by A P Bateman
“Viktor Bukov?”
“Victor…” Botha nodded.
“You met him?” Ramsay prompted.
Botha nodded.
“And the woman,” Ramsay paused, watching the man’s eyes. He caught hold of his wrist, checked for a pulse and glanced at his watch. The man’s pulse was over one-fifty. His heart couldn’t sustain the dose of sodium panthenol, nor the dramatic blood loss and whatever damage the 9mm bullets had done internally. “Who was the woman?”
“The… billionaire’s wife,” Botha said, but started to gasp for breath. “Snell…”
“Her name?”
“Helena…”
“What did she ask of you?”
He gasped again, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. “To… help the sniper in and out of the country,” he paused, his head lolling listlessly from side to side. Another gasp. “And to block the British agent investigating…”
“What do you mean by block?” Ramsay asked.
“I… I don’t feel well…”
“You’ll be fine,” Ramsay said curtly. “An ambulance has been called and is on its way. Now, what did Helena Snell mean by block?”
“Kill,” Botha paused. He seemed to have trouble swallowing now. “I was asked to arrange for someone to kill her. To buy her and Bukov time…”
Ramsay turned to Rashid and said, “Get him some water.”
Rashid did as he was asked and took a glass off the draining board, filled it and handed it to Ramsay, who was checking Botha’s forehead with the back of his hand. He took the glass and offered the man a drink.
“He’s burning up,” Ramsay said. “He’s about to go pop.”
Rashid shrugged like it was nothing. “Well, hurry up, then,” he urged. “We need a link to Helena. Not a back story…”
“I’m doing it!” Ramsay snapped. He tipped the remainder of the glass on the man’s head and the water cascaded over his face and neck. Botha appeared not to notice. He pulled the man’s eyelid up and could see they were dilated. They were also red, blood vessels had burst, most probably due to the man’s high pulse. He checked Botha’s wrist again, frowned. He monitored it for fifteen seconds, then looked up at Rashid. “Over two-hundred…”
“Can’t sustain that with the gunshot wounds…”
“Nor the temperature,” Ramsay paused. He snapped his fingers in front of Botha’s face, then gave his cheek a gentle tap. The man was dazed and appeared intoxicated to the point of passing out. Ramsay stood up. “I could give another shot of adrenalin…”
Rashid shrugged. “Not my area of expertise.”
Ramsay went back to the graphite box and drew a small amount into the syringe with the large needle. He checked for air, tapped the side and held it ready. “Hold him, would you?”
Rashid caught hold of the man’s shoulders and braced. Ramsay brought the needle down through the chest wall and into the heart. Botha went rigid and kicked out, catching Ramsay in the shin. The man cursed and hobbled on the spot for a moment. He put the syringe back in the box and crouched down to look the man in the eyes.
“The ambulance is near,” he lied. “You’re going to be alright. I need you to tell us where Helena is. Where the Russian woman is,” he said slowly. “I need to know how to contact her.”
“She called me… the man, Bukov, gave me a cell phone…”
“What do you mean?”
Botha gasped, clutched his chest. He grimaced, spoke through gritted teeth. He couldn’t resist the sodium panthenol, the urge to unburden and cooperate. “Bukov gave me a cell. It had her number on it…” He sucked air through his teeth. He was soaked in sweat, had started to shiver. “One number only… must keep it switched off… contact by text… turn it on at midnight, then every three hours for five minutes only… she will text back when she’s ready…”
“Where is the phone?” Ramsay asked. He could see Botha shutting down, breathing less, his eyes fading. “Tell me!”
Rashid pushed his fingers deep into the carotid artery, on the left side of the man’s throat. “Faint pulse,” he said. “He’s gone.”
“Damn it!” Ramsay snapped the graphite box shut and put it back in his pocket. He picked up the glass and walked it to the sink where he washed it with detergent and left it in the sink. He rubbed the taps with the tea towel. “Let’s try and find that phone,” he said.
45
Caroline had regained consciousness before The Beast had returned her to her room. She had lolled over his shoulder, his body odour rancid and almost enough to make her gag. He had taken the stairs as if her weight had been unnoticeable. He was a huge man, his back as wide as a cart-horse. He smelled about as bad as one, too.
She knew he would try something when they reached the room. She managed to get the wingnut out of its hiding place, tucked into her bra, and got it between the knuckles of her right hand. The metal protruded over a quarter of an inch. Enough to make a mess of his eye if she could get a punch there quick enough. The shock and pain would disable him, perhaps only temporarily, but she would not stop there. Like she had been taught by her krav maga instructor, the service’s close quarters combat instructors, and by Alex - who she sparred with as part of their fitness regime - she would just keep hitting, gouging and striking until The Beast stopped moving.
And she wouldn’t stop there.
The Beast took the stairs easily. Her heart was pounding, not only because she knew that the man would be intent on violating her, but because she knew that the time had come.
She would fight or die.
It would be as simple as that, because if The Beast overpowered her, she knew he would not stop until he got what he wanted. And she would never allow that.
Not over her dead body.
The door had been left open. The Beast was tall enough to have to duck down under the doorframe. Caroline would put him at six-feet-six. His frame was large; muscular underneath an ample covering of fat. Caroline felt the weightlessness as she was tossed through the air and landed on the bed. The mattress was old and most probably a poor-quality item when it had been purchased, and she felt the slats of the bed against her spine as she landed heavily and bounced once. She gave up feigning unconsciousness, looked up at him with contempt.
“Convenient,” he said, his accent thick and guttural. Barely pronouncing the vowels. “So good for you to be awake for this…”
Caroline tucked her legs up, turning herself into a ball. She was frightened, but it was also an integral part of her act. She would appear submissive, strike like lightening when he thought he had the upper hand.
“Jurgen!” Michael appeared in the doorway. He spoke Russian. A short sentence, but Caroline could make out Helena’s name. It was spoken like an instruction.
The Beast looked at Michael sternly, then back at Caroline. He shrugged, then said, “Later sweet one. Later I will show you, teach you a lesson…”
Michael glanced at Caroline, held the door open for Jurgen, then closed the door behind them both. Caroline could hear the bolt slamming back in place, the sound of the padlock hasp locking tightly. She had been close, but was now a prisoner once again.
46
King was seated in the departure lounge at Stockholm Arlanda airport. He had eaten open snow-crab sandwiches with lemon and dill mayonnaise at a concession stall, dressed-up to look like a street food stall. It wasn’t exactly convincing in its execution, but it offered him a chance to sit at the counter on a barstool and observe the rest of the lounge, and it was quiet which meant that nobody would be waiting for his seat or bother him with inane conversation. The server cleared away his plate and he turned his side to her while he washed the sandwiches down with a cold Mariestads beer.
He took out his mobile phone and scrolled through his address book. He thought about it for the third time in as many hours, decided against it again and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. He could not order things. It was like playing chess and thinking five moves ahead. He kne
w he was on the cusp of his mental capabilities. Helena Milankovitch was as devious and ruthless as anyone he’d ever been up against. But it was more than that. The tasks he had completed over the past couple of weeks and the threat of Caroline’s life hanging over him had been both physically and emotionally draining. He was starting to over-think things, doubt his chances of success. Sweden had been a case in point. He had over-thought the importance of the post office. The effort and risk involved in gaining access to that computer server was a move too far. If he could find an image of the person planting the letter and the phone in the safety deposit box, but what then? Sweden was to be the turning point, because Simon Grant had unwittingly laid it out for him.
Love is the strongest emotion, but it can so easily be used against you by those who would do you harm…
And with that, King had the answer he needed, the key to winning this duel with Helena Milankovitch. He had missed it in Italy. But he knew that he could find out what he needed to in France.
King scrolled through his mobile phone again. He found the number for the fourth time and dialled. The ring tone reached a count for three before it was picked up.
“Took your time…”
“Had a few things to work out,” replied King.
“Done now?”
“Pretty much.”
“Where are you?”
“Sweden. Just checking out.”
“Where next?”
“France. Unfinished business.”
“Really?”
“I think I’ve found an in.”
“Think?”
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“It never is.”
“It’s going to get dirty.”
“It always does.”
“I’m going to need your help.”
“Figured as much.”
“Can I count on you?”
“You have to ask?”
“Over and above.”
“Always.”
“I’ll text the details.”
“You’ll owe me.”
“Call it a pint?”
“Call it two.”
“Shit, the rate doubled.”
“You still owe me.”
“Hang tight, I’ll text you where and when.” King ended the call and smiled. He looked up at the monitor with the flight details and boarding gate numbers. His flight was now boarding. He drained the remnants of his beer and smiled.
Home stretch.
47
Rashid slipped his phone back into his pocket and opened the balcony doors. Ramsay was seated on the king-sized bed, a brandy and soda in one hand, his mobile phone in the other, eyes transfixed on the screen. Marnie had taken up position at the dresser. She was seated in the room’s only chair and was connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, linked through the MI5 server at Thames House and was call-conferencing with a technician with GCHQ. She wore wireless headphones with a wraparound mouthpiece and her fingers danced across the keyboard with the ease and deftness of a concert pianist. Beside her, Botha’s phone was open with a USB jack connecting it to the laptop. Botha’s laptop was running a reverse malware that would open his files without security settings. The connection to the running software not only broke Botha’s four-digit screen lock, but sent the details to GCHQ, where specialist equipment was running both a GPS history of Botha’s phone and the phone he was connected to. A picture was being built, created through cell grids, satellite relays and network masts.
“Important call?” Ramsay asked without looking up.
“Just me Mam,” Rashid replied. “She worries so…”
Ramsay shrugged. “Mothers…” he said somewhat cynically, his eyes not leaving the screen of his phone. He continued to scroll. “You’d tell us if your pal King ever got in touch, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good.”
“He’s your pal as well, right?”
“Of course.”
Rashid picked up his bottle of Heineken and sipped. He had decided on just one beer tonight, they had all decided on a drink, but it was a de-stressing tool, nothing more. They weren’t about to set Cape Town alight, but they needed something to calm them all down after the visit to Botha’s house. Ramsay had been distant. He had administered the dose of sodium panthenol, and the two shots of adrenalin had made the man’s heart beat like a drum. The MI5 field liaison officer did not seem comfortable with the way things had gone. Marnie had been quiet. Although she had not seen anything of the interrogation, she had seen more than her emit in the hallway. She had washed her shoes off in the sink in Ramsay’s room, as if washing the memory away as much as the blood in her tread.
Rashid perched on the edge of the second bed. Ramsay had secured three rooms, but they were using Marnie’s room as the hub. Marnie had been on her laptop for over an hour, ever since they had bid Ryan Beard goodbye and returned to the Victoria and Alfred Hotel.
“I put enough lead in Botha for him to die,” Rashid said quietly. “He may have got to hospital, but he wouldn’t have left. Besides, that was the deal for getting the information on him and access to him from the secret service.”
Ramsay drained his glass and placed it on the bedside table. “Why are you telling me this?”
Rashid shrugged. “I’ve killed before,” he said. “And I killed Botha. That’s all you need to take away from this.”
Ramsay nodded, smiled sagely. “Thanks.”
“Got it!” Marnie said triumphantly. “The IP address used for the transfer. And in turn, an address to the registered user.”
“Where?”
“Kensington,” she said. “But no surprise there, it’s Helena Snell’s property. Or at least registered to Ian Snell’s estate.”
“Damn it!” Ramsay snapped.
“No,” she said. “The IP address of the laptop has shown up at two separate locations.”
“Where?”
“Georgia.”
“America?” Rashid asked.
Marnie looked at him with enough contempt to show she was not over leaving her comfortable office in Thames House. And she blamed nobody else but Rashid. She wasn’t getting over it anytime soon. “No. The one next to Russia. Former USSR satellite country. Skhimili, to be precise. A small village or town near K’ut’aisi. Sandwiched between the Caucasus Mountains and the Lesser Caucasus Mountains.”
“Oh, yes. That one,” Rashid smiled.
“Where else?” Ramsay asked.
“Stockholm.” She looked at Rashid and sneered. “That’s in Sweden.”
“Nice…”
“You two!” Ramsay said tersely. He shook his head. “So, square one. The letter mentioned a safety deposit box in Sodertalje, a town outside of Stockholm. King went there and now two Russian mafia syndicates have been hit. Their leaders killed, at the very least. Helena Milankovitch had mafia links, in that she worked for them…”
“Was forced to work for them,” Marnie interrupted. “There’s a tremendous difference.”
“Why?” Ramsay countered.
“Because one way indicates a desire to take over, to use what she knows to get the opposition out of the way and broach onto their territories,” she paused, rubbed her tired eyes. “And the other means that this could be nothing to do with her wanting to branch out and everything to do with her wanting to pay them back. For the life she was forced to live, or for something else altogether.”
Ramsay nodded. “Okay. Well, we’ve got nothing more to go on here,” he said. “We need to get to where that laptop was previously used. Sweden is my bet, the logical place to go. It’s where King was summoned. In the meantime, you can still work with Thames House and GCHQ to find that bank account. Internet access permitting, that is. Get on the phone for updates whenever you can.”
Marnie glanced at Rashid. He could see she was not pleased to be going to Sweden. And nor was he, because it was a dead-end.
Marnie leaned back in the chair and sighed. “I’m fried. Are we e
ating anytime soon?”
Ramsay shrugged and looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said quietly. “You two go and eat. You can leave all this running, can’t you?”
Marnie nodded. “Sure. I’ll grab a bite to eat and see what’s happening when I get back.”
Ramsay nodded. “Okay then. We’re done for the day, unless of course, you can see any developments when you get back from dinner. I’m going back to my room, taking a shower and hitting the room service,” he paused. “Marnie, you can book our flights to Stockholm.”
“I think that’s a waste of time,” Rashid said quickly.
“Why?” Ramsay asked sharply.
“I think follow the trail to Russia. Or Georgia, at least. Helena Milankovitch is Russian, she worked with those dead mafia hoods around the Black Sea towns, we have GPS coordinates to a Georgian town…”
“But this started in Sweden,” Ramsay corrected him.
“It started in Russia,” Rashid argued.
“Georgia,” Marnie corrected him.
“Whatever… But it started with Helena Milankovitch. And it started in Georgia many years before she became Helena Snell, a billionaire’s wife and a long time before she left something in a safety deposit box in Sweden.”
48
Georgia
She could not succumb to sleeping. She was nearing total exhaustion, but could not let down her guard enough, not even for the quick five minutes the weaker part of her brain bartered for in the darkness.
She had eaten some crisps and a sort of cheese turnover sealed in a plastic packet. She had squeezed the edge, watched the air build inside as she had tested for a pin-prick, the slightest puncture which could have administered another drug. Michael had quickly provided her with the food, as well as another can of cola. She was still undecided about him. Had he been the man in her room? The man pushing at the wedged door? When she had seen The Beast, she had started to believe Michael’s protestations, but the way the man had carried her back to her room, like she was nothing more than a rolled-up blanket, made her doubt the ability of the tiny wingnut which had jammed the door shut. She imagined if The Beast had wanted to get in badly enough, then he could have reduced the door to mere splinters.
