by A P Bateman
Mereweather looked at his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. He was about to ignore it for a moment, collecting his thoughts for the imminent COBRA debriefing he would have with Director Amherst back at Thames House. There was barely a number he didn’t have stored, but the number was an international one, and he felt compelled to take it. He answered and was greeted by a woman’s voice, heavy in accent with a little background white noise.
“Operator services, I have a reverse-charge call from Georgia, will you accept the charge?”
“Yes.” A series of clicks followed, more white noise, then Mereweather said, “Hello?”
“Simon! It’s Caroline…”
“Caroline! Oh my god! Are you alright?”
“I am,” she hesitated. “But I’m not safe.”
“Are you free?”
“I am.”
“Where? Tell me and I’ll get an asset to you.”
“Seems to be becoming a habit…”
“Where are you?”
“Batumi,” she said. “On the Georgian Black Sea coast.”
“Where?”
“Hard to say. I have a vehicle, but no money and no phone. The British embassy is in Tbilisi, but it wasn’t practical to head that way. I don’t have enough fuel to reach Tbilisi.”
“Neil Ramsay is in Georgia. He traced Helena’s IP address to a deserted farmhouse on the outskirts of Skhimili.”
“That’s where I was being held!” she gushed, the relief and knowledge that they had been looking for her was almost too much, the emotion heavy in her voice.
“He’s up there now. The police are all over it. But it’s deserted.”
“They haven’t found anything?”
“They are taking swabs and prints as we speak.”
“People. What about people? Women?”
“Women? No. The place was empty.”
“Simon, it was hell. It was a staging post for sex trafficking, baby farms… There were many women there…”
“Well, they’ve cleared out now,” Mereweather paused. “I’ll call Neil right back, get him to come and get you. Where can you meet?”
Caroline hesitated, then said, “There is a lighthouse and Ferris wheel on the seafront. I’ll meet him there.”
“Hang tight,” Mereweather said. “He’ll come straight over.”
“Simon,” Caroline said quietly. “Is Alex okay?”
“Why do you ask?” he paused. “Apart from the obvious?”
“Helena said she had him working for her. To keep me from harm. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is he okay?” she asked again.
“We don’t know,” Mereweather paused. “He’s taken down half the Russian mafia and an Italian mafia syndicate for good measure. In short, we don’t know where he is.”
“Helena needs to be caught.”
“Well, we’re working on it. Look, stay put, I have to go so I can get you picked up,” he paused. “It’s brilliant to hear your voice again. Stay safe…” Mereweather ended the call, scrolled and dialled Neil Ramsay’s number.
57
The Georgian police seemed to have a unique approach to securing a crime scene. Once every officer had trod their way through with muddy boots, they gathered and smoked a cigarette each. Talked in low voices and agreed it would be a good idea to walk the mud through again, this time picking up everything within reach without gloves, regroup and smoke again, each man flicking their cigarette stubs in different directions. Some long and low conversations later, and relatives of the police were now on scene to assist, smoke, traipse mud of their own through the crime scene, then confer over more cigarettes. Somebody had found a bottle of alcohol and a few of the lower-ranked officers gathered behind one of the barns to share it. After a few more smokes, a vehicle arrived and then a man got out wearing a suit and carrying a medical case. He conferred with the group of officers, accepted a cigarette and smoked it on his way in.
Ramsay looked up, glanced at Marnie, then looked back at the man in the suit.
“I am officer Danko, I am the forensic scientist.”
“I’m with the British Home Office,” Ramsay said without offering his name or department. “There looks to be evidence of people being held here. One of our people may have been held prisoner here,” he paused. “We are sending over a DNA sample, fingerprints, blood type and photograph to your headquarters.” He looked dejectedly at the mud on the floor, the officers walking through. “In the event of a miracle and you actually finding any forensic evidence that hasn’t been corrupted by your colleagues, the British Government would appreciate you correlating this data and sharing it immediately.”
The forensic scientist shrugged and walked over to two police officers, who pointed towards the stairs. He left the room without a glance.
“Fat lot of good this will do,” Marnie said. “I only know about these things from watching Silent Witness and CSI, but I’m guessing they don’t excel in the world of forensic science out here. I doubt they even watch those shows.”
“I doubt they even get Quincy,” Ramsay commented flatly. He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket and took it out. He saw Simon Mereweather’s number on the display. “Hello?”
“Drop whatever you’re doing and get down to Batumi on the coast. There is a lighthouse and a Ferris wheel on the seafront. Caroline will be there.”
“What?” Ramsay asked incredulously. “A trade?”
“No. She escaped, and she’ll be waiting for you.”
Ramsay was already walking, Marnie snapped to and followed, her expression one of concern. He strode out across the farmyard, talking as he went. “Is she okay?”
“She sounds shaken, and she has no money or phone, so hurry and pick her up. Call me as soon as you have her.”
Ramsay put the phone back in his pocket and reached for the keys to the hire car.
“Problem?” Marnie asked.
“No. Caroline is safe. But she has no funds, no way of contacting us and we have to drive to a town called Batumi and pick her up. She escaped…”
“Escaped?” Marnie interrupted.
“Yes,” Ramsay replied tersely. “I don’t have the details yet, because I’m sure Simon hasn’t either.”
“What about Rashid?”
“Screw him.”
“No, seriously.”
“Seriously, screw him. He isn’t going to be with MI5 after that little stunt he pulled.”
“Well, it must have been important,” Marnie protested. “Rashid is a good man.”
“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Ramsay paused, shaking his head. “I saw you and him kissing at the airport.”
Marnie stopped walking. “Firstly, that is between me, and my soon to be ex-fiancé. Rashid actually made me realise I was making a mistake, whatever happens or doesn’t happen between Rashid and myself when we get home.”
Ramsay stopped and turned around. “And secondly?”
“Secondly, don’t take a cheap shot at me because you’re pissed off with him.”
He turned back and carried on walking. “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was uncalled for.”
“Forget it,” she said. She took out her mobile and started searching for the name of the town. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll start satnav guidance now.”
“How far is it?”
“One-hundred and thirty-eight kilometres.”
“About two-hours then.”
“Try four and a half.”
“What?”
“That’s what it says here. It’s not the M1, that’s for sure.”
Ramsay got into the Skoda Superb, had the engine started before Marnie got in. As her backside hit the seat he took off at speed, the front wheels throwing up gravel that scattered down the side of the vehicle. Her door closed when enough wind force pushed it shut. She was struggling with the seatbelt, which had locked up when the wheels lost traction.
“Holy crap!” she shouted.
>
“Four and a half hours, my arse,” he said, and took the car up to eighty miles per hour down the narrow country lane. The car scudded over potholes large enough for a corpse to be buried in, the car bouncing and weaving its way down the track. “I said two-hours, and by Christ we’ll do it in two.”
58
Batumi, Georgia
King could see the lighthouse in the distance. It had been recently painted and he imagined that the up and coming town had seen some investment with the intention of seeing Batumi elevate to a holiday resort that appealed to couples and families, as well as casino goers and clubbers. The Ferris wheel would indicate that the town’s council envisaged more for the resort than blackjack and slot machines. Further up the seafront, King could see towers and other fairground attractions, that looked set in place for the summer. Perhaps the town council would follow the Spanish and import better sand, rather than the dark quarry dust and chippings the beach was made up of.
King knew the difference a few streets could make. The tourists wouldn’t see this aspect of Batumi though. Tenement housing, run down businesses and vacant properties. Some properties looked to have been broken into, squatters taking up residence. A few hundred metres off the strip, set back from the three parallel streets running along the seafront. There were a couple of bars, but they were dark and foreboding-looking places only the hardened traveller or misguided fool would wander into in a state of inebriation.
There were three of them. King had watched for an hour and was certain of the system they were using. He watched as a white Mercedes with large after-market exhausts and spinning wheel hubs pulled in, its windows as dark as coal. The driver’s window lowered, and a man casually walked over, his gait more swagger than purpose. He bent down, said very little as King watched the driver hand over a fold of banknotes. The man turned and walked back to the bar, where a youth of around fourteen took the money and darted down the alleyway. King had a good enough view to see the boy hover at the entrance to a tenement block. A scruffy-looking man appeared, took the money and stepped back inside. King watched for a few minutes, and then saw the man appear in the entrance and hand the youth a package. The boy ran back along the alley and stopped at the edge of the bar, handed the package to the frontman, who sauntered back over to the Mercedes. The window lowered again, and King could hear rap music fill the air. The man stepped back, and the Mercedes powered away, its rear wheels lighting up on the rough tarmac. The man sat back down at a table outside the bar and the youth had faded away into the alleyway. It was like a smooth-running restaurant – front of house, dining staff and chef. A drug chain that could easily be broken if the police happened by. Each heading their separate ways.
King started the car and drove past the bar, then turned first right, and then again. He parked the car near some dumpster bins and looked around. The car was a new model Dacia. A nothing car, but everything to somebody living here. He doubted it would be long before somebody tried to steal it, but he had taken out the insurance and he had noticed an Avis and Eurocar in the business centre of Batumi. It was only a short walk to the seafront and its lighthouse and Ferris wheel, he would head that way and work his way in on better streets.
He got out and opened the boot. He rummaged underneath the carpet and retrieved a single head tyre iron. He slipped it up his sleeve and closed the boot lid. The alley was open-ended, and King figured he’d found it as he crossed the road and glanced around, keeping alert, but making himself seem alert too. Trouble rarely looked for trouble, and with his broad shoulders and chest, athletic waist, close-cropped hair and pugilist’s brow, he looked like a serious opponent. The cat-like grace with which he crossed the road, hopped the pavement, his fists ready and his motions fluid, he could well have been heading through the crowd to a boxing ring.
King best-guessed the building – now on his left – and stepped into the doorway on his right. He had a good eyes-on for both the entrance of the tenement block and the youth who would come with the money and take back the drugs. It was now only a matter of time.
The alley smelled of urine and damp over domestic waste. It was closely hemmed in by buildings built in the Soviet era, where thought was only towards housing the masses and ensuring workers of certain demographics had accommodation and were close to work. In this case, most probably the port for which Batumi had once been a crucial link for the Soviet empire. King guessed the place had seen better days. Most of it appeared empty now. Since it broke away from the Soviet Union, Georgia had become a hub for travellers, people looking for the next best thing. The beach resorts of the Black Sea were never going to compete against the Costas or the south of France, but they were no worse than much of Italy’s or Cyprus’, and holidays on the Black Sea could cost half the price as those destinations. The money put into Batumi’s seafront and new town showed that commerce was set to grow. Places like this, the rotten, degraded pockets of poverty would be gone before long. And the drug dealers would have to ply their trade elsewhere.
King could see a garish yellow Range Rover slow and pull up outside the bar. It was an old model vogue lowered and kitted out to loosely represent a Range Rover Sport. The windows were blacked out, and already King could hear some R&B coming out hard. A moment later, the boy ran down the alleyway towards him. The boy shouted when he reached the entrance and thirty seconds later the man appeared. King could see him clearly now. Shaved head, bearded, tattooed and muscular. He snapped at the boy as he took the money. King could see he had a pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. He disappeared, came back moments later with the package. The boy ran back towards the bar and King stepped out of the doorway and crossed the alleyway.
The entrance was dark, and a cage door was propped open, the man almost through when King stepped inside. He let the tyre iron drop down his sleeve. He was only two paces behind the man when he turned around. King swung the iron, but the man was quick. He dodged left, drew backwards and went for the pistol. King swung again, the iron swiping an inch in front of the man’s face. He kicked out, caught the man in the groin. The man dropped, but caught hold of King’s shirt as he fell, and he pulled King downward. King smashed the iron down on the man’s back and he cried out as he let go and fell. He had fight training, and as he curled into a ball, his hands held in a tight boxer’s guard, he kicked wildly and repeatedly, stopping King from attacking further. King kicked downwards, keeping his eyes on the man’s hands. There was still a firearm in the mix, but it was ok until the man reached for it, which he would do if King did not keep up the momentum of the assault. He struck the man’s shin with the tyre iron, then went to take a better swing when he felt himself pulled from behind. Both the frontman and the boy were grabbing at him, and it was enough time for the man on the ground to get into a better position. The frontman was reaching for a blade. King had left the flick-knife in France, without hold luggage, he couldn’t risk it in his carry-on. King kicked backwards, keeping the man on the ground busy. He caught him in the face, heard the crunch of bone, keeping his eyes on the knife. The frontman swung, as King caught hold of the boy by his shirt collar and met the attack head on, using him as a shield. The boy was slightly built, and after his back took the swipe of the blade – a grimace on his face – King smashed the youth back into the frontman, putting distance between himself and the blade. The back of the boy’s head was in front of the frontman’s face, and King cupped his face with the palm of his hand and smashed his head backwards into the frontman’s jaw. Once, twice, three times… By the fourth time, the man had slumped enough for the boy’s head to smash his nose flat. He slid down the wall and King let the youth go, where he fell and joined him. As he turned, the man on the floor was reaching for the pistol. King darted forward and punched the man with a right-cross to his jaw. He was out cold before he fell backwards onto the urine-soaked concrete.
King was heaving for breath. It hadn’t gone like he had wanted it to. But things seldom ever did. He took the pistol out of the man’s je
ans. And tucked it into his own. He turned to the boy, who although wasn’t out cold, was lying down, clearly shocked. He was holding the back of his head, tears in his eyes and panting for breath. King caught hold of him and pulled him forwards to check the wound. His head was swelling, but not bleeding. His back had taken a slash, but it wasn’t deep. The knife had been blunt and had pulled across the boy’s shirt, cutting in places, scratching for the most-part. The blade was most likely dirty, and the boy would need medical attention. But it was the swelling to his head that King was most concerned about. He had taken quite a battering. He cursed quietly to himself. But he pushed the boy back down onto the unconscious body of the frontman and went about checking the other man’s pockets. There was a spare magazine for the 9mm Makarov pistol which King took, along with the roll of banknotes from the drugs transaction.
He looked back at the boy. “You speak English?”
The boy nodded.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
King could see a wispy moustache beginning to poke through, but he was a long way off shaving. He looked the boy up and down. He didn’t feel guilty, worse things had happened to him by that age. But he felt compassion, because he knew when these men woke up, the boy would be ferrying drugs and money and would not be going anywhere near a hospital.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” he said. “Come with me, and I’ll drop you outside the medical centre. I’ve seen one in the new town.”
The boy looked hesitant, but he removed his hand from the back of his head, checked his fingers for blood and shrugged.
“Your head needs a cold pack,” King explained. “And you may need a stitch or two in your back, but you definitely need it cleaned and perhaps some antibiotics in case it gets infected.” King looked at the state of the floor, was certain it was most likely infected already.
“Okay,” the boy shrugged, like it was an everyday occurrence.
