by A P Bateman
She had ordered King to bring Catherine to her, but King had said no and told her to listen. He had told her where and when and he had hung up on her when she had refused. He had not answered her call when she returned it. Twice more she had rung the number before he eventually picked up. He had told her how it would work and reiterated both where and when. And then he had hung up again.
But he had told her to bring Caroline.
She was still in with a chance.
King had not been aware of Caroline’s escape. She still had a card to play, and she would bluff her hand until she won.
Because she always won.
73
“I can’t let him go through with this,” Caroline said emphatically. “We can’t let him go through with this.”
Ramsay glanced at his watch. He took the next winding section of mountain road, slowed for the hairpin bend, and accelerated the modest Skoda as he exited the corner, and the section of road unfolded to another long straight. “Try him again,” he said, concentrating on the road ahead.
Caroline knew that King would hear her first voice message and return her call. There was no question about that. But she no longer had a mobile phone of her own and was calling from Ramsay’s number. Better to text, hope he saw the opening message on the locked screen. The annoyance of iPhone’s lack of privacy feature - often a curse for leaving the phone in front of her at meetings to have King text an intimate or downright rude message - may actually play into her hands. She couldn’t think what else to text, having sent a handful of messages already, but decided on:
Caroline is with us! – call ASAP – danger ahead!
She pressed the send icon then cursed loudly.
“What?” Ramsay snapped.
“No signal.”
“Wait one,” Marnie said, holding onto the hand-loop in the rear seat, bracing herself for another hairpin. She rummaged through her bag, retrieved a satellite phone with an antenna that looked like a child had fashioned it out of thirty Lego bricks. She twisted the antenna and handed it to her. “You’ll have to program in his number.”
“Bugger!” Caroline snapped. She looked back at her phone and saw that the message had not been sent. She re-sent it, watched the blue line trundle slowly across the screen, the signal indicator hover around one to two bars. She watched the blue line get close to the end and the signal bar dropped to no service. She cursed again, snatched the large phone off Marnie and set about typing in the number.
Ramsay wound the car around the bend, then slammed on the brakes, a lorry in their path and nowhere to go. The car skidded, then gripped as the traction control cut in and the ABS did its thing, but too late. He swung the car into the mountain face, sparks raining on the windows as the car scraped down the rock. Caroline screamed and Marnie, who had been leaning forwards, ended up thrown between the seats and head first into Caroline’s footwell. The lorry impacted on the front quarter with a glancing blow, but enough to fire off the airbags, throwing Marnie back the way she had come, where she slumped onto the rear seat. The lorry scraped down the side and the glass shattered. Caroline dropped the phones and rested back in her seat, shocked and confused. Her ears were ringing from the explosion of the airbags and the car had stalled, its hot and overworked engine ticking in the silence.
The lorry had carried on around the bend as if nothing had happened and was out of sight.
74
King watched the Audi approaching. He had chosen the stretch of road for its long approach in both directions. He hadn’t known which direction Helena would come from, but he knew the car. He had been adamant she tell him that. And so far, she was obeying his instructions. The Audi stopped. The lights flashed twice, and then it moved on slowly and steadily. No sudden movements or change in speed or direction. It entered the dusty and rocky layby and stopped. The road wound entirely around the top third of the mountain affording an uninterrupted view of the Black Sea. The layby would have made a wonderful vista stop. But not at this time of the morning. The rising sun was reaching the lower peaks, casting its golden hue on the sea and the town below. It was Sunday. And apart from two dedicated cyclists, intent on testing themselves against the challenges of the mountain pass, King had yet to see anyone else.
Helena got out of the car and as instructed, placed the keys on the ground. She took a step forward.
“That’s far enough!” King shouted. He held Romanovitch’s pistol by his side.
Helena kept on walking.
King raised the pistol.
“I said; that’s far enough!”
“Show me my sister.”
“Let me see Caroline.”
Helena swept a hand towards the car. It’s windows heavily tinted, and the windscreen taking the full glare of the rising sun. “See her for yourself…”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Don’t tell me how this works! I tell you how this works!”
“Go back to the car and bring her to me.”
“The same,” Helena replied. “I want to see my sister before this goes any further.”
Helena was fifty-metres from King and ten-metres from her car. King kept the pistol on her, but she was entirely unfazed.
King had never felt fear, nor anticipation like this. He was so close to getting Caroline back safely. He just had to remember he was dealing with Helena. It was like petting a cobra.
“Don’t move,” said King.
He edged backwards to the car and opened the boot-lid. Catherine was still bound at the wrists and cramped from the confined space. King could care less. She had tricked him, shot him and tried to strangle him.
He was past compassion.
Catherine limped with stiff legs in front of King, with him guiding her by the shoulder. She was wincing at the daylight, blinking and straining to see her sister. She said nothing. It wasn’t much of a reunion.
“Now get Caroline.”
Helena looked at her sister and smiled. It was a sly and impassive expression, like a weary and tormented older sibling gave when their tormentor was getting the punishment for something they hadn’t done.
“She’s not here…”
King pushed Catherine to the ground and raised the pistol. He could see there was no love lost between the two women. She wasn’t going to make a human shield, she was more likely to get in his way.
“You think I would come up here, with the directions and instructions you gave me and not take a counter measure?”
King said nothing, but he saw a flicker in her eye. Her expression changed slowly, recognition dawning. She looked past King, but he wasn’t new to this. He wasn’t going to turn around. And open himself up to a look behind you pantomime trick.
Helena was ashen. She took a step backwards. She was a hell of an actress. But King knew even she wasn’t a good enough actress to drain the colour in her face.
“Alex!”
King couldn’t help himself, spun around to see Caroline running down the edge of the road. She looked exhausted and was favouring a leg. She was soaked in sweat and encrusted with dust. There was blood smeared across her face where she had wiped it away from her nose. She was holding a small pistol in her right hand.
He turned back to Helena, but she already had a gun in her hand. A stainless steel snub-nosed revolver, glistening in the morning sun.
King had his pistol half-raised. Or fully raised, if he were to shoot her knee. But she was close, and the revolver looked steady.
“Counter measure…” King said quietly.
“Not even close,” she said.
She looked up at the mountainside and held up her hand. She made a chopping motion and pointed to Caroline, who had almost reached King. Helena scowled, looked at the mountainside again and repeated the chopping motion. She turned back to King, uncertainty in her eyes. He could tell it was an emotion she wasn’t used to.
“Counter measure,” King said. “My guy beat your guy,” he paused, stared at her intently and smiled. A
cruel, mirthless smile. He added, “Again.”
“No!” Helena fired the revolver.
She was incandescent with rage, and it affected her aim. The bullet sliced through the air an inch from King’s ear and he was already dodging to his right to put himself between the gunfire and Caroline. He heard another gunshot and returned one of his own, but it went wide, and Helena was still standing. The reports of the revolver were loud and crisp and as King caught sight again of Caroline, he could see Helena in his periphery adjusting her aim. Caroline fell forwards and hit the dirt hard. King threw himself down, slid close to Caroline on his belly and spun around, holding the pistol in a two-handed grip. He took aim and fired.
Miss.
He aimed lower, central body mass.
A larger target.
Concentrate.
Only three rounds left.
Catherine had got to her feet and was running for cover. She crossed in front of King and he lost sight of Helena in his sights, couldn’t shoot without hitting Catherine in the back. Helena tracked her aim across to Caroline, no longer fearing King, only intent on killing the person he loved. She wanted to hurt him more than killing him. She fired three shots. Catherine took two of them in the chest and fell.
Helena froze for a moment, realization kicking in. She looked at King fleetingly as he adjusted his aim, and then she dropped to the ground, a red hole appearing on her chest and a crimson splash leaving her back.
King got up and dashed to Caroline. He hugged her close.
“Help me up,” she said.
“No, stay there, I’ll get help…”
“Help me up. I’m not hit,” she said. “I fell…”
King hugged her like she would float away from him if he let her go. He felt her arms squeeze him tightly, her tears soaking his cheek.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly. He pulled away and looked at her inquisitively. “Where the hell did you come from?”
Caroline shifted in the dirt and sat up. “Ramsay had a text from Rashid. We high-tailed it up here, but a lorry hit us about six miles back,” she paused, wiped dust and tears and blood from her face. “Marnie was knocked out cold, Ramsay said you’re a big boy and his priority was to get her to hospital.”
King nodded, although he had no idea who Marnie was. “Why didn’t Ramsay tell Rashid that you were safe?”
“He did.”
They both looked up and saw Rashid looking down at Helena. He had a grey blanket over his shoulders, a load of foliage poking out of the weave, the AK15 rifle in his hand. He kicked the revolver away from Helena’s body and strode over. “For a start, you don’t return my calls,” he paused. “And that bitch needed to go down. End it for you both. You were too close, needed to keep your head in the game. She’s still alive by the way.”
King got up, limped over to Helena. He ached and bled and felt weak. The wound to his stomach had stopped bleeding. It was packed with dirty cloth, and he needed to get medical attention imminently. He had seen enough gunshot wounds to know he had been lucky. On closer inspection he had seen that the bullet had slowed through his leather belt and was stuck in the muscle wall. His arm ached though, and he put his missed shots down to the lack of movement. It was still bleeding, despite his makeshift dressing.
Helena looked up at him. Her breathing was shallow and there was blood at her lips. Her eyes, for the first time, did not show indignity, cruelty or spite. They were the eyes of someone close to the destination of their journey. The only destination we all ultimately reach yet are completely unprepared for. She looked a different person.
“Counter measures,” King said. “My guy was better than your guy.”
She tried to speak, but the rattle left her lips and she closed her eyes, her face frozen, her body relaxing and resting still.
King turned around and walked back to Caroline. He put his arm around her and looked at Rashid. “I guess I owe you a pint?”
Rashid smiled, looked at the two of them and shook his head. “Nah, I’ll buy you both a drink when we get home.”
75
London
“I’ve spoken with Bérénice Duvall my contact with Interpol in the Anarchy to Recreate Society case,” Caroline said, hesitantly enough for King to sit up and look at her. “She is arranging a tour for me. I’ve spoken to Director Amherst, Simon Mereweather too. They have agreed for me to take a sabbatical from MI5. Six months.”
King sat up in the sofa, he struggled with his bandaged arm, pinned to his chest in a sling. He had stitches in his side and had only just found a comfortable position. Somehow, slouching didn’t seem appropriate with Caroline’s revelation hanging in the air. “To go and work with Interpol?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I see,” King paused. It was a rare thing for him to appear shocked, but he could not play it down. Didn’t want to. “Is this goodbye?”
Caroline cocked her head to one side, reached out and stroked his leg. “No,” she said quietly. “But this is something I have to do.”
“Georgia?”
“It’s a start,” she said confidently. “I can’t let it go. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. But those girls… the things I saw…”
“It eats you up.”
“Exactly.”
“Caroline, I’ll never ask what happened, other than what you’ve already told me,” King said. “I’ve seen enough crap, gone through enough to understand what needs to be known, and what is better left buried. But will this help you?”
Caroline’s eyes flashed momentarily. “It’s past the point of whether it helps me or not. I need to do it for them.”
“The Georgian police are investigating.”
“You really think they’ll close the loop? Ramsay said that Cub Scouts could have done a better investigation. Interpol will lend their expertise. It’s a wild west country. The police and government officials are all on the take. Sure, it’s closed-down now, but another venture will start up again. If not there, then in the Ukraine, Belarus, another anonymous spec on the map.”
King nodded. “I can imagine that,” he agreed. He could see how important it was to her, but he didn’t want to lose her. He wanted to fight for her, but he could see that if he stopped her from doing what both her heart and mind was set upon, then he would ultimately lose her anyway.
“Bérénice is excited. She has contacts who want to do more to shut-down these ventures. She has a couple of people in mind who will jump at the chance and together, we may make a difference.”
King nodded. He sipped some of his tea, but it was tepid. He recognised Caroline’s drive, her desire to do something as survivor’s guilt. She had fled that night. There was no way she could have fought for those girls and women. To have done so would have been futile. But Caroline had gotten away. She had done what nobody else had. She had escaped. Now, she was not only driven by justice, but by her own guilt at having walked away. The Georgian police had moved in, women had been rescued, but he knew that the investigation would have stalled at their end. Caroline’s connection with Interpol, having been seconded to them earlier in the year had given her an insight into what the international facilitator could do. She saw that she had a chance to make a difference, and King knew the cost of not trying. He had walked away from death and despair. He had performed his tasks for Queen and country, but he had lived with the fallout ever since. He carried guilt, carried the memories of the things he had seen along the way. Could he have done more?
Undoubtedly.
“I think it’s a good idea,” he said. He touched her hand. “I know you need to do this.”
She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him closely. Her breath was warm in his ear and her perfume, the way it clung subtly to her body, stirred him. He pulled back and kissed her, but he could already tell she was in Georgia. She was with Interpol, planning her first move.
“What will you do?” she asked. Her eyes were moist, and they glistened like diamonds, but it was m
ore than that, there was renewed vigour, more life behind them. As if his consent, or at least acceptance of it had lifted her.
“Well, if MI5 are handing out sabbaticals, I think I’ll take one of my own,” he said. He watched the television screen for a moment. The Russian president was waving at the top of the steps about to board his plane back to Russia. He had conceded nothing. The recent biological attacks killing former KGB agents turned British informants had been vehemently denied. Deals had been restructured to secure pricing and supply of natural gas. It had been an awkward accord, but all the King could see was that Russia had taken a big slice of cake and eaten it in front of the rest of the world.
“Sabbatical? You?” Caroline said, almost laughing. “Where would you go? What would you do?”
King watched the man who had raped Helena Milankovitch turn and step from view into the airplane. Maybe fate always played a part in life. Maybe action and consequence were inextricably linked to fate. He watched the door to the plane close, the ticker-tape on the bottom of the screen round-up a summary of the Russian president’s visit. Could this one man have led to Helena having people killed, of taking Caroline prisoner? Of taking over the concessions of the other men who had been a part of it? Of the girls trafficked, heinously abused and dehumanised? And now, Caroline was a part of it. She had lived a nightmare, was going off to live many more in her quest to redress the balance and look for justice, a stop to this outrage. One man’s actions a dozen years ago, destroying and claiming so many lives all these years later.
King watched the plane taxi onto the runway. The ticker-tape highlighted the success of the president’s visit. King just saw a series of scraps the Russian’s had tossed a country who had to be seen to keep face but was desperate for what they could get in a post-Brexit world. A world where the alliance between the countries it once surrounded itself with were uneasy towards its new-found independence. Russia increasingly took no notice of NATO, America or indeed, the rest of the world. It was a country with no allies, no friends, and nor did it care. It was a country that bullied the world but heeded nothing. A country whose president merely shrugged at the footage of ballot-box discrepancies and of blatant vote rigging. A president who intimidated the opposition. Who failed to sanction investigations into the disappearance of his political opponents. A leader who merely did as he chose, dared countries to respond and taunted governments at their lack of resolve. A man who considered himself untouchable.
