Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  By the time she reached the changing rooms, Jean’s head was reeling.

  ‘I see our offer tempts you, Madam Douglas,’ said Lidia Leonova. ‘You must admit, one hundred thousand pounds is a lot of money, but you must also understand that you have no choice.’

  Jean was mortified. Lidia had been so friendly during her swimming coaching. Yet here they were facing each other in the swimming pool changing room having a conversation like this. Twenty thousand now and the rest on delivering the baby to a predetermined rendezvous in the countryside. It was a life-changing fortune they were offering.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Matters you wouldn’t understand. But you must by now be aware of the nature of Chekhov’s business.’

  Jean lowered her head and nodded her acknowledgement. From what she could make out, there were many others involved in this scheme but Lidia offered no names. She could understand why she was their ideal choice to take the lead in such a kidnapping; as Abram’s nanny, she was the only member of household staff who was occasionally allowed near him without bodyguards in close attendance. And I’m the one to carry the can if this plan fails.

  ‘Why are you putting me in this position?’

  ‘You put yourself in this position the moment you accepted his job. Chekhov has specific requirements. He’s not interested in the usual agency workers or nannies with experience. He appointed you because of the efforts you make for your son and daughter. We know how they were abused as children by your drunken husband.’

  But that was years ago. How did they manage to unearth all that in the time between her response to the advert and her interview with Chekhov?

  ‘This is crazy. I’m responsible for Abram. Chekhov would find out and stop us before we left Highgate.’

  Lidia responded with an icy glare. ‘Crazy, yes. But we have our reasons. You’re involved in our plan now and if you inform on us, there would be dire consequences for you and your family.’

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Despite the troubles you have with your son and daughter, I imagine their elimination would still concern you. If you refuse to do what we say, we’ll have one of your children killed. Maybe the daughter – you’ve lost the son to heroin already.’

  The words cut like a cold blade. Lidia was right – Robert was no longer hers, yet she was still trapped by him. And Mary, for all the trouble she’d given her, was still her precious daughter. This way, she’d save the lives of her children. But who would care for them? And what about Abram, what would she be doing to him? These were dangerous people she was dealing with and she could tell they wouldn’t wait for an answer. But how could she meet their demands without destroying those she loved? She was in a dreadful predicament, devoid of any clear option.

  ‘Is there some other way?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, there is no choice. You must be ready for when we need you.’ Showing no emotion, Lidia stood up to leave. ‘One of my comrades will discuss the details in the coming days.’

  Jean sat frozen to the bench with the baby in her arms. Lidia left with the guards. This was a different person from the one who’d given the swimming lessons. In the eerie silence of the deserted changing room, she looked down at Abram’s tiny form and wept. How I’ve misjudged her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Malkin eased himself on to the pakhan’s chair and waited. At seven o’clock, four tiny LEDs on the false desk drawer came to life, the signal that Chekhov was calling the pakhan’s office. He pushed the button next to the cycling red dot display and, from the centre of the desk, a flat-screen monitor motored upward and clicked into position. The screen came to life and Vladimir Chekhov greeted his bookkeeper from the main office of his luxury yacht.

  ‘Good morning, Malkin, I hope you are well.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir. I’m ready with my report.’ The aquarium at Chekhov’s back provided an amusing backcloth – King Neptune with laundered deck wear, on his throne and surrounded by his minnows.

  He started his report. ‘We’ve informed everybody of the outcome. Some of those who’ve been severed from the organisation will behave as if nothing has happened, I’m afraid. They’re likely to continue to steal and deal in drugs or street prostitution, but I assure you there’ll be no link between their continuing petty crimes and our bratva. In fact, with no line of command, I’d expect them to be devoured by the mobs in no time at all.’

  Chekhov nodded his approval.

  ‘This first stage of the reorganisation will result in our drug dealing operation being removed in its entirety. The brigadier responsible has agreed to be pensioned off. Navalov could always go it alone once he has his money, of course, but I judge him to be wiser than that. Removal of this business activity will in turn leave our security staff more time to develop their contacts . . .’

  He could tell he’d implemented his pakhan’s instructions well. A potential money-spinning activity would be lost but there’d no longer be conflict with rival drug mobs. No longer would extreme violence blight their lives. Permissible arms dealing, covert political extortion . . . his report was clearly meeting with approval. Those police officers and high-ranking government officials were firmly in Chekhov’s sights.

  ‘. . . removal of our street prostitution operation will leave the remaining resource in this area free to concentrate on our more sophisticated call-girl service. I’ve already identified two further suitable properties which, with your agreement, we can purchase and refurbish within six months. We’ll need to discuss recruitment plans in this area, of course. High-class Olgas don’t just fall off trees.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you,’ Chekhov interjected, for the first time. ‘I suggest you appoint a first-class director and let him find his own stock. Let me know what the business will require in the way of my consultation with the judges and police authorities. I take it you understand my meaning?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Indulge yourself in this side of the business, Malkin. I trust you.’ Leaning forward in his chair, Chekhov abruptly changed the agenda. ‘What about Slomensky? How did he take it?’

  ‘Not well, sir. We may need to watch him for a while.’

  Chekhov nodded. ‘I agree. I’ll take whatever action I deem to be necessary if events transpire to my displeasure. Keep me informed.’

  Slomensky’s devoted service to Chekhov’s father was to be admired, yet his redundancy was inevitable. Malkin’s one concern was that any aggressive response could potentially result in the old brigadier’s elimination, an undeserved fate for one so principled. With his hatred of ruthless gangland killings, he’d have to give some thought to an alternative means of dealing with Slomensky, should he become a nuisance to Chekhov.

  ‘Overall, we’re making good progress. I’m confident that we’ll soon have a streamlined and legitimate-looking organisation, one that’s more akin to your other international enterprises.’

  ‘I am well pleased,’ Chekhov said, leaning back from the camera to expose a burst of background colour from his tropical fish tank. ‘We’ll speak again on these matters in a few days’ time when I’m in London on business.’ The screen went blank and the video-conferencing equipment wound itself back into the desk.

  Malkin breathed a sigh of relief. He was on his way.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jean opened her door and admitted the two brawny men. The taller of the two was familiar to her; he was the one who’d confirmed the date and time and now he was to help her smuggle Abram out of Goldhurst. It made her shiver.

  ‘Come with us,’ he said casually in his Russian accent.

  She checked the corridor in both directions. ‘Where are the bodyguards?’

  No answer.

  She picked up Abram and forced back the pangs of guilt – he would never remember this night; he’d emerge one day into another world. I can only pray for a h
appy future for this beautiful child. As instructed, she’d packed no spare clothing or bedding and no baby food. She wrapped him in a single blanket, taking care not to wake him. ‘I’m ready.’

  They made their way to the main kitchen, avoiding the reception area. One of the men, the shorter of the two, switched on his torch to illuminate their route past the ovens then disappeared back into the house. Jean and the tall man waited by the open door. Why was the rear exit not alarmed and why were there no garden lights of any sort? They must have arranged a power cut for this side of the house. Even the street lamps were switched off.

  After five minutes, they stepped outside into near-darkness. The light pollution from the distant city centre was just enough to enable her to make out the first few feet of the garden path; with the baby in her arms, she followed her guide as he set off towards the bottom of the garden. It was slow progress, each step chosen to avoid snapping a twig or crunching one of the many snails. Halfway along the path, a light came on in an upper storey room, covering the garden in an eerie glow. Her guide held up his hand as a signal to stop. She froze, her heart pumping so loud she thought it would give them away. After a few moments, the garden descended into darkness once more. ‘Let’s go,’ the guide whispered.

  They picked their way to the end of the garden, where they came across a solid metal door in a nine-foot-high brick wall. The guide spoke to the door – in Russian. A few seconds later, the door started to open.

  ‘How did—?’

  ‘Quiet,’ came the whispered voice from the other side of the wall. The faint background light was insufficient for her to make out the man who appeared through the open door, but she reasoned it had to be the shorter of her two guides. He must have left the building by the main reception, made his way to the rear of the garden and unlocked the door from the other side. ‘Follow me,’ the shorter man said as they left the grounds of Goldhurst. His torchlight was dim and she could barely make out the pavement in front of them; she’d have to remain within touching distance – make sure she didn’t stray off the edge of the kerb. Holding the sleeping Abram against her cheek, she followed him for five minutes until they reached a parked car. The moment they stopped, the street lights came on. They’ve timed this to perfection.

  ‘You’ve memorised the route?’

  ‘Yes.’ She squeezed Abram without thinking. The baby gurgled but didn’t wake up.

  ‘They’ll be waiting for you at the agreed time,’ the man said as he handed her the key to the Ford Escort. His parting look said, Get this right. She pursed her lips and gave him a single nod; there would be dire consequences for both of them if she didn’t.

  She surveyed her deserted surroundings, illuminated now by neon street lights, and realised she didn’t have to drive past the front of the house. They’ve set this up well. She started the engine and turned to make one last check. Abram was asleep under his blanket in the crude plastic box they’d strapped to the rear seat. ‘Say goodbye to your life of luxury, little man. No going back now, my love,’ she whispered, as she drove off into the unknown.

  The impulse was strengthening by the mile; she could resist it no longer. The tyres squealed as she whipped the car around the bend and left the main road. She drove for a mile along a dark lane, reached a layby and pulled on to the little patch of rough tarmac. With an irrepressible sigh of relief, she switched off the car’s headlights and engine and opened the window. There was a stillness out here in the countryside; it allowed her to hear the whispered little gurgling sounds coming from Abram’s box on the back seat. He’s fine. She rubbed her hands across tired eyes, leaned her head back in the seat and took in a deep breath of fresh, soothing night air. She opened the glovebox, prised out the large brown Jiffy bag and tipped the contents on to the passenger seat. It was all there – the twenty thousand pounds advance with which they’d bought her trust and a false passport in the name of Eva Clarkson. Who was Eva Clarkson, she wondered? I suppose I’m Eva Clarkson now.

  The rendezvous wasn’t far. There was ample time to reach the derelict farmhouse where they’d be waiting for her. Once she handed over the baby, they’d drive her to one of the East Anglian fishing ports where she’d be smuggled on to a fishing boat, transferred at sea and subsequently met at Ostend harbour – how many times had she been through that scenario in her head? And the extra money she was to receive at the farmhouse tonight would give her a flying start in her new life. It was a good plan, if you could call kidnapping good. But her tumultuous thoughts during the car journey through Essex had left severe doubts cascading through her mind. I’ve stepped over the precipice. It’s not for the money – my children are under threat. If I deliver Abram, my children are safe and I’m free to start a new life – a life without my children. Then what happens? Chekhov is the head of a ruthless criminal organisation; he could pay the ransom then hunt us all down like dogs. And what about Abram? He deserves his inheritance, but he’d be inheriting a life of violent crime. Can I let him do that? And what if Chekhov doesn’t meet the kidnappers’ demands? God knows what would happen then. I could call Chekhov, let him know his son is safe and agree to meet him. But would he trust me or would he have me killed anyway? Either way, my own children are dead if I do that. If I were to just disappear with Abram . . .

  There was no right answer, no way out of this cruel dilemma. Percolating through her confused thoughts, there was fear. The fear of them coming after her. And if they didn’t catch her, Chekhov would. She started the engine.

  Five o’clock in the morning, thirty minutes beyond their specified rendezvous time. She drove with fierce resolve along the M11, leaving Essex in her wake. Her collaborators would know something was wrong by now, but what reason would they have for imagining her driving north? Had Chekhov discovered that Abram was missing? Where would he start looking? He’d no doubt want to find them before the police did, yet he’d have no choice but to cooperate with the authorities if he wanted security to be tightened at airports and ferry ports. His searches would be like an all-consuming monster emerging from the centre of London. She glanced in her wing mirror; great spiralling tentacles were already bearing down on her car. She began to shiver and closed the car window. She’d make her trail impossible to follow, think like they would think, then do something different. But they’d be thinking like that themselves, wouldn’t they? It was a game of chess and she was playing against the devil’s disciples. On pure instinct she headed east towards Chelmsford.

  Abram was sleeping but Jean knew he’d be hungry soon. Her leg of the abduction was planned as a short trip and he wouldn’t have needed food and clothing until they reached the farmhouse. She parked the car down a tight alley at the edge of the town centre and waited. At nine thirty, she locked the car, headed into town on foot and bought a range of camouflage in the form of hoody, scarves and sunglasses; Abram’s camouflage was a pretty pink baby dress. At the high-street chemist, she bought rusks, baby milk and a feeding bottle, together with a week’s supply of nappies and wipes. Finally, she bought a large rucksack into which she packed the rest of her purchases and set off back to where she’d left the car.

  Abram was always going to be safe in the locked car. But this didn’t prevent her sigh of relief when she returned to find no police surrounding the car and Abram still inside – screaming his lungs out. She drove out of town and found a quiet lane where she could feed and change him. As the baby on her lap sucked at the cold milk, his first meal of the day, she began to work out her next move.

  After driving for two hours, she pulled into a car park in the market town of March in Cambridgeshire. The morning newspapers on sale at the entrance to the supermarket carried no front-page headlines about the missing son of a billionaire. Hopefully, that meant they weren’t reported missing yet. Her collaborators in the kidnapping were bound to be starting their own searches and there was no way they would be going to the police or the press; their obvious strategy would be to
look for the hire car while making sure they avoided being tracked down by Chekhov. She’d have to find another car. Or maybe change her mode of transport? Either way, she had to keep moving. She bought herself a bottle of fruit juice and stole an unattended buggy from outside the supermarket. Hardly national news, she told herself. After abandoning her car and dropping the keys into a drain, she set off towards the railway station pushing Abram in the buggy. In the rucksack on her back, she carried their worldly possessions; it didn’t seem like much, volume-wise, but it did include her blocks of twenty-pound notes. At the station, she bought a one-way ticket and boarded the 14.16 train to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. She had no idea what she’d do when she reached the city; she was running blind but running in the right direction – away from London.

  CHAPTER 8

  Malkin sprang from his chair in surprise as Vladimir Chekhov stormed into the incident centre. After disturbing Chekhov’s breakfast in Monte Carlo with news of the kidnapping, he hadn’t expected him to complete the journey to Highgate in such a short time. The communications facility wasn’t yet ready. Shit, I thought I had at least another hour.

  Chekhov beckoned his bookkeeper. ‘Malkin, over here at once.’

  At the table in the corner of the hall, Malkin began to run through the brief he’d prepared, out of earshot of the computer science officers who were busy making their final connections to the local area network.

  ‘What have you done with them?’ Chekhov asked.

  Malkin knew he was referring to the three staff members who’d been apprehended earlier that morning, within a couple of hours of Chekhov setting his personal security officers loose. ‘Leonova is dead. She didn’t survive the interrogation by Abram’s bodyguards.’ His stomach turned at the thought of her battered corpse. ‘Two are still alive, but they’re in a bad way in the cells.’