by A P Bateman
“And not to arrest me?”
“No.”
“So, you want me to break the law? Nothing more?”
King stared coldly at him. “I want you to help me. If you do, I’m gone. Nobody has to know where you are.”
“Doesn’t sound like anybody cares. Maybe I’ll say no.” Grant stood up, closed the boot lid. “I bet all those people in charge back then are retired by now. What are you, forty? Time you got out of this game.”
“I watched you play with your son,” King said quietly.
“What?”
“All those years ago. Lisa, your son and you. In the park. It started to snow. You kicked the ball with your son, left together. I walked away. I said I couldn’t find you, told them the lead we had was a dead end. I was eventually reassigned. The case was closed.”
“I…”
“I gave you those years,” said King. “All of those birthdays and Christmases. All those school plays, sports days. Holidays the three of you took. You and Lisa had another child a few years later. I kept the odd tab on you, kept my ear to the ground to see if anybody fancied their chances tracing the money. All these years you had since Holman, O’Shea and Neeson had their claws into you. Everything you have done since is on me.” King put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m not going to bully you, nor threaten what you have here. I need your help. Somebody has abducted my fiancé and is holding her. I think a lead may be in that post office. In fact, I’m certain of it. I love my fiancé. I need to get her back safely, and I need you to help me.”
40
Cape Town, South Africa
“You’re out on a limb here,” Rashid said.
“I know.”
“Is this official? MI6 are onto this person?” Ramsay asked.
“No.”
“Then what gives?” Rashid asked dubiously. “You’ve dug into the South African Secret Service’s affairs, come up with this guy?”
“No.”
Rashid shook his head. “What then?”
“I liked Caroline.”
“She’s spoken for,” said Ramsay.
“Not like that. Well, alright, but not for that reason.”
Rashid glanced at Ramsay, then looked back and frowned. “Then what reason?”
Ryan Beard was tall and blonde, smartly dressed in a white linen suit. He looked like a model on assignment, the glistening sea behind him, Table Mountain to his right. He leaned against the white SUV and shrugged. “Various. Firstly, Caroline was a piece of work. She took out two would be rapists and assassins. She then carried on with her assignment, got ambushed by two guys. Between her and the South African Secret Service agent who died, she got out alive. The agent was sacrificed by a traitor in the SASS. We work closely with local intelligence. There’s no room for traitors.”
“And?” Ramsay asked incredulously.
“And, what?”
“You said, various reasons. Why else are you doing this?”
“I don’t follow.” Beard glanced back at the Mercedes hire car. Marnie was seated in the passenger seat and working on her laptop, apparently not having noticed the impressive sight of Table Mountain rising out of the rock before her, or the glistening ocean to her right.
“You don’t want to catch this guy who was happy to have your agent killed?” Rashid studied him closely, looked the man directly in the eye. He wasn’t trained in such techniques, but he knew a liar when he saw them. He would soon tell. “Were you expecting somebody else?”
Ryan Beard shrugged. “The Reaper, I suppose.”
“Reaper?” Ramsay frowned.
“King.”
“You know him?”
“Our paths crossed when I first took the job.”
“And what job is that?”
“Embassy man. I help our workers with anything they may need.”
“So, you get the kit, help with transport, that sort of thing?” Rashid clarified. He’d met a few in his time. One such man had helped him in Turkey getting through to Syria.
Beard nodded. “But not with The Reaper, no. I just greeted him. He did everything else.”
“So, when was this?” Ramsay asked.
“Ten years ago, a couple of times since.”
Ramsay frowned. “But King wasn’t with MI6, he worked as an unofficial with MI5. He was our late Deputy Director, Charles Forester’s man.”
Ryan Beard looked adamant. “No, he was definitely an MI6 agent.”
Ramsay considered this for a moment. Beard was silent. Rashid said nothing. He knew enough about King’s nature not to have probed. The man was an enigma, and it was King’s completion of the SAS selection course, not once but multiple times, that had cemented their friendship. Rashid had seen King once at Hereford. MI6 had a poor sense of humour, used the toughest selection process in the world to keep their agents both fit and on their toes.
“Okay,” said Ramsay quietly. “So, what? Merely out of solidarity to the Firm?”
Beard shrugged. “Caroline and King are together. I figured he would show up sooner or later, I wanted to call the shots, offer the information before he chose to seek it for himself.”
“And the Reaper tag?”
“Folklore,” replied Beard. “Caroline rebuked some of it, but it was said that King was seated near an MI6 traitor in Switzerland. He was drinking coffee. When the guy looked over and spotted King, he went back to his hotel and killed himself,” he paused. “Shit, it sounded better when I told it to Caroline…”
“Can’t beat The Reaper…” Rashid mused quietly.
Ramsay nodded. “Okay, Mister Beard. Thank you for your cooperation. Where is this SASS traitor?”
“He has a place in vineyard country. Just outside Franschhoek.”
“Is he under surveillance?” asked Rashid.
“Not yet. A contact inside the secret service has granted me forty-eight hours before he calls it.”
“Meaning?” Ramsay prompted.
Beard shrugged. “Hey, I thought King would come.”
“They want him dead?” Ramsay baulked. He glanced at Rashid, then looked back at the MI6 officer. “Really?”
“Look, this is bandit country,” Beard paused. “They have the guy banged to rights. He has an account with a lot more money in it than he would ever be able to explain. He has taken payments, made the contacts and there is a trail to all four dead men left here in your agent’s wake. My contact has granted me carte blanch. They want the information we glean from him, then they want him out of the picture. That’s the price for a free lunch.”
“Well, it’s not exactly free, is it…” Ramsay said sardonically. He looked at Rashid. “Are you okay with that?”
“Am I fuck?”
“But…”
“I think I’m due a raise.”
“You’ve worked for MI5 for two days.”
“A big raise. I think I remember you mentioning it earlier.”
Beard smiled. “Look, sort it out amongst yourselves. This is my little gift for you. MI6 will know nothing about it. MI5 get a link to that sniper and his paymasters who took out all the rich people last month.”
“And in return?” Ramsay asked. It was quid-pro-quo. Nothing came for free.
“I have helped. King doesn’t come around here cutting all the loose ends.”
“Crikey,” Ramsay paused while he considered it. “That man certainly does have a reputation.” He looked at Rashid. “We can sort this out, yeah?”
Rashid shrugged. “I suppose.”
Ramsay turned to Ryan Beard. “Okay. Lead the way. Rashid will travel with you, I’ll follow in the Mercedes. Pull up a few miles short and we’ll work out the order of things.”
41
Caroline heard the footsteps, heavy and deliberate. She could tell they were not Michael’s. They belonged to somebody heavier, and altogether more confident. She slid off the bed, waited near the dresser, close to her makeshift club with the big bolt protruding from the end.
The padl
ock clicked and grated, and the bolt slid cleanly through. Caroline watched the handle turn and the door open steadily. She could not see anyone until it was nudged wider, then she shivered when she stared into the face of the man who had touched her, felt her when she had been so vulnerable.
The Beast.
She was scared, and she knew the man could see it in her eyes. She shivered involuntarily.
The Beast reached behind his back and pulled out a small automatic. A 9mm Makarov. He smiled at her as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and threw them onto the bed. “Put these on,” he drawled, his Russian accent thick and guttural. “No funny business, or you get a bullet. Okay?”
Caroline picked up the handcuffs and begrudgingly clipped them over each wrist. The Beast raised the pistol and walked over to her. He reached out and gripped her left wrist, squeezed the cuff and it ratcheted tightly. He smiled as she winced, repeated it again with her right wrist. He let go, reached for her hair and yanked hard, bringing the pistol up into her neck.
“No funny business,” he said, then pushed her ahead of him, out of the bedroom and into the dark corridor.
Caroline’s heart was pounding. She tried to assimilate what was happening, told herself there would be an opportunity at some point, but there was an over-powering sense of dread that she could not shift. Her legs became heavy and her breathing erratic.
Ahead of her, a narrow staircase was lit by a window high above. She could see clouds scudding across the blue sky. She looked at the stairs, a strip of well-worn carpet, almost threadbare and accented by grimy painted floorboards on both sides. She could tell the house had not received attention in many years. Perhaps even decades. But the wear indicated that it was in constant use.
“Downstairs, turn right, go into the room,” The Beast ordered. “And no funny business…”
Caroline wondered if he had learned his English from forties American gangster movies. She did as she was ordered, slowly. She would not give the animal the satisfaction of obeying meekly. He moved closer to her and prodded her back with the muzzle of the pistol. She grimaced as she smelled stale cigarette smoke and body odour on him. She entered the room, a large innocuous area which had been set aside as a dining area. A large pine table some twenty-feet in length and half as wide and surrounded by at least twenty chairs. The table was grimy but had been wiped after use. The room was otherwise featureless and windowless.
“Sit,” ordered The Beast.
Caroline pulled out a chair and sat down. The beast walked around the table and sat down as well, keeping the pistol in his hand and aiming towards her. He had relaxed his hand, placing the pistol on the table, his hand loosely holding the grips, but was far too distant for Caroline to attempt anything other than suicide.
“Now what?” she spat at him.
“You shut up and wait.”
She did not have to wait long. Caroline looked up as a woman entered. She was strikingly beautiful, but predatory and severe. Her eyes were as dark as jet, her shiny black hair cut in a sharp bob. She looked different now though. Sad, where once she had exuded nothing but confidence. She had seen the woman once before. Until then, she had only seen her in magazines, barely-cohesive articles on the internet, or in a series of photographs from files within MI5. She had seen the woman in person in a derelict house. She had almost died, was still gasping for air and clearing her throat of muddy water when the woman had walked in. She had picked up the knife King had left for her, and for a moment, Caroline had thought she was going to help cut the bindings on her ankles. She had seen the look in the woman’s eyes, knew she was in trouble, but had been left far too weak from her ordeal to fight her off.
“Caroline,” she stated flatly, as she pulled out a chair and sat down next to The Beast.
“Helena Snell.”
“It’s Milankovitch now,” she corrected her.
“Congratulations. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring cake.”
Helena looked her up and down. “I wonder if you will still be so feisty after you have been forced to sleep with a thousand men?”
Caroline looked at her warily. “What is your problem? You had your husband killed, got caught out and want revenge?”
“I want revenge for my soulmate! Not that piece of shit you call a husband!”
Caroline nodded. “Viktor Bukov?”
“Yes.”
“So, where is he?”
“You killed him!” Helena snapped. “Or rather your precious organisation did.”
Caroline shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Liar!” She pushed her chair back and it scraped on the flagstone floor as she stood up. She paced around, her arms folded, accentuating her slim waist. “Viktor was slaughtered on a rooftop by a sniper…”
“And what was he doing on the roof? No doubt attempting to assassinate another person on your death list.”
Helena glared. She had no answer. She had been waiting for him in the street below. It was to have been their last hit. They had almost been home and dry…
Helena smiled. “I think it’s time I showed you around,” she said. “Let you see what awaits you, if your boyfriend doesn’t make contact with me soon.”
“Why would he contact you?”
Helena smiled. “Do you know how the northern Sami and the Inuit use a wolf’s character trait against it? No?”
“No,” Caroline said quietly.
“Well, let me enlighten you. You see, the cold does many things to someone. Also, to the animals inhabiting the frozen wilderness. Feelings are one thing. The cold can numb the senses, dull the emotions. You are hungry, and there is food, but it takes so much effort. Nothing is easy. And therefore, nothing can be ignored. Every opportunity must be exploited. The wolf for instance, like your beloved Alex, well, it is in its nature to kill. It will use its skills to secure a kill, but it will also put itself at risk. This is in its nature. The opportunity cannot be passed up. And therefore, with a little ingenuity, the wolf easily becomes a target. Feared and revered, when it is known that a creature will exploit anything, it can be used against them. The wolf will be tricked, just by its very nature. And when you know that you are up against a wolf, well you have to use the wolf. You must use its tenacity, its persistence, its determination to trick it. You see, the hunters in the cold and unforgiving regions of the north use only two things to catch a wolf. An opportunity and a means of exploiting it. They take a knife and they sharpen it like a razor. Afterwards, they simply dip it in blood and allow the blood to freeze. They repeat this until the blade is heavy and thick with frozen blood. Then, they melt some ice, either with warm blood or their own piss, and then ram the handle of the knife into the melted ice. It freezes in no time at all. What then? They hide? They call the wolf? No. They simply leave the blade for the wolf to find. The wolf smells the blood, watches, but sees no sign of a trap, nothing but the blood. The wolf sniffs the blood, then starts to lick. It licks the blood, cold and hard. Its warm tongue melts the blood, and soon the wolf’s tongue is slashed to pieces. Its mouth is cut and bleeding, but the blood adds to the taste, the frenzy it finds itself in. Blood, blood, more blood. Warm and delicious; its tongue numb from the lacerations. The wolf cannot believe how easy this meal has been to find, to exploit. But soon, the wolf is bleeding terribly, soon the wolf is weakening as it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds; yet continues to feed, to drink its own blood. The wolf is dying but does not realise. Not even at the end, when the wolf finally collapses and dies…” she paused. “You see, you are the bloodied knife. King is the wolf. He is doing my bidding, but he will die doing it…” She nodded to The Beast and he walked around the table and pulled Caroline roughly to her feet. “Because he’s performing certain tasks for me. I suppose to buy you time while he mounts a grand rescue. It won’t work out that way, but I guess he’s desperate enough to believe he has a chance.”
“What tasks?” asked Caroline, as she was propelled forwards and walked in front o
f them.
Helena said nothing as they reached a door and The Beast pushed Caroline up against the wall. Helena opened the door, then caught Caroline by the arm, linking her own inside. They stepped outside and to any casual observer, it could have looked like two old friends meeting for the first time in an age.
“Your man is a killer. I’m merely using him for business.”
“He’s killed, but he’s done it for the right side,” Caroline corrected her, but already she felt a sinking feeling.
“I was part of the Bratva, the brotherhood,” she paused. “The Russian mafia. Well, I suppose I wasn’t as much a part of it, as a sex slave for it. They used and abused me, degraded me. Sold me, bought me back, hired me out. But I learned many things. About myself, and about them…”
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said. She meant it and sounded sincere. But she knew she wasn’t going to win over this woman.
“I learned that vengeance is a dish best served cold, as they say. I also learned how powerplay works. That if someone in power dies, how you can exploit that position entirely.”
Helena slowed her pace as they reached a stone-built barn. It had been refurbished, fitted with windows, but Caroline noticed that the windows were barred.
On the inside.
“What do you mean?” Caroline asked, to bide time as much as understand.
“King has killed two prominent brotherhood bosses for me. I had the resources and insight in place to take over. To appeal to those who were left, shown them that my way would be the best for all concerned.”
“What? In the brief time since the rug was pulled from under you?” Caroline asked incredulously.
“I had no options open to me. I am a fugitive. I had some money in a few offshore accounts, got the funds out in time. Bought bitcoins, mined and sold them on. Digital currency quickly becomes untraceable. But what I had to give me my in, to get me ahead, was a great many contacts within the brotherhoods,” Helena paused. She stood aside while The Beast stepped around Caroline and opened the door. It was padlocked and bolted from outside. “This has been up and running for years,” she said, sweeping her hand across the façade of the building. “Come see inside…”
