by A P Bateman
Caroline stopped in her tracks. “I asked you where Alex was.”
Ramsay shook his head. “I don’t know,” he paused. “I haven’t had contact with him since this started.”
“So, you don’t know if he’s okay?” she asked. “Helena said that he was working for her, doing tasks to keep me safe.”
Ramsay nodded. “He has been,” he paused. “I don’t want to go into it here, but he’s a skilful chap. A certain set of skills, few possess. He has used them to good effect.”
“So where would be your best guess?”
“I imagine getting closer to Helena,” he said nonchalantly. “There’s nothing high-profile on the grapevine since his visits to France and Italy. Those weren’t exactly subtle affairs.”
“So, you’ve no clue?”
“No. But an SAS officer on secondment to five, a man King knows well, by all accounts, was working with us to help find Helena,” Ramsay paused. “Find Helena, find King. That was his angle. But I fear he has played us; been in contact with King throughout.”
“Rashid?”
“Yes.”
“Alex has no other friends in Hereford. He hates the place. I have met Rashid. He’s a solid character. Where is he?”
Ramsay hesitated. “Well, that’s just it,” he said. “We arrived in Tbilisi and while I was hiring the car, he upped and went.”
“Just like that?”
“The technician I have working with me, well, they both got fairly well acquainted…”
“And that’s why he left?”
“No. Marnie was with him when he got a call. He listened, didn’t speak much and left her standing there.”
“You think it was Alex?”
“I do,” he said.
“And he left through the airport, out onto the concourse?”
“Yes.”
“Then if it was Alex, that would mean he was in Georgia,” she said hopefully. “Which means Helena is still in Georgia and Alex is closing in on her.”
“Precisely.”
Caroline nodded. “We need to contact Rashid, see if he is with Alex. He’ll need to know I’m safe and well.”
“And are you?”
Caroline shrugged. “I’ve been through a lot, but I’ve seen a lot worse. Others did not have it as easy as I did,” she paused. “I was eventually held at a farm…”
“We’ve been there,” Ramsay said. “Near Skhimili. It was evident it had been in recent use, but it was deserted.”
“Oh, no…” Caroline said quietly. She looked at Ramsay, her expression sorrowful. “There were girls there, young women… they were being held, ready to go out to the sex trade. Pop-up brothels, the internet, sex-slaves to the wealthy and immoral. They also had women set aside for a baby farming venture.”
“Jesus…” Ramsay trailed off.
Caroline sighed. “The dark web, or deep web, or whatever the hell it’s called. A place where babies can be bought and sold. To the highest bidder, naturally.”
Ramsay shook his head and said, “I don’t get it. I just don’t understand how a British billionaire’s wife can get so low, so quickly.”
“She always was,” Caroline said. “She worked in the sex trade herself, was part of the Russian mafia. She married well, that’s all. She was the same person all the time. She cheated, keeping her long-time lover, Viktor Bukov, planned and schemed her husband’s death all along. Together, they came up with Anarchy to Recreate Society. A terrorist organisation praying on the rich and powerful. Modern-day Robin Hoods. But that was all a cover, a way of making Sir Ian Snell’s death look like part of a bigger picture. In doing so, she gladly sacrificed three other men, and people like the Jameson family, who simply died because they owned and lived at a house that was perfect for Bukov to take his shot from to kill Snell while he was down in Cornwall.”
“And both King and yourself thwarted their plans, uncovered them.”
“She’s a spiteful and vengeful bitch,” Caroline said bitterly.
“And clever too. Or at least smart.”
“But not as smart as Alex. He was onto them from the moment he investigated the murder scene. He knew that they had taken more than one shot from such a great distance. He knew that from the position Snell had been sitting in, and the granite wall behind him, meant he would have been drugged. Snell simply would have known he was being shot at. He would have moved at least.”
“Well, if Alex is onto her, we need to find out where he is so that we can be of assistance,” Ramsay said thoughtfully. “It just doesn’t feel right. The woman managed to be involved with the Russian mafia all this time, overthrew them using you as bait and a British agent to do her dirty work, and cleaned away her operation and evaded capture in a matter of hours, but she allows King to get near her? I don’t see it. With the best will in the world, the woman is out for vengeance, and I just can’t see her letting King get near her after all that has happened.”
“You think Alex is walking into a trap?”
Ramsay nodded. “I’m convinced of it.”
61
The mountain road led to a former communications outpost, chosen for the uninterrupted signal it would both receive or generate, high atop the tallest mountain in the range. It would have dated back to the original cold war, and King imagined bored and weary, undisciplined Soviet troops milling around, Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, waiting for word from Moscow, or counting down until their tour led them to something a little more favourable than a deserted mountain ridge. The posting would have been a punishment, or perhaps a last-chance shot across the bow for junior soldiers. A trained radio operator, and a handful of conscripts to cook, clean, guard and maintain the series of huts and bunks. Inspections would depend on the senior ranking soldier, and their own balance between social acceptance and fear of a snap inspection. The person in charge of this place would either be ostracised by his men or hauled over the coals when an officer turned up with high-ranking KGB officials for a report.
The buildings were now largely torn down. Graffiti and what King recognised as Russian profanity was tagged in garish colours on the remaining walls, and the roofing, windows and doors had all been stripped and stolen, most likely making up somebody’s house soon after the fall of the Iron Curtain.
Rashid had left his car further down the mountain, parked off the road in a mountain track and tucked the keys under the front wheel arch. He had then ridden the rest of the way up with King, who had turned around and parked nose facing outwards, ready to escape if they needed to. Rashid’s car would serve as a back-up plan if they were compromised by Romanovitch’s men and could not make it back to King’s car. Leaving the keys was merely soldier thinking – Rashid may not make it back, but it didn’t mean that King would be out of escape options. King did the same with his hire car, returning the favour for Rashid. The two men now made their way down the mountain slope, where they could see the Russian mafia boss’ property spread out below.
“I’m going to have to up my rate,” Rashid said, following King’s route through some loose boulders. “I keep getting into shit with you, and you never pay your bar tab.”
“Pretty sure I saved your arse in that mosque.”
“Wasn’t it the other way around?” Rashid laughed.
“It’s all a bit hazy now,” King said and ducked down behind a large boulder.
“Well, I saved your backside in France, that’s for sure.”
“Quit your bitching,” King replied. “At least I get you out from behind a desk.”
“It’s not exactly slow in the regiment.”
“It is if you ravage the daughters of senior officers who can block your career path.”
Rashid shrugged. “He should watch out. He’s got a fit wife too…”
King smiled, checked the position of the sun before he raised the binoculars and studied the property below. He could see that Romanovitch had undertaken work since Google Earth had been overhead. The main building was a McMansion.
Two-tone colours, pillars and tall windows. He estimated twenty rooms or more and could see that not only did the property boast an Olympic-sized swimming pool, but a sizable pool ran along the south side of the building, entirely enclosed in glass. The gardens reminded King of French palace lawns, with striped mowing patterns, water features and statues of women in vulnerable poses.
“The guy’s got it going on,” Rashid commented.
“And then some.”
“Let’s have a peek.”
King handed him the binoculars, turned his attention to the boundaries where the well-cultivated lawns and shrub borders met the Georgian mountain scrub.
“No fences,” Rashid said. “Other than the front gate and wall across the front of the property. Have to watch for motion sensors, but I doubt it. This is wild land. I imagine there are mountain goats, deer and wolves up here. Small vermin too. The sensors would be going off constantly.”
King could see that the property was set back from the entrance road like a horseshoe. A wall ran along the road, with large iron gates to the driveway, but the sides of the mountain rose up on three sides like a quarry.
“Got a few toys.” Rashid handed him back the binoculars. “Ferrari, I think. And a Rolls Royce.”
“Standard,” King replied. “Most probably got a few more in one of those barns.”
“We’re in the wrong business,” Rashid paused. “Or at least, on the wrong side.”
“Never.”
“Ever thought about selling those skills?”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
King stared at him. “Not once.”
“Me neither. Just shitting with you.”
King raised the binoculars again and skirted the perimeter. He watched a man walking across one of the lawns. He stooped and picked something up. King could see it was a hoe. The man reached an area of concrete, in the centre of which was a water feature. The man started to scrape something off the hard ground. King watched for a moment, then moved on. He could see that the Ferrari was a new model. He didn’t covet such cars, but he had flicked through enough magazines and satellite channels to recognise it. Car models changed so quickly these days that he could barely keep up, but he knew this one had electric capabilities that was more of a nod for pairing it to its petrol engine for almighty starship performance, rather than to save the planet. It cost north of a million and that’s when King started to lose interest. He liked the idea of a car a tenth of the price, providing he won the lottery, but he had seen too much of the worst in the world to know what a million pounds would do in some places, and the lives it would change. He saw such spending as a finger up to the rest of the world. Especially when it was criminals like Romanovitch who held the finger. He thought about the misery the man would have caused. He thought about the IEDs he had made, and how they would send the cars up into the air with the Russian mafia boss inside. An easy way to get the job done. But the job had now turned into a snatch and escape. And he could care less what happened to Romanovitch.
“There’s a guard coming out of what looks like a bunkhouse.”
“How can you tell?”
“That he’s a guard or that it’s a bunkhouse?”
“Both,” said Rashid.
“He has a sidearm. Can’t leave it alone. And the unit looks both drab and strategically placed,” King said, handing him the binoculars. “There’s a blue hue in the window. I reckon it’s coming from a bank of CCTV monitors.”
“Or a laptop.”
“Possible.”
“And the strategic element?”
“Close to the gate, enough distance from the house to be discreet and there are no cameras on the building. Every other building has a CCTV camera fixed to it, providing eyes-on across all points on the compass. The building is in the line of sight for at least three of those cameras, which provides the security personnel with a reference-point. If the worst-case scenario happened for them, then they can monitor an enemy’s progress in relation to their position.”
“Fair one.” Rashid slid down behind a large boulder and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He said, “I think the cars would make a great diversion. One of your fireworks up the exhaust and it will be a bunch of headless chickens down there.”
“If that is a bunkhouse, an IED in there would see our job easier.”
“That’s a lot of collateral, my friend.”
“There’s also a wireless receiver unit, solar panels and switch-feed generator on the roof. That place is the hub. If it goes up, the CCTV cameras on the house and other buildings mean nothing.” King shook his head. “As for collateral? It raises the odds a little more in our favour. I’ve got a Makarov and fourteen rounds. A few homemade bombs and an unarmed lothario who looks like he came dressed for the roulette tables in Monaco…” He looked at Rashid and shrugged. “Just saying…”
Rashid smiled. “But you’ve still got your sense of humour, so it will be okay.”
King ignored him, turned his attention to the house and its many windows. Romanovitch had invested in security measures there too. In the shape of net curtains bought for a few lari per pane in the local market. Or perhaps several thousand euros in Milan. Either way, King could not see in, but whoever was inside would undoubtedly be able to see out. They would be going in blind. It could only be done at night. As if to confirm this, four men stepped out of the hub. They loosened up, seemed to stretch as they talked. One man broke away and walked to the house, the other two waited for another man to step outside and they walked to one of the large outbuildings. He could not see if the men were armed, but he expected them to be.
“I’m thinking I get close, or at least, as close as I can,” King said. “There’s little moon tonight, I’ll use as much cover as I can and be ready to use an IED to breach the door to the main house.”
“While I create a diversion?”
“Exactly.”
“And you want that diversion to include putting an IED through the door to that security hub?”
“Best option.”
“Not for them.”
“There’s a lot of men down there. A lot of muscle, undoubtedly armed.” King looked at him earnestly. “I have everything riding on this. I really do appreciate your help so far,” he paused. “And I guarantee I will be there for you if you ever need me in the future, but I think it may be best if we part company.”
“You do?”
King shrugged. “I don’t think I can ask you to drop an IED through that door, not knowing how many are inside. And I don’t think it’s fair to. You have reservations. That much is clear. I’ll take it from here.” He raised the binoculars and looked back at the property below.
“Just like that?”
“Better all round.”
“I just think there’s a better way.”
“If I don’t get this done, I won’t see Caroline again. I know that.”
“Then kill Romanovitch and exfiltrate. Don’t complicate things taking a hostage of your own. For all you know, Catherine Milankovitch might not even be here.”
King rubbed a hand through his short hair. The thick strands sprung back as his hand moved further towards the back of his head. He sighed, shook his head.
“Your vision has become clouded.”
“You’re surprised?”
“No,” replied Rashid. “But this is a big deal. The man has security personnel and adequate measures. You have a short-ranged pistol and nowhere near enough rounds for a pitched battle with multiple targets. And I’m not armed at all.”
“I’ll manage,” he paused. “I always have.”
“Like in France?”
“I knew you’d show up.”
“And in that bloody mosque?”
“You had a gun, and your bindings were almost cut through.”
“You must have a death wish.”
“I’m still here,” King replied tersely.
“And so am I. But if we get down there and into a battle with
hardened Russian mafia, most of whom are probably ex-Spetsnaz, we’ll get in trouble. We don’t have enough firepower. Or men.”
King shrugged. “No hard feelings,” he said. “Get out of here. Go back and help Ramsay, to find Caroline through Helena. Keep it a two-pronged attack.”
Rashid stood up, took another look down at the distant property. He glanced at King, but he was studying something in the binoculars. He didn’t say anything more. It was a suicide mission with ten men, let alone one.
King watched Romanovitch step out onto the patio and make his way towards the Olympic-sized pool. He had studied the photographs that Helena had attached to her text message. The man looked a little older and greyer. A little fleshier. But there was no mistaking him. He rested the binoculars down beside him and turned around.
Rashid had gone.
62
Caroline had showered twice and stared into the mirror for a good while before showering again. She hadn’t seen her own reflection for a month and it seemed a novelty. In the car, she had looked haggard and worn. Now she looked cleaner, but still unfamiliar. There was something different about the way she looked, the way she looked back at herself. She knew part of her had died, lamented the feeling of loss. She hoped one day the sparkle in her eyes would return.
She couldn’t seem to rid herself of her ordeal, cleanse herself of the degradation of her capture and trafficking to the east. No amount of showering left her feeling clean. The way The Beast had touched her in the first house she had been taken to, the threat of what he was going to try back at the farmhouse and what he was going to do to her in that derelict, pitch-dark barn during her escape. And the blood that had splattered over her when she had killed him, and that too of Michael’s. It seemed as if it would never wash out. She stared at herself, deep into her eyes. She had taken a life. She had killed The Beast and she was not sorry.
She would do it again.
Ramsay had ordered her room service, told her he would meet later to discuss their next move. It was a decent hotel, and she had relaxed on the king-sized bed and eaten the club sandwich and fries, drank the gin and tonic and ordered more of the same. She hadn’t realised how famished she had been, nor how the comforts of a decent hotel and a nerve-steadying drink could relax her so.
