by A P Bateman
King squeezed the trigger and stopped the Russian mid-sentence. He sagged, his head lolling onto his chest like he’d fallen asleep. King glanced at his watch again. He estimated another five minutes before the police arrived in response to the GPS signal and recorded message they would have received from the tracker inside the Breitling watch. He was already packed, estimated he would be clear of the property inside three minutes.
33
London
Rashid had taken a run around the Thames, estimated it at five-miles and finished up sprinting at full pace back over Westminster Bridge. He had showered and changed and headed downstairs for breakfast, where the Holiday Inn had made it’s first mistake. A breakfast-buffet. Rashid had filled a plate with toast and pastries, taken the entire jug of orange juice back to his table. He ordered coffee, then went back up to the buffet where he filled another plate with sausages, bacon, fried eggs, mushrooms and beans. The waitress raised an eyebrow when she brought his coffee, but he polished it off quickly and took advantage of the Holiday Inn’s second mistake: there didn’t seem to be a one-visit rule. Rashid filled his plate again, returned to his table and started all over, as Neil Ramsay walked in, caught the waitress to order a pot of tea, and headed over.
“Sleep well?” he asked, sitting down and watching him eat with amusement.
“Yes, before you ask; it’s bacon and pork sausages.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he smiled. “Looks like a heart attack on a plate to me. Didn’t fancy muesli, then?”
“How far have you run this morning?”
Ramsay shrugged. “Fair point,” he said. “Well, when you’ve finished stripping the Security Service’s hospitality budget, we’ll head back to Thames House and see what we have on Helena Snell.”
“Milankovitch,” Rashid said. “Snell will be a shadow. She married a billionaire, started a fashion concern, but she even kept her Russian lover the entire time. She then plotted with her lover, formed a terrorist organisation as a front to detract from the real motive of killing her husband. In doing this, she sacrificed people to act as a cover for her plan. She’s a cold bitch. There will be nothing worth knowing from the time she was Helena Snell. But believe me, there will be something as Helena Milankovitch. That’s the key. Her past.”
34
Caroline came around slowly. The bright light shining through the bathroom window, shafts of golden light warming her face, forcing her to blink as she opened her eyes. She felt groggy, her mouth dry. Her head thudded like a hangover after a night of champagne. A sharp, incessant thud that she not only felt inside her head but heard incessantly in her ears.
She raised her head, had to fight through the light-headedness to refrain from falling back down. She could not place exactly where she was at first, but it flooded back to her and filled her with foreboding and fear. She sat up, blinked away her dry eyes. And then she felt herself all over. Her underwear was intact. The thought, as she checked, made her feel close to vomiting. She looked at the door. It was an inch ajar. She looked under the door, near the jamb. The wingnut had scarred the floorboard, dug in deeply. She got up slowly, knelt on the floor. Her head banging and pulsing. She pulled on the door, but it did not budge. She felt a wave of relief, a near-euphoria. But she was in no doubt that she had been drugged for sex.
She turned and ran the cold tap, splashed some water on her face and swilled her mouth out. Then she drank until she was full. The water would flush her system, take the toxin out of her, slowly bring her back. She rubbed some water around her neck, shuddered as it trickled down between her shoulder blades.
It was with a mixture of anger and a sense of hope that she kicked the door closed. The wingnut was pulled out of the floorboard, and she picked it up and tucked it back into her bra as she opened the door inwards and stepped back into the bedroom. She would not be a victim anymore. The coffee Michael had given her had been drugged. She would not let her guard down with him again. It was time to discover her fate. Or at least take a hand in controlling it.
35
King sipped his orange juice and picked at the pastries. They tasted like yesterday’s. Maybe older. He’d always found breakfast in Italy to be a lacklustre affair, neither appealing to his appetite or constitution. Coffee, which he did not drink, a few biscuits, or perhaps bread and jam, or cheese and charcuterie. He wondered how the Italians got anything done before lunch. And he’d given up trying to order a pot of tea.
He had decided to put some distance between himself and the mountain. There was a lot happening up there, in all three locations, and he needed to be as far away as possible while the police scoured the mountain region for a person or people, undoubtedly armed, certainly dangerous.
As always, when making a getaway, King had driven right on the speed limit and made sure he observed traffic signs and signalled accordingly. He needed to be invisible, and he knew from his personal experience and cost that police could pull over a motorist and get lucky. It had happened to him a lifetime ago. Any lesson learned through pain and suffering did not need learning twice.
King had found the hotel in Siena using an app and Google Maps on his phone. Situated conveniently on the outskirts, overlooking the attractive, culture-rich city of spires and castles, fortified walls and towers. It had been on the list to visit with his wife Jane. Caroline had also put the city of her list, along with Florence, but King had merely agreed with her and not mentioned the fact he had dreamed of visiting with somebody in a previous life. Caroline had to have some things for the two of them, something she had not been beaten to, or be competing with a dead woman’s dreams.
The hotel had a vacant double room, which out of habit, King took for two nights, although he did not plan on staying any longer than the time it took for him to eat his meagre breakfast on the balcony and plan his next move.
After he had arrived, he had tipped the barman for two buckets of ice and returned to his room where he ran a deep bath of cold water, tipped in the ice and set about soaking away his bruises, swelling, aches and pains. He had learned the practice as a boxer and it had stood him in good stead in later years. It was always agony at first, but if he remained until all the ice had melted, then he knew he would heal quickly. He had wrapped some of the ice in a towel and held it against his face. He was bruised and cut, but the swelling subsided soon after the ice worked its magic. The time was well-spent, but it had also given King time to think.
Counter surveillance measures like taking the room for an extra night, or moving the car, as he had and parking it in the street adjacent to the hotel’s carpark, gave him the edge he needed. He had slipped comfortably back into the role he had been trained for. Another department, another life. That of an assassin. He had battled with the ethics, the ideals for so long. But he had always served his country, always been on the side of what seemed right. But as he contemplated over breakfast, the deaths of so many men on the mountain, he found there was no conflict battling within him. He had simply performed the tasks necessary to secure, or work towards the release of the woman he loved. For the first time in recent years, he had found the task of killing as simple and as functional as any other task within the parameters of his work.
He had decided to keep the mobile phone he had been given switched off. He had used his own to find the hotel, but this was not his MI5-issued phone. He had checked for messages but had none. He used it to check his various email accounts, and his data cloud. There was nothing there either. Apart from the one email from Mereweather asking him to return, a few days after he had left for Sweden. He checked the date again but knew the man would not email again. He had the man’s email, unless there was a significant development regarding Caroline, King wouldn’t bank on more contact from MI5. He was as out in the cold as he’d ever been.
King had been thrown by the Sweden thing. And he knew he had been played. It had made him doubt himself, because it made sense for Helena to return to her roots. A place where she would have familiar
ity, contacts and support. He would have bet everything that she was in Russia. But Sweden had brought nothing but the fog of indecision and doubt to him. What was the connection? Was it a random act? Something merely to throw him off the scent? While he kept the phone switched off, lengthened the tether Helena Milankovitch had on him, he was reminded of the feeling of empowerment. Caroline would be safe - no harm would come to her while he remained out of contact - she was still bait to him. It would strike back at Helena, too. She would not know if something had happened to King. She would hear about the Russians, she would be monitoring the correct channels for news. But she would not know about King; whether he lay wounded and dying, dead even, or whether he was homing in on her. It would unbalance her psyche, remove the illusion of control. He would have to act fast though. He would have to make some progress, too.
He had moved quickly. From Sweden to France to Italy. Barely had he had the chance to ponder events, calculate his options, the likelihood of finding Milankovitch or even where to start. But he was sure that if he found her, then he would find Caroline.
King finished his orange juice then picked up his mobile phone, thumbed the screen and checked his messages again. Nothing. He needed to get to an airport. He needed to get a flight and hand back the hire car. But first, he needed to make a call.
36
She watched the door handle turn. Slowly, ominously. The bolt had alerted her, raking backwards, scraping the metal as whoever was behind the door worked the locks. She had felt a pang of fear, of dread. She felt her legs stiffen, had to force herself to move, but she knew she wanted to be anywhere but on the bed. The thought of what could have happened to her last night, what she would have been unaware of under the control of the powerful drug that had been put in her coffee, chilled her to the bone.
The door eased inwards and Michael stood in the doorway, a paper bag in one hand, a pot of steaming coffee in the other. He nodded, stepped inside and poured some coffee into the stained mug. He said nothing as he threw the paper bag onto the bed. Caroline looked at the bag. It had been twisted closed but had started to unravel as it had hit the bed. She could see a bread roll of some description.
“Breakfast,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Where am I?” Caroline asked, ignoring his question. She looked at the steaming cup of coffee. She wanted the caffeine hit, felt she could never eat or drink while she was here again. She walked around the bed, looked at the man in front of her. “I know what you did,” she said. “You drugged me. You came into this room, you were going to rape me.”
“No!” he snapped.
“I was in the bathroom, you tried to open the door.”
“I was concerned,” he said. “I was trying to help you! I came to check on you, you had locked yourself in.”
“You pushed the door, kicked at it. You were calling me.”
“No, I…”
“Were trying to help me? Some help.” She reached over the bed and picked up the bag. She looked at it, then tossed it at him and it bounced off his chest and onto the floor. “Take that back,” she said. She picked up the coffee cup and looked at the murky liquid. Michael looked concerned. He stepped back, his eyes on the cup. “I thought you liked me, Michael. I thought we were getting along.”
He shrugged. “I suppose,” he said.
“It is not acceptable behaviour, Michael.” She looked at him severely. “You have a mother, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I…”
She shushed him, “I imagine you have a sister, or female cousins? Imagine if someone tried to do that to them?” She shook her head. “I thought I was going to try and get my brother to get you some tickets to see Manchester United. Had you forgotten that?” She stared at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To see Old Trafford, see behind the scenes, meet some of the players?”
“Of course!”
“Good. Get me something to eat and drink. Sealed in packets. After that, you can get me some warmer clothes.”
“You are cold?” he asked.
“No. I am not,” she replied haughtily. “I am not comfortable in this flimsy dress. I want something more substantial.”
“I…”
“Do it, Michael. Go and get me what I have asked for. You want to be my friend again, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied solemnly.
She turned her back on him. “Good. And Michael…”
“Yes?”
“I have a sweet tooth…”
37
Mr King,
You have cost me everything. You took away my security, my claim to a fortune rightfully mine. You cost me my freedom. And you ruined my future. You know what happened to my lover, while I lay awake, not knowing of his fate, and that I will likely never see him again. Never feel his touch on my skin, hear his voice.
But I have changed your life, too. What a month you must have had! You must ache for your lover. The uncertainty of what happened to her hurts you inside like an infected wound. You are viewed with suspicion by your employers. You have nowhere to go, no friends to turn to. I did this to you. I changed your future also.
I want you to know who did this to you. I want you to picture me in your sleep. In those darkest of hours, where demons goad you, rule over you, control you.
And now to Caroline. Your beautiful, feisty Caroline. I am enjoying her company. You will, by now, know of my past. Forced into becoming a whore. Passed around to filthy men, a prize, a sweetener for business deal after business deal. I escaped that life, but ended up in the same trap, before meeting my husband. Oh, and what a brute he was, too. Like the men on the Black Sea coast, those casino goers who would win at the roulette and buy me, my body – though my heart was never for sale. You see, he would beat me and bully me, and no amount of his money was worth that life. Viktor gave me the love and affection that my husband never would. And now, as I look at your beautiful Caroline, I see a woman who has seen none of this. A woman who gives herself to a man only when she is loved. A pristine example of a privileged life. She has loved few, and she has done so with all her heart. Shall I take this woman and make her a prize? Shall I see that she spends the rest of her days chained to a bed, screwing men for her own survival, or drugs, or perhaps just for food? Or shall I use her to gain more. Maybe if there were a man who would do absolutely anything to save her? Maybe if there was a man with skills I could use, manipulate for my own gains?
But there is such a man. And now I own him also. Because I know that you will do what is asked, because for you, Alex King, your payment is here, and I can control you in a way you have never known. I have your life in my hand. I can give it to you, I can take it from you, or I can destroy it in front of you.
There is a post office in the town of Sodertalje, near Stockholm, Sweden. It is on a crossroads with a coffee shop to its right and a sweet shop to its left. There is a safety deposit box number 427. The code to open it is 4478. You will go there on May 22nd and open the box at 0930.
Do not fail her.
Helena
Rashid dropped the letter back down on top of the pile of papers. He rubbed his face, with his palm, then fingered at the start of a goatee he had decided to leave in place when he had shaved earlier. “And King saw this letter?” he asked Ramsay but kept his gaze on the woman behind the computer terminal.
“Yes,” he said. “Simon Mereweather took it to him. King left on a plane to Sweden that night.”
“And how long did MI5 sit on it?”
Ramsay shrugged. “We had it a few days.”
“And you didn’t think to put an observation post on this post office?”
“In hindsight…”
“In hindsight, you fucked up,” Rashid said coldly. “You could have had a lead on your missing agent. Instead, King went in cold and has been on the backfoot ever since.” The woman behind the computer terminal looked Rashid up and down, then back to the screen. Rashid couldn’t decide if she was attracted to him or hated his gut
s. He never really knew. All he knew was that they always hated his guts at the end of the fling. He wasn’t boyfriend material. Couldn’t give a damn either. “You alright, luv?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she said, curtly.
“Caught you looking,” he smiled.
“And?”
“Are you interested?”
“Of course not!”
“Good. So, get back to the computer and tell us what you’ve found.”
Ramsay shifted awkwardly, but he didn’t respond or interfere.
“Helena Milankovitch. Thirty-six. Born in Belarus, moved to Moscow when she was eight, later moved to the Ukraine. Left home at sixteen, wound up in Georgia around eighteen, worked in the Black Sea resorts of Batumi and Kobuleti. Dancer, exotic. Hostess, escort and then prostitute, by all accounts. She was involved in the Bratva, or the Russian brotherhood. The mafia. She was a hostess. The sort that hangs on your arm, encourages expensive drinks, big bets on the tables, sort of bleed the rich men dry.”
“Met a few of them in my time,” Rashid said. “Except I’m not rich, and drink shit lager, but you know…” He shrugged and gave the woman a wink. “I’d buy you a Cinzano and lemonade, though.”
“You’re all class.”
“Class of one, luv.” He smiled. “You’d get dinner as well. Well, some nuts to nibble on.”
“What?”
