Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  Leon reached the station’s concourse level. He turned and peered down to the bottom of the escalator where the hooded figure was striding past those who preferred to stand. No doubt about it, I’m being followed. He hurried through the turnstiles and out of the station, ran for all he was worth along Melcombe Street and turned into Siddons Lane. He stopped and sneaked a look around the street corner, back towards the station entrance. Satisfied that his pursuer hadn’t yet emerged, he took out his wafer.

  ‘Get me Schumann.’

  ‘Schumann for you, Mahler,’ said the Melomet, five seconds later.

  ‘Schumann, it’s code blue – I’m being followed.’

  ‘Where are you, Mahler?’

  ‘I’ve just left Baker Street Station. He hasn’t come into sight yet, but I’m sure he will – any minute now.’

  ‘OK, I can be there in twenty minutes. You’re about fifteen minutes away from your apartment. Try and shake him off. Take a long route back but don’t even think about going into the park. And leave the Melomet-link open so I can hear what’s going on. If I have to, I’ll take him out – you understand that?’

  Leon did understand what Schumann was telling him. They’d rehearsed this drill several times. The moment Leon felt endangered, he was to summon Schumann who would arrange a rapid response from the Policja special unit. Any threat would be removed. But in Leon’s mind there was always the concern about one trained assault team coming up against another. And this could be happening now. Heaven help us.

  Checking over his shoulder at regular intervals, Leon scampered up and down the Marylebone district streets at random until he’d been on the move for twenty-five minutes. Schumann should be in place by now. There was no sign of his pursuer – or of Schumann, for that matter. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Either of them could be watching him right now. Time to head home.

  At his penthouse apartment, Leon locked the door and waited for fifteen minutes. ‘Lost him,’ he said aloud. No response from Schumann – he’d keep the line open. Within minutes, there was a knock at the door. Only Schumann and Pavel knew the code for the entrance to this part of the building – this had to be Schumann. At last, he was safe. He opened the door – and took a sharp step back.

  Gunther Schroeder, red-faced and dishevelled, pushed back his hood to reveal a tangled mop of hair, wet with perspiration. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Holy Moses! You’ve just scared the living daylights out of me, Gunther. What’s all this about?’ He grabbed Gunther’s forearm and pulled him into his apartment. Checking that the corridor was clear in both directions, he locked the door behind them.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, but I had to see you. You need to know that you and I are in the middle of a serious witch hunt that Chekhov’s just instigated. And you won’t believe how difficult it’s been for me to get out here and start looking for you, let alone find you. When I did find you, I had to follow you. I couldn’t risk stopping you in the middle of the street. We could have been seen together.’

  ‘Just slow down a minute, will you. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re getting at. Try me in a language I might understand. I take it you were on the Bakerloo line an hour ago?’

  ‘Yeh, sure.’ Gunther looked embarrassed.

  ‘And how did you get into this building?’

  ‘You’ll have to start using more imagination for your entrance code, Leon. Try something a bit more difficult than a prime-number sequence.’

  Leon grinned. Same old Gunther – clever dick. ‘So, what is it we’re both going to be hanged, drawn and quartered for?’

  ‘It’s about the stellerator data that we transfer between Greifswald and London. Someone is managing to copy it and they’re selling it to the Americans. Would you believe that?’

  ‘I do find that hard to believe. Especially as the American fusion teams are likely to be honest and hardworking scientists like we are. Why would they be so unethical as to steal our data? And why would Chekhov imagine that we’d be willing to act against his strict instructions on secrecy? Given that Kaminsky provides the data in the first place, the only other people who have access are you, me and Slavic. Which of us are you suggesting is selling the data to the Americans?’

  ‘Come on, Leon, I’m serious. All four of us are under suspicion. They’ve stepped up their attempts to track you down. And they’ve watched the rest of us like hawks these past few weeks.’

  ‘You’ve come here to warn me, have you? Well, if you’re so concerned about my welfare, why have you risked leading the hunt straight to me? They’re bound to be following you, aren’t they? See who you contact, check whether you’re the one passing on the data.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But I’m not stupid, I’ve been careful. If I’d been followed, they’d be knocking at the door already, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘OK, let’s just calm down, shall we?’ He took his wafer from his back pocket. ‘First of all, I have to call off my own hunting pack. You might just get hurt if I don’t stand them down. Did you get that, Schumann?’

  No answer.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Never mind, Gunther, I’ll explain it someday. Like a coffee?’

  ‘No!’ Gunther blurted in exasperation. ‘We haven’t got time. I’m expected back at HQ later today. We need to work out who’s doing this. And you are going to have to take this seriously – otherwise we’re mincemeat.’

  The video-wall lit up. Both men snapped their heads to the side. ‘Call for you from Schumann, Mahler,’ said the Melomet.

  ‘I’ve been listening to everything you’ve said, Mahler. I shouldn’t have to remind you that your priorities are with us and not with Fusion.’

  ‘OK, point taken, Schumann. My colleague here means no harm. Where are you?’

  Schumann laughed. ‘Don’t worry. My men have had you covered over every inch of ground. Take a look out of the window. Schumann out!’

  The video screen went blank. Leon went across to the window and smiled. ‘Look here, Gunther. See how well protected I am.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Schroeder said, nodding up towards the two men waving from the roof of the building opposite.

  ‘Let’s just say they’re my guardian angels, so don’t worry about me. Anyway, if you want to find Chekhov’s thief, you’ll just have to remain vigilant. And as you’ve no doubt gathered, I’m powerless to do anything other than heed your warning. I have my own problems to solve. So, if you’re ready to leave, follow me.’ He took Schroeder through to the master bedroom. ‘Open emergency exit,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Emergency exit opening, Mahler,’ replied the Melomet. A section of the wall slid upwards, leaving an opening to the side of the bed.

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘The apartment next door is located in a separate quadrant of the building, so you can leave by a different exit. We thought these arrangements might come in handy some day. Go on, you can go straight through. You’re the first to use our escape route.’

  Schroeder shook his head in blank astonishment. ‘It’s goodbye, then.’ He smiled, ‘. . . Mahler.’

  Although he’d put on a brave face at the time, the encounter with Gunther three days earlier had left Leon feeling concerned for his own welfare. If a rival consortium was managing to get hold of Fusion’s key data, that could ultimately cost Chekhov billions if he failed to establish sole rights to the technology. And worse than that, as far as Leon was concerned, if control of the world’s future energy supplies fell into the wrong hands, the whole process of civil nuclear power development could be jeopardised. Chekhov is bound to think I have something to do with this. This was seriously worrying. And he had an ominous feeling that Pavel would detect his mood at their weekly exchange. As expected, Pavel queried Leon’s gloominess the moment he walked through the door to his apartment and Leon offered the lame excuse that it was due to ov
erwork and sleepless nights. He could see Pavel wasn’t convinced, but at least he wasn’t going to waste any more of their time on the matter. He started his presentation.

  ‘Here we have a map of the Highgate area, showing the location of Russian-operated brothels. This one and this one . . .’ Leon pointed to several buildings, ‘are not operated by Rodin. We’re sure of that from the analysis of our reconnaissance data and from the few discreet personal visits I’ve risked. The rest of them are high-class establishments, attracting affluent punters. What intrigues me is those particular buildings form a distinct geographical cluster with its centre here.’ He pointed to the Goldhurst Manor site.

  At the end of Leon’s presentation, Pavel flopped back in his chair and blew a long whistle. ‘Your analysis of movements and accountability suggests these places are physically linked?’

  ‘Almost certainly – underground. As for Goldhurst, well, there’s no sign of a brothel being located there. And I should know. I virtually lived there until a few months ago and that wasn’t part of the staff benefits.’

  Somewhat reticent, they laughed.

  ‘And what about Rodin? Any sighting?’

  ‘Disappointing there. We’ve found no obvious candidate. One or two remote possibilities, maybe. We track the background of anomalies wherever we can and some of the results are surprising. They appear to have a lot of punters from the medical profession – psychiatrists and psychologists mostly. But who dictates what sort of people use these places? They can all be dirty old men.’

  Pavel stood up and patted Leon on the back. ‘Keep up the good work, Mahler.’ He was in the habit of using Leon’s undercover codename by now, his Classico name. ‘We know so much more than before we recruited you. But, like you, I’m disappointed we have no breakthrough on the identity of Rodin. We have to keep going. It’s vital we find him.’

  Pavel set off for the door.

  ‘Before you go, there’s something of a personal nature I’d like to discuss.’

  Pavel came back and sat down.

  ‘My family in Poland, are they OK? My father must be worried sick about the news that I’ve now disappeared as well as Magda.’

  ‘Your family are fine, don’t worry about that. Your mother is still ill, of course, but she’s being well looked after.’

  Leon’s heart sank when he saw the sudden expression of concern in the police officer’s face.

  ‘We’ve had to tell your father what’s going on, take him into our confidence so he won’t come looking for you and compromise our operation. You see, Chekhov’s Goldhurst-based security paid him a visit.’ Pavel raised his hand. ‘But don’t worry, he’s not in any danger. He made it obvious to them he didn’t know your whereabouts. They know what they’re doing, those guys, and they would have detected that his concern was genuine. However, this does mean that they could come after you with a bit more determination from now.’

  ‘I need to tell you something, Pavel. They already are coming after me. I reckon Chekhov suspects me of industrial espionage. What do you think I should do?’

  Pavel gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Ah, so there is something wrong? I knew it. But you can’t let it distract you from your surveillance work. We’ll be watching your back, I promise you. Remember, the sooner we find Rodin the sooner we can resolve this whole mess.’

  Pavel’s parting words rang in Leon’s ears. Rodin had taken away the love of his life. He was the ruin of so many lives and had to be stopped at any cost. With bloodshot eyes, he pored over the data yet again. He has to be in there somewhere. Why can’t we find him?

  CHAPTER 28

  It took weeks of vigilant surveillance for Dimitri Byelov to work out how to penetrate the security system around the stately building’s grounds. It took only a few discreet undercover visits from his men to confirm that the security inside the building was slack. This really was like the gentlemen’s club it purported to be; staffed with only receptionists and waiters, their defences were almost non-existent. The raid was bound to be successful.

  At last he was inside the grounds. Dressed in black and out of sight of the cameras, he lay low near the edge of the shrubbery and trained his night-vision field glasses on the entrance lobby. He watched the brothel’s punters rolling in, knowing that his own men were already in place alongside them – bona fide clients as far as the gullible bastards running this place were concerned but ready to act when he gave the signal. He felt his heart pumping the adrenalin and smiled at the thought of what must be going on in there right now. They could have their fun before the real action, but they had to behave themselves up to that point. Whatever you do, don’t stand out, he’d told them, don’t raise any alarms. Once unleashed, his team would have free rein to create such mayhem that Rodin’s clients would be unwilling to use this establishment for a long time. Byelov could already taste the sweetness of revenge for the damage that had been done to his business, and his hatred for a man he’d never met steeled his resolve.

  The steady build-up of custom was pleasing – the more the merrier, he thought. This was going to be shock and awe and what a shock for those sad bastards. Tell your friends about this, he said to himself as he decided that now was the time.

  Leon was struggling to contain his enthusiasm as he started his weekly briefing.

  ‘I’ve got something I want you to look at. You’re not going to believe it,’ he said, sitting next to Pavel. ‘Just watch this – it happened only two days ago at around midnight, at one of Rodin’s exclusive brothels.’ He dimmed the lights and shook Pavel by the shoulder. He’s going to like this.

  ‘Video-snap on!’

  Leon and Pavel watched the scene play out before their eyes.

  In the front grounds of a Highgate dwelling, a small slender girl in a red kimono sits cross-legged on the gravel driveway, her head bowed in meditation, her hands together in prayer; a huge floodlight at her back illuminates the mansion’s frontal façade.

  A naked man emerges from the house, shielding his eyes from the light. He is flanked by two women wearing sunglasses; they pull him struggling and writhing towards the girl in red, stop a metre short of her and let go of the man’s arms. His eyes squinting almost shut, he makes no further attempt to escape while the tiny girl effortlessly eases herself to her feet. For a moment, everyone is still. In a flashing red blur, the girl strikes like a cobra at his groin. He doubles up under the impact from her heel, crumples to the ground and curls into a ball – his mouth gawping like a landed fish. The two women unravel him, drag him by the armpits to a black van at the gate of the drive and throw him like a carcass through the open rear door.

  A second naked man, held between two women, is marched calmly down the drive. When they reach the girl, the man makes a sudden attempt to slip the clutches of his escorts but the women manage to hold on to him and lock him firmly upright. The floodlight dims. The girl in red stares trance-like at his groin and he braces himself as if he knows what’s coming. This time the girl’s fist slams into the man’s nose, splattering it over his face and spraying his blood across the white gravel. A strike from her foot follows within a second; the loose bottom half of his fractured shin twists through ninety degrees and his leg gives way. He vomits spasmodically over his chest as the women pick him off the ground and passes out as they haul him to the van.

  The carnage continues with three further victims dragged to their brutal fate in front of the blazing floodlight – each of them naked, looking confused and ending up in the makeshift meat-wagon.

  Another man, constrained like the others by two women, appears at the entrance of the house. Unlike the others, he is dressed – entirely in black. Black trainers, black jogging suit, black gloves, black balaclava, he walks dejectedly between his two escorts until they reach the girl in the red kimono.

  A man in a white jacket emerges from behind the floodlight and stands next to the fighter. He places his arm
around the girl’s shoulder and whispers into her ear. Arms flared to her sides, she bows to him politely and steps back into the shadows.

  The floodlight dims. The man in white pulls the balaclava from the man in black’s head, slaps him hard across the face then speaks to him for a few seconds. He slaps him again, then points towards a black limousine with tinted windows and a uniformed chauffeur waiting at its open rear door. The man in black shuffles across to the limousine, stops and turns. He shakes his head in resignation, then gets into the back seat of the car.

  ‘And what do you expect me to say about that?’ Pavel asked at the end of the video sequence.

  ‘Well, first of all, I thought you’d be pleased with the quality of that video. It took me two days to combine and edit those satellite and ground-level data files. You have to admit, you could virtually read their thoughts.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Pavel was clearly becoming irritable. ‘Just make your point.’

  ‘We were lucky to pick up that incident. It just happened to coincide with the instructions I’d given your centre for setting the satellite coordinates that evening. There are two key players in that little scene, conveniently for us, wearing black and white to distinguish them.’

  ‘OK, spare me the witticisms, Mahler.’

  ‘I used my pattern recognition software to correlate the 3-D reconstruction you’ve just watched with other comings and goings from the establishments that we think are being run by Rodin. The man in black doesn’t appear at all within our data. On the other, hand, the man in white is popping up all over the place.’

  ‘What! Then, why haven’t we picked him out before now?’ Pavel looked like he was about to explode.