by A P Bateman
When they reached the truck, Big Dave turned around and said, “This wasn’t part of the mission.”
King stopped and stood directly in front of him, his eyes hard and cold. “The mission is whatever the hell I say it is.” He paused. “There’s nothing else for Rashid. No second rescue attempt, or investigation. If I hadn’t have taken it on, then MI5 would have washed their hands of him. Simon Mereweather and Neil Ramsay are operating this out of the back door. Amherst doesn’t have a clue this is happening.”
“We don’t even know what happened to them, let alone if any of them are alive to rescue,” Big Dave replied tersely. “Now you’ve got baggage to slow you down.”
“Well, maybe you can take care of that?”
“No way,” Big Dave replied. “It’s all a bit To Kill a Mockingbird out this way. I’m not pairing up with a white Russian chick. I’ll be called out in no time.”
“Have you seen the size of you?”
“Doesn’t matter out here. All the men are missing teeth and have calloused knuckles and look like they want a good scrap. Half of them are drunk and the other half are either getting drunk or hung over. They’re all packing guns as well, it’s like the bloody Wild West.” He paused. “Besides, I should be somewhere else. And I’m heading there tomorrow.”
“I will go with you, yes?” Alaina asked King nervously.
King nodded. “I’ll get something sorted. Don’t worry.” He opened the door and gestured for her to get inside. He then turned back to Big Dave. “Look, I have my reasons.”
“I can see. There’s a couple of good reasons under that blouse. Thirty-two D cup, would be my guess.”
King ignored the jibe. “Romanovitch is showing an interest in her, has also warned off his men from so much as looking at her. She knows that if he makes a move, she will have no choice but to submit to it. If she refuses, then she could be buried out in the wilderness. That or end up in one of the man’s many brothels.” He paused. “After Caroline’s experience being abducted, and her latter work with the Interpol sex trafficking taskforce, I couldn’t refuse.” He got in the passenger seat and said, “Now, I’ll deal with it. So, get in the bloody car and get us the hell out of here.”
18
By the time they had reached the bar with the rooms out back, King was exhausted. The ride back across the wilderness had been more difficult with Alaina riding pillion, and the seat had been a snug place for two. Alaina had ridden behind, her arms wrapped tightly around King’s waist with her own bag strapped to the rack and keeping her pressed into him. Every now and then he would feel her warm breath on his neck, catch the aroma of her and feel her firm breasts pressing against his back. He was only human, a red-blooded man, and he was both surprised and ashamed to have found the experience arousing. Once they had parked beside the porch, King had shown her into his room and headed to the bar to speak with the babushka. To his consternation, there were no more rooms available and the quick-witted woman had quickly added a surcharge for the double occupancy, for the man who was supposed to be sleeping out under the stars, but had returned from a fishing trip with a beautiful woman instead. King did not object, it was simpler to shrug it off than draw more attention than was necessary, and he had no choice but to stay the night with his house guest. He imagined going fishing for the day and returning with a woman to share his room would not be the most obvious turn of events. But this was the Urals on the edge of Siberia and weird was just part of everyday life. As if to confirm this, a naked man staggered past him wearing nothing but a fur ushanka on his head and a pair of well-worn military boots with a tangle of laces to trip on. He nodded at King and offered him a swig of vodka from a half-empty bottle and shrugged as King refused, then staggered on past. His buttocks looked to have been whipped, but he didn’t seem to be suffering because of it. King shook his head and headed back for the room. As he reached the door, he heard a gunshot, then some whoops of laughter and the sound of breaking glass. King considered what this town would be like in the winter, isolated for three months and in a state of lockdown from the outside world. It didn’t bear thinking about and he rapped twice on the door, then opened it and stepped inside.
Alaina was in the shower. King could see steam escaping from under the door. He fancied a shower himself but was now regretting the size of the room. He looked at his phone, got as far as typing out the first six digits of Caroline’s number, then deleted and locked the screen. He never kept numbers and contacts on his phone when he was on a mission. He never made a personal call, either. He wanted to call Caroline and tell her that he missed her, ask her how she was doing. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he was OK, but he knew he couldn’t let his guard down. Couldn’t let his two lives cross over. He was an agent now. His task was to find out what happened to Rashid. He could not afford to play happy couples. He looked up as Alaina came out of the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her and tucked in place under her armpits, and her hair was wet and slicked back. Her skin was flushed and radiant. The water had been too hot. She smelled of soap and shampoo and conditioner. The towel was short and barely covered her below.
“I needed that!” she exclaimed. “What a ride! I’m sore in places I shouldn’t be!”
“I’ll go out and get us some food,” said King. “After I’ve cleaned up. Better for us to eat in here than let you be seen around town. There’s only two bars, but people may talk.”
“But we’re miles from Romanovitch’s property!” Alaina protested. “Besides, he is in St. Petersburg, and Draco isn’t going to tell anyone what happened.” She paused. King had found the observation callous, and she seemed to pick up on the fact. “It’s unfortunate that you had to kill him, but now that he’s dead, it’s a possibility that whoever broke in, for whatever purpose, took me hostage. Maybe it went wrong. Maybe they killed me somewhere out in the wilderness. That is a scenario they will assume, and one that will help us.” She walked towards him, drips of water running down her neck and across her bare chest. She caught King’s gaze and checked the tuck of her towel was still firmly in place. “It’s worked out well for me. I got a clean break. And now I can reward you…”
“Reward me?” King bristled, taking a step backwards.
“Yes,” she said. She was close to him now, and King could smell the freshness of her body, feel the heat emanating off her from the shower. “By helping you take down Romanovitch.” She took a step backwards, as if suddenly aware of their proximity to one another. “What else did you think I meant?”
“Oh, exactly that,” he said. “I wouldn’t want anything else.”
“Oh, really?”
“No.”
“Then you are gay, yes?”
“No.”
“Then you are not like the other men I have met. Every man wants something from a woman.” She paused. “Every man will take favour or payment through sex. It is in their nature.”
“Not all men. Not the majority either, I would hope.” King shook his head. “It’s sad that you haven’t moved in better circles.”
“I haven’t been as lucky as some people.”
“You make your own luck.”
She scoffed. “What would you know? Western middle-classes. You know nothing of hardship!” She bent down and picked up her bag and dropped it onto the bed. She rummaged through the clothes inside and pulled out some underwear. “I have struggled! It took me until the age of twenty-four to get a job that paid more than a pittance, and then I discovered what the man did for a living. How my chances of remaining a house maid and avoiding being turned into a live-in whore dwindled with every visit the man made to the house. I have worked there for two years, and always it is a relief when the man returned to the city or travelled to the Black Sea to be with his wife.” She struggled into a pair of satin briefs, then allowed the towel to drop and made no effort to cover her breasts. King averted his eyes, but possibly not as quickly as he should have. She turned sideways on to him as she put on her bra, but
it made little difference other than to show off her ample breasts from another angle. “You do not know of hardship or a lack of opportunities. And you are judgemental because of it.”
King could have told her about an absent mother, of never knowing a father and stealing food for his siblings. He could have told her about a tower block with urine-stained stairwells and faulty lifts the local prostitutes jammed closed and used for five-minute transactions. He could have told her about the day he discovered his mother’s body lying in her own filth, a strap cinching tightly around her left arm, the empty syringe in her cold right hand. The bare-knuckle fighting for quick cash, of prison, of life-changing ultimatums and a chance to serve his country. But he denied her any of it. He left her words hanging in the air, as heady as her soapy aroma and the steam still wafting from the bathroom.
“What is wrong? Does the truth hurt?” she asked, pulling on a pair of jeans. She pulled a baggy sweater over her head and said, “I have seen what the man can do. I have seen how he gives the girls all the cocaine they can take and gets them dependant, then gets all the sex he wants before he grows tired of them. Then they end up in one of hundreds of brothels he owns throughout Russia and Europe. In London, even.”
King looked at her, studied her young face, her vulnerable eyes. You could tell a lot about a person by their eyes. King’s told you to keep walking. Alaina’s were passionate, but not for carnal pleasures. They were passionate because of emotion. “You were passing information to Interpol, weren’t you? Before Ramsay contacted you. You were helping them.” He paused. “Not because of what you have seen and a sense of doing what is right, but because you have lost someone. How am I doing?” She looked back at him. Guarded, but her expression was starting to soften. “A sister, perhaps? Younger, most likely,” he said with knowledge of what Caroline had told him about the Interpol trafficking taskforce and the girls she had managed to save. “Small town, no opportunities. A young girl goes for a job in the bright lights but is soon swallowed up by a different life. She becomes a commodity in a rich man’s world.”
“Please...”
“And the older sister stayed in the small town. Perhaps she was meant to go, too. Perhaps there was only enough money for one bus ticket.”
“Please, stop.”
King carried on unperturbed. He could see the change in her, the façade lowering. “So, did you get the job and then contact Interpol? Or was it the other way around?”
“Why does it matter?”
King shrugged. It mattered. But he didn’t voice his concerns. “But you’ve bottled it,” he said.
“Bottled it?” she asked, screwing up her face.
“Run out of nerve,” he replied. “Hence the out. Interpol let Ramsay know about an asset they had in place in Romanovitch’s organisation and he contacted you.”
She shook her head. “No, my Interpol handler contacted me first, then I contacted Ramsay.”
“Because you saw a way of doing what was asked of you, then negotiating your deal for the information MI5 asked for, and not continuing passing information on to Interpol.” King paused. “Which tells me, you were having a crisis of confidence and losing your nerve, or…”
“Or what?”
“Or there was no point staying on to find your sister. Like, it was a pointless task and you needed a change of plan.” King said quietly. “Where are you from?”
She wiped her eye, but not before King saw a tear. “The Ukraine.”
“And your sister was a former Miss Ukraine, perhaps?”
She nodded. “She left Titiiv with hopes and dreams of furthering herself and soon became PA to a wealthy businessman and hoped she would learn enough to start her own company someday,” she said. “She didn’t know in what, but she would find an opening and save money and build contacts. I knew she had worked closely with Romanovitch and knew if I could get a domestic job with him, then I would be able to ask the right questions, listen to conversations.” She started to sob. “But the cook told me about Dina and what they think happened to her when she refused to have sex with Romanovitch. Like them, I was in so deep by then, I couldn’t just leave, and I feared things going the same way for me, or worse.”
King nodded. “And now you’ve given up?”
“No! I have not given up!” she snapped. “But I am no longer searching for her, no longer holding onto the hope that she is alive. And while I am in the wolf’s lair, I am in danger.”
“And now you need to cut and run.”
“No,” she said, wiping the last of the tears away with a resolute swipe. “Now I want him dead.”
19
London
If there was one benefit from rising to commander and head of SO15, the police Counter Terrorism Command, it was the opportunity to mix business with pleasure. Dining out was a legitimate expense for the purposes of networking and the expense account for this facility was not inconsiderable. Especially when Robinson made it his point to dine in places renowned for their value with certain colleagues and opposite numbers, which allowed him to carry over funds for the occasional luxurious experience with others, naturally people of more importance and benefit to his tenure. In this case, the Home Secretary and her husband accompanied both him and his wife to The Ivy.
“Russian and Balkan crime continues to rise,” the Home Secretary commented, placing her cutlery down on her plate.
“How was your curry?” Robinson asked, having been somewhat miffed that she had gone for something so generic, even though it had been deconstructed. But it was sea bass and Thai spiced with swirls of coconut cream and served on a crispy noodle cake, so he had managed to let it go.
“Delicious,” she replied.
He nodded and said, “Russian crime is the one thing we can count on to keep climbing. That and knife crime among the degenerate classes.” He stabbed the last piece of calf’s liver and wiped it around the jus and melted onions. “Black on black knife crime is the most worrying. For the statistics, that is. And with Black Lives Matter at the forefront, we are finding it difficult to stop and search. It’s a political and social hot potato. All ethnicities in the under thirties bracket are a close second, but nobody praises us stopping and searching them, just vilifies us when we stop a person of colour.”
“I hear you. But we need to do something about knife crime. It usually affects the same sort of people, and that starts with community policing. But many of these estates are police no go areas. If you go in, riots start and pretty soon the newspapers are full of race headlines.” She paused. “The vast majority of those killed, would likely have pulled a knife on somebody else sooner or later. Yes, a death on the streets is tragic, truly so when the person is an innocent victim. But really, some of this is thinning the herd…”
“With respect, a death on the streets creates a spiral of vengeance.”
“Exactly.”
Robinson looked at her incredulously. “And that vengeance escalates. Innocent bystanders become victims. Families are destroyed. People die, merely because people have already died.”
“Knives are too easily accessible. Nothing will change until we make them more difficult to purchase. Or make it impossible to buy such large knives.”
Robinson shook his head. “No matter what you do, most of us have a bigger knife in our kitchen drawer than are used in ninety percent of the stabbings we see on our streets. In fact, many of the knives used are kitchen utility knives. Thin, sharp, and easily concealed. Any more legislation on knives is like peeing in the ocean.” He paused, catching his wife’s glance. “Forgive me, darling, but it’s exactly the case.” He put down his own cutlery and took a sip of his wine. The Home Secretary’s husband had been quiet throughout the meal, as had his wife. Like a couple of bookends. Both had ordered the roast chicken. Another choice which had annoyed him, not least because it took a mandatory fifty minutes, but because roast chicken was a mid-week dinner in his opinion, and not something you ordered at a place like The Ivy, no matter how
much foie gras the chefs put in the stuffing. He had let the matter go with his wife, because the dish relied upon two people sharing and the Home Secretary’s husband had made a great deal about ordering something ‘ordinary’ from the exquisite menu. It was just like her to support her husband when she would have preferred the lobster. Robinson did not know whether the man had done it purposely to irk him, or whether he was simply fed up accompanying his high-profile wife to yet another meeting where he was nothing more than a plus one.
The waiter came and cleared the plates, and another followed behind tidying the table for the next course, which was presented to them in menu form, while the sommelier topped up the wine from the ice bucket. It was a polished operation, and Robinson reflected that despite his guests ordering from the more questionable options, he had experienced yet another excellent meal. The Ivy was a safe pair of hands, with a well-deserved reputation built upon various talented chefs, as well as the many celebrities who helped create its façade. Many people spoke about how good the food was without having been there or known a single person who had.
“The Russian crime thing you mentioned is a reference to their mafia?” the Home Secretary’s husband asked.
Robinson was caught off guard, the man had barely spoken for most of the evening. “Yes, Harold, that’s right. Russian organised crime is a scourge on Western Europe. And the uncomfortable truth is, there are connections to Russian mafia and brotherhoods in virtually all legitimate Russian business. That is why the former Prime Minister announced seizures on undisclosed Russian money, but as your good lady will tell you, Britain PLC can’t do without Russian investment. It’s a double-edged sword.”
“Indeed,” the Home Secretary agreed. “But by them teaming up with the Balkan mafias, we are still getting drugs, prostitution and weapons smuggled across our borders, but left without the Russian’s holding the smoking gun. We know what they’re doing. They know that we know what they’re doing. But we are left without the evidence needed to put pressure on the legitimate…” she scoffed. “Russian organisations.”
