by A P Bateman
The woman closed the door behind him and King walked to the end and looked at the numbers. Box 427 was near the far end and King could see that there were no more than fifty boxes in total. He studied the numbering and realised that the first number dictated the row. Row four, box twenty-seven.
King turned his back to the PIR units and the smoke detector the best he could. He studied the door to the box, noted the dial and series of numbers. He knew the combination by heart. Had done since he had read the letter two days earlier.
4478.
He twisted the dial all the way round to 44, back to 78. There was no other way to do it because a single digit four could not be dialled in twice without a reset. The door to the box clicked open and King tentatively opened the door. He looked for signs of a trap – wires, tripping devices leading to an IED – but decided it would be fruitless. If they wanted him dead, they would have had many opportunities by now. They called the shots, held all the cards.
There were two envelopes. King removed them and walked over to the curtained cubicle. He could already tell there was a mobile phone in one of the envelopes – a slimline smartphone. Undoubtedly a burner – a non-contract, prepaid phone with an untraceable number. He glanced upwards and saw another smoke alarm directly above his head. Undoubtedly a hidden camera. He couldn’t reach it to knock it down, so he angled himself the best he could to keep the contents of the envelopes shielded from view. He figured it was good enough and flipped the envelopes over. He discarded the first when he saw the single word scrawled on the front of the second envelope. His heart raced and he took a deep breath to calm himself, quell the adrenalin which now coursed through his veins. One name. Eight letters.
Caroline.
He tore open the envelope and turned over the single photograph. He couldn’t remember having ever felt so nervous. Unsure whether to recoil in disgust and horror or take the photograph as a blessed relief.
Caroline had been beaten. Her blonde hair was matted to her face and her left eye was swollen and blackened. Her lips were swollen too. It was a terrible sight to behold, but the clincher, the relief was in the form of the proof of life. A copy of Le Monde - the leading French newspaper - with the date and front-page story of radicalised asylum seekers. The photo had been taken a week ago.
That meant she was alive, or at least, had been for a whole three weeks after she had been taken.
4
One week later
Biarritz, France
The second envelope had contained photographs of somebody else. He was a forty-year-old Russian named Pyotr Sergeyev. He was a wealthy man, yet nobody knew his net worth. His business interests ranged from construction, road haulage and nightclubs, through to people trafficking, drug dealing and murder. Sergeyev owned brothels all over Europe, where many young Muslim asylum seekers had ended up working off their passage. They would work there until they were too old for the punters, too worn and abused to appeal with their looks. And then they would simply disappear.
Pyotr Sergeyev had started out as a strong-arm for the early founder of one of the arms of the Russian mafia. His boss had been ex-KGB and when the wall had fallen, the satellite countries broken free and the Soviet Empire collapsed; KGB agents knew where the accounts were, the weapons, the disenfranchised young men with little future ahead of them. The money, contracts and opportunities were there for the taking and many men were catapulted into billionaire status, their sons free to stroll around Mayfair and buy football clubs on a whim.
When the fragile balance of power teetered, Sergeyev had been in the right place at the right time, with a gun in his hand. He had killed his boss, the man’s wife, their two young sons and the man’s closest aides. He had killed the man’s elderly father, his brother, the man’s wife and their daughter. He had thrown down a challenge to the men around him, and they had fallen in behind him. Each of them undoubtedly terrified by Sergeyev’s ruthlessness. Because when someone crossed the young Russian, their family paid the price as well.
That had been ten years ago, and Sergeyev’s power and influence had still not been successfully challenged. There had been attempts, but all had failed. The Russian mafia boss had either killed or put these would-be assassin’s families into prostitution. He spared nobody, spoke loudly of what fate these people had suffered. He had kept two of his challengers alive long enough to see the extent of his retribution.
King looked at the photograph one last time, then put it back in the envelope, along with the dossier on Sergeyev and placed the envelope in the glovebox. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror. He had scrubbed up well enough. A close shave, a brush through his damp hair with his fingers. It was good enough. He had chosen a crisp white shirt to go with the dark blue suit that he had bought in one of the town’s boutique shops, though went with the shirt left open and without a tie. It was a smart look, enough for the casino, and as smart as he had been in years.
King watched the silver Mercedes S65 saloon stop outside the casino. Sergeyev’s security had already arrived in a garishly spec’d Range Rover Sport. Both bodyguards were brick outhouses. Twenty-stone a piece and well over six foot. They saw a lot of gym time. Both struggled to look comfortable in their suits and King could see unsightly mounds above their right hips. Both men carried large handguns in holsters and were obviously right-handed.
King wasn’t armed. He thought it prudent not to test the casino’s security. Sergeyev would have already bribed the house security to allow his own security such blatant disregard of France’s firearms laws. He envisioned a great deal of money spent, both on the tables and on the bar tab, and imagined that the casino’s security would be of no consequence if the Russian decided to merely do as he pleased under their roof. He noted that any action within the casino would not be his best approach.
The security was indeed laughable, because King was both swept with an electric metal detector wand and given a quick pat-down as he entered the foyer. Sergeyev and his two bodyguards had breezed straight through and were now in the bar. One of the guards was fetching chips, the other was clicking his fingers at a waitress while Sergeyev looked bored and impatient. King noted that the waitress left a table in the middle of placing an order to take the Russian’s bar order.
The table, which was made up of two couples, looked outraged. One of the men got up and strode over, interrupting the order. He was irate and focused as much on the bodyguard as the waitress as he vented. King admired the man’s tenacity, for the bodyguard was twice the man’s width, but he stayed back and watched to see how it would play out. Inevitably, the bodyguard gave the man a shove, which was something akin to watching someone get it very wrong at the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. The man travelled a good distance before hitting the mosaic floor with a slap that made King wince from his vantage point. He knew enough about fights to know that the man wasn’t going dancing tonight, or perhaps for the rest of his holiday.
As the man lay still on the floor, his companions getting out of their seats to assist him, there were two things that could happen now, and King watched to see which would follow. Either the maître d'hôtel would be bringing out chilled champagne and a few hundred euros in complimentary chips for the table, or the house security would be taking the two couples outside before they had time to complain and cause a scene.
It was the latter. King watched as both the women and two men were roughly handled out through the bar and foyer by six well-built men with stubble on their faces and tattoos on their hands. They had all put time in at the gym and the four guests didn’t stand a chance. Normally, King wouldn’t have stood by and watched something so unjust, but he had to remind himself of the odds, and what he had on the line.
The Russian had this place sewn-up. His money was everything here. There was no touching him.
King ordered a beer when the waitress hovered over his table. She returned a few minutes later with a frosted glass, but a little too much foam on top. He didn’t complain, but nor did he
tip. He drank down half the meagre glass, stood up and walked out onto the casino floor.
The casino was running at about half capacity, with croupiers on every table, but plenty of seats at the Chemin de fer table and the bank of blackjack tables. There were poker games on raised plinths, three or four people at each table, and a whole host of slot machines with thousand euro pay outs. King changed up two-hundred euros and headed to the roulette tables. He played randomly numbered odd reds for twenty spins and walked away forty euros up. He had finished his drink and went to the bar for another. It was only when he had drunk half the glass and completed his fifth spin on even blacks and lost fifty euros, that he looked up and watched Sergeyev walk from the opposite roulette table to the nearest of the six blackjack tables. There was nobody else at the table.
One of his minders carried his chips, while Sergeyev managed to carry what looked like a large scotch all by himself. He sauntered over, ignored the croupier’s greeting and tapped his finger on the table. The minder dutifully placed the considerable pile of chips beside his boss and stood back a pace. King wandered over as Sergeyev reached twenty-one and beat the house. He couldn’t help wondering whether it was luck, or if he had been dealt a softener, something to ease his mood and bolster his ego.
King pulled out a chair, put down his glass and put his meagre pile of chips next to it. The croupier glanced at the Russian, then dealt King a card when the Russian did not look up. King flicked over the card, a seven. Sergeyev got a nine. The house got a six. King’s next card was a six. The Russian got a four and the house dealt down a five. King took another seven and naturally held. Sergeyev got another nine and lost a whole lot of chips. The house got a three, then a ten. King won fifty euros. He watched the Russian’s pile go to the house. He wouldn’t have earned that much in a month, but Sergeyev already pushed another pile across, bigger than before.
“Something I can help you with?” Sergeyev said, without looking up.
King picked up his glass, drained the beer in one. “You can get me another drink,” he said. “Or one of your monkeys could get one, if they’re not too busy looking tough.”
The Russian looked at him this time, his eyes hard. But King saw the flicker. Nobody had ever stared into his own eyes and come off better. King’s were grey-blue and glacier cold.
“What?”
“Buy the winner a drink.”
“You call that winning?”
“Sure,” King said. “Hell, with what you’ve got in the bank, you didn’t exactly lose just then. You’ve probably made more since.”
“What do you know about me?” The Russian asked incredulously. As if to back up the man’s disbelief, his minder stepped over behind King.
King smiled. “Now, I wouldn’t recommend that,” he said. “I won’t go down like that poor fella in the bar.” King turned around in his chair, looked at the minder. He was built like a side of beef. Looked as intelligent too. “Go and fill up your boss’s Scotch. I’ll have another house lager. But get them to work on the foam-beer ratio. They’re making enough money tonight.” He turned towards Sergeyev. “So, are you playing or what?”
The Russian smiled, but there was no humour behind it. “You know something of me, and you think you can talk like this?”
King shrugged. “Shitty world. Don’t always assume you’ve done more, or worse than the guy sitting next to you,” he paused. “Get your monkey to fetch our drinks, you might want to talk with me in private.” He looked up at the croupier. “Deal another hand, will you?”
Sergeyev nodded to the croupier and she dealt out two cards. A ten for King and a seven for the Russian. The house got a nine. King was hit with another ten and held. Sergeyev got a seven. The house took a ten. Then the Russian was dealt with a nine. The house got a four. King won another fifty euros and the Russian handed over close to four-thousand.
“Well, it’s one way of cleaning your money, I suppose,” King said. “You own this place, don’t you? You take money from drugs and arms and prostitution, and you lose it here. To yourself. Back in the system, cleaned and ready to go. Nice.” He tapped his chips beside him. “Thanks for my win, by the way.”
“Don’t thank me. You won fair and square. Shame you won’t spend it though,” he paused. “Two things can happen when my bodyguard returns,” said the Russian. “You pitch your angle and I like it, well, then you leave tonight, but with a beating. And without your winnings. Or, you say what it is you want to say, and I don’t like it… well, you will get beaten like you wouldn’t imagine possible, taken by car to the forest, dragged out pleading for mercy, and take a bullet in the head.” He smiled. “So, I hope it was worth it.”
“I’ll be leaving around fifty euros up, so it’s all good,” King said. He watched the minder walk over with two glasses, but also accompanied by the other bodyguard. “And you’re buying my drinks, so it’s not all bad.”
Sergeyev glanced behind him, then smiled back at King. “So, which of the two scenarios will it be, I wonder?”
“Well, you’re going to need more guys. And I’ll get to you first. Don’t doubt that for a second. But I think I’ll take the third one,” King said coldly. “That’s the one where I’ve already boarded your yacht in the harbour, neutralised your remaining three guards and taken your wife and child to a secure location. That’s another scenario into the mix, and I think you had better shut up and hear me out.”
5
She had become accustomed to the chloroform. She fought like hell, her heart and soul in the fight, but the inevitable had become more acceptable. She feared that the noxious chlorine would get into her system and damage her internal organs, give her cancer. She knew of the side effects, possibly why when her fight was over, she relaxed more in a bid to take in less of the chemical, expose her lungs to less danger.
Her hands were taped behind her back – she had already escaped once, gnawing at her bonds and making it out of the first compound they had held her in – and now her captors were taking no further chances. She knew she was inside a goods vehicle, as it rumbled along the roads, and she knew that as they had travelled across Europe with impunity – and the EU Schengen Agreement would give them that – with no borders or security checks, there was little chance of her discovery.
They had held her in France initially. She was certain of that. She had drunk the tap water, eaten bread they had brought her. It was unmistakable. The bread in France tasted like no other. There was a crust to it, a softness in the dough that differed to other countries, and certainly British outlets that marketed their produce as such. She could concede that they had taken her to Belgium, but it seemed unlikely. Other food had been distinctly French. A simple stew of beef and potatoes, but strong on garlic, yet with no pieces in it. The French always crushed their garlic with salt, like the Italians only ever sliced. The Spanish chopped it, and their bread always seemed a day-old. In truth, she realised she had perhaps had too much time and solitude to contemplate such matters. But, she had heard French spoken in passing, and there were smells which had taken her back to childhood camping trips throughout France. Spain had always been a little mainstream for her parents, and France, along with trips to Tuscany and the Italian lakes had been her holiday destinations. Or at least the ones she remembered the most.
She had lost track of time. Not just the hours, or the days, but she could not recall to the nearest week how long she had been held. Her training was slipping. She had done the forty-eight-hour escape and evasion courses, been held and interrogated, sleep deprived, then given a pat on the back, a Mars Bar and a cup of tea when it was all over. It seemed so trite now, so utterly fruitless. Such a tough course at the time, but one that had paled into insignificance when compared to her situation. Surely this could not go on much longer? She thought of Terry Waite, the envoy to the Church of England, and hostage negotiator, held captive for 1,763 days, the first four years of which, were in solitary confinement. What must he have felt? The thought made her draw on her
resolve. It wasn’t over yet. And she suspected, it wouldn’t be for quite some time. She would have to be ready for an opportunity when it arose. A toilet break, a meal, a wash. When the time came, she would do what had to be done.
She did not remember the night she had been taken. Not much of it, at least. An attempt on her life. She had been struck on the head and later drugged in the boot of a car. She remembered coming round, for what seemed an age – groggy, sick and nauseous. The effects of her head injury, the excessive use of chloroform and the exhaust fumes from the boot of the car. She had been locked in a dark room, not given food or water until she had been as desperate as she could have ever imagined. She knew she had lost weight. Her filthy clothes had been loose, and her insides had rumbled constantly.
A shop-bought sandwich had been thrown to her, along with a bottle of water, and she had feasted like a wild dog. She had missed the opportunity of escaping, the door left open too long, in favour of eating. It had been a low moment. One of degradation and disgust, and one of knowing she had missed her chance.
The next time opportunity presented itself, she had struck her captor, sending him to the ground where she had stamped on his groin and fled out through the open door. She had bolted, clueless to either the time of night, or her surroundings. She had been a few hundred metres later, lights from what looked like a village nearby, so close she could taste her freedom. She had been beaten then, bound sadistically tight, and kept under guard. The guard had touched her at night, when the rest of the building had been dark and quiet. She had resisted, fought him night after night, sustaining bruises and cuts as he had kicked her like a dog. The beast had been persistent, and her energy had all but gone to keep fighting. It had been her lowest ebb.
