escaping in clouds of vapour in the chilly morning air.

  He ran for a solid hour, stopping frequently to perform press-ups and sit-ups, even performing a set of pull-ups from the low bough of a sycamore tree.

  Once he was happy he’d done enough, he queued at the Parliament Hill coffee stall to get himself a large, black Americano and a bottle of water.

  His drinks in hand, he walked over to a nearby bench, feeling his body cool as he took several long gulps of the water. Sitting down, he warmed his hands on the coffee cup and enjoyed the view in the early morning: the crisp, clear sun.

  He sat back and closed his eyes, feeling the sun warming his face, enjoying the post-exercise burn that he was so used to after all these years of habitual workouts.

  ‘You’re looking fit, my friend,’ said a familiar American voice to his right on the bench.

  ‘Getting fitter, Mike, always getting fitter,’ Tom said without opening his eyes.

  Mike was sat next to him on the bench, neither of them acknowledging each other’s presence, as was the etiquette in meetings such as these.

  Both men remained silent for a few moments as a young mother pushing a child in an expensive-looking pushchair sauntered by, before Mike asked, ‘How’s Cam and Shona?’

  ‘They’re okay. Cam is tough
as old boots and Shona is a proper Highlander: they’re a resilient breed, you know. She’s managing fine with a slightly shorter finger, as well.’ Tom said with a smile.

  ‘That’s good. Any problems with the police?’

  ‘None. They told them that three guys turned up masked and held them for a while before getting a phone call in the middle of the night and leaving without a word. Police seem to have accepted it. They seem a bit perplexed about the finger, even with Shona being firm that it was a wood-chopping accident.’

  ‘What about your corrupt colleagues?’

  ‘In prison, apart from Albrechtsen who is somewhere secure and secret, being that he’s a super-grass now. There won’t be a trial: all have accepted early plea bargains and they’ll be sentenced next month. Everyone is baffled about how the Brankos got back to Serbia under their noses. It caused a bit of head scratching. Your breadcrumb trail did the job, Mike.’

  ‘Hey, it’s what we do, my friend. Branko Senior’s death was widely reported in local papers in Belgrade as a gangland killing and robbery between rival Serb mafia factions. Tragic, huh?’

  ‘Hey, it’s a jungle out there.’

  Mike snorted a laugh by way of answer.

  ‘So, it’s pretty much all over, right?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Not quite. There’s still Adebayo; he’s lording it up in Nigeria I imagine.’ Tom spoke with just a small amount of bitterness detectable in his voice.

  ‘Do you believe in fate, Tom?’

  ‘No, not really, I think stuff just happens. Bad stuff to bad people, bad stuff to good people, and vice versa. It’s just all circumstances and luck, there’s no grand plan. Not as far as I’m concerned, anyway.’