Shadow Line

by Stephen Edger

  ‘You nervous?’ Mark asked casually.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘You never did say what led to the change of heart: why you decided to go along with me. I mean, I said all along you would want to see justice served, but dad wasn’t so sure you would turn.’

  ‘It’s like you say, I want to see justice served.’

  Vincent wasn’t all that sure that executing a Russian mob boss would technically be defined as ‘justice’ but those who live by the sword should die by the sword, his father had always told him.

  Mark was still looking at him, ‘No that’s not it. There’s something else isn’t there?’

  Vincent turned, trying to judge whether the younger man knew about his illness or not. Mark was grinning childishly but Vincent decided he was bluffing: he didn’t know.

  ‘No; only justice. That’s all.’

  ‘You’re lying, Jack. Why are you lying? I thought we were on the same side now? I can keep a secret y’know.’

  Vincent shook his head, worried that his tone of voice was revealing more than it should.

  ‘Look,’ Mark said to get his attention. ‘If it really was about justice you would speak more passionately about what we are doing here. But there is no emotion in your voice. It’s as if you don’t really want to help me kill Stratovsky, but you feel you have no other choice. What puzzles me is why you don’t feel you have a choice. What aren’t you telling me?’

  He tried to ignore the question, but Mark continued to pester.

  ‘What do you know that I don’t Jack? Is this some kind of sting operation? Are you only going along with this so that you can arrest me as soon as we get in there? Is this a trap? Are you setting me up?’

  ‘Christ! You really are paranoid, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’d be too if you had endured what I had!’

  ‘Nobody knows I am here except you and your father. Your dad can check phone records and CCTV. He can verify that I haven’t seen or spoken to anybody since we met.’

  ‘I might just phone him to check,’ Mark replied picking up his mobile phone.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Vincent cajoled. ‘I don’t give a shit if you don’t trust me.’

  ‘Give me a reason to trust you, Jack. I am putting my life in your hands here, I need to know that you won’t back out or hang me out to dry. We both know the world will be a safer place with this shit-bag out of the way.’

  ‘Oh my God! You are like a child! Fine! The reason I changed my mind is…is…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I have cancer! Okay? It’s terminal and I have weeks, not months left! Happy now?’

  ‘Shit! Jack…I’m sorry. I didn’t…God, when did you find out?’

  ‘Friday. When I was in the hospital they found…it. I need my life to have had meaning. If stopping this scum-bag from reeking any more havoc in people’s lives is the only chance I’ve got, then I need to take it.’

  ‘You should have said something yesterday. Or Saturday. We wouldn’t have…’

  ‘Wouldn’t have asked me to help? Who else would you ask? Everyone thinks you’re dead, remember? Look, you wanted to know my motivation; now you do. Can we change the subject?’

  Mark remained silent. The door to the club opened and nine of the captains re-emerged.

  ‘Here we go,’ Mark said, pointing out of the windscreen.

  ‘That’s only nine of them. Where are the other three?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be along in a minute or so. We should get ready to go.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Vincent interrupted, resting a hand on Mark’s arm.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A black cab just pulled up outside the club. Somebody’s getting out. Oh my God!’

  ‘What? What is it? Who is it?’

  As the taxi pulled away, it revealed a slim-built woman in a dark trouser suit with long brown hair outside the club. She appeared to be looking around for someone.

  ‘That’s Lauren Smart!’ Vincent exclaimed.

  42

  Lauren Smart glanced around before opening the door to the Ponzi Club. She had a feeling somebody was watching her, a feeling she’d had since leaving her town house that morning, but she had not seen any familiar faces. Not that there was any reason for anyone to be watching her.

  She had been summoned two hours earlier by Robert. He had phoned her mobile, not his usual approach, and said that he needed to see her urgently. She had berated him for phoning but the call was under twenty seconds so it was unlikely to have generated any interest at GCHQ. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the kind of risk Robert took. It was probably this that was giving her a feeling of unease. She had seen the news over the weekend and knew that Stratovsky was now free. She also knew that the Russian was the patron of the Ponzi Club, and she could tell it was more than coincidence that she had been summoned here. As the door closed behind her she waited a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. At night this particular spot was a hive of activity, with excited clientele busy removing coats and bags and leaving them with the enticing young ladies who managed the cloakroom for peanuts. She was the only one here now, not even a bouncer or bodyguard on the door. All her senses were on red alert. She genuinely feared that she would not be walking out of this club.

  Smart had met Robert in a bar in Kensington eighteen months ago. She had gone there after a very bad day at the office: it was July 2011 and Al Qaeda had just blown up two London buses. It had been her team who should have neutralised the threat, and, whilst she wasn’t leading the operation or making the key decisions, she had still felt responsible for not stopping the attacks. She had needed a drink, like a primal desire, and she had hit the wine bar on a mission to drink until she forgot. She had arrived around ten, giving her little over an hour to achieve her aim.

  She started with a large glass of Chenin Blanc, which was gone in a matter of minutes. The bar tender had looked at her cautiously, but the look in her eye had convinced him she was not to be messed with. The bouquet had been pleasant enough but she needed something more bitter, and ordered a glass of Sauvignon next. She nursed this glass for ten minutes while she relived the steps she had taken that day, and then remembering that she wanted to forget, she knocked the contents back. At six pounds per glass, there were cheaper ways of getting drunk but she feared that a cheap bottle of vodka and the solitude of her kitchen would result in her doing something that she might not wake up from.

  When her fourth glass arrived, a sassy Chardonnay, she was feeling quite light-headed and pleased that she still had another half an hour to finish the job. A man had approached her. He was wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt and a dark tie. He introduced himself as Robert, and asked if he could sit at the bar with her. She bluntly told him she wasn’t looking for a date but when he offered to buy her next drink, she smiled. He spoke with an accent that she was too sozzled to place and his dark brown eyes matched the hair on his head. He was quite the charmer; polite, well-spoken and complimentary of her appearance. She couldn’t remember exactly what she had been wearing that day but it would have been a trouser suit of some description, the attire of a solicitor or accountant.

  She was savvy enough to know he was flirting with her, and there was every chance he was just a conman attempting to get into her knickers, but she hadn’t cared. It was operational protocol for would-be lovers to have their backgrounds scrutinized by the office, but frankly they had enough to be getting on with, all things considered, and she was smart enough not to get her drink spiked so she decided to take a chance. He was like a rugged, slightly older James Bond and as she finished her fifth glass, she just wanted to get him alone and screw him hard.

  She was aware that she was slurring her speech when he suggested it was time for her to go home. She had playfully slapped him across the cheek and said she was not that kind of girl. He had said he was a gentleman and merely wanted to make sure she got home safe. He had offered to drive her and she had gratefully
accepted, only for a chauffeur-driven black Mercedes to pull up. He told her that he rarely drove himself when he was in London and much preferred not to travel in black cabs. He had opened the door for her and she had climbed in, beginning to wonder exactly who this Prince Charming was.

  He had climbed into the other side and asked her to tell the driver where she wanted to be dropped off. Conscious that nobody knew where she was, or who she was with, she gave directions to a known safe house five minutes from her own property. She wasn’t in the habit of inviting strangers back to her own place, in case they had ulterior motives, and in the unlikely situation that he did try to kill her, it would all get captured on the hidden CCTV cameras in the chosen location.

  The car journey was over before she knew it and, like the gentleman he had claimed to be, he had opened her car door and walked her to the building. She was surprised when he didn’t move in to kiss her and quite insulted when he turned and started walking back to the car. She had chased after him and pulled him in close saying, ‘Are you going to fuck me or not?’

  Her boldness caught him on the back foot and he seemed shyer than she had expected for one with such a slick vocabulary, and rather than waiting for him to act, she had leaned in and kissed him, forcing her tongue to part his lips. When the embrace broke he shouted something Russian to his chauffeur, who pulled away. Robert lifted her into his arms and carried her to the front door. After an awkward fumble for keys they were in the house, entwined against the now closed front door. His strength had been intoxicating and she gave in to her own passion, tearing the shirt from his well-toned chest. His kiss and touch had been electric.

  She managed to remove her own jacket and blouse as he carried her up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms. He carefully placed her on the bed and it was all she could do to get his trousers off as she anticipated what was to come. Her thoughts of what more she could have done that day to prevent the atrocities was long gone and, as she gave in to carnal pleasure, her paranoia about who this suave man could be was forgotten.

  He was a strong and passionate lover pulling her in close to him as he rocked back and forth on top of her. He moaned in excited agony as she dug her nails into his back and coiled her legs around him to get him as deep as possible. They continued to thrust as one, and when she climaxed for the third time she thought he would never finish. When he cried out to indicate that their lovemaking was done she had reached a level of ecstasy she had not experienced since the first time she had puffed on a marijuana joint.

  They remained in a sweaty heap for a few minutes before he had excused himself, stating he had an early meeting the next morning. She had been in no state to argue, and was asleep before he had even made it back down to the Mercedes. She had woken the next morning with a thumping headache and racked with guilt. It had been so unlike her, but there was still an excited flutter in her heart as she had arrived at work. They had not exchanged numbers, and she had wondered whether she would ever see him again or whether he had been some kind of angel sent down to be with her for that one night.

  She had vowed not to return to the wine bar, even though she longed to see him again and eventually eight days later, unable to resist any longer, she had ventured back. This time she stuck to sparkling water in her glass but he did not show up. She spoke to the bartender at closing time to see if he knew who the man might have been. He looked clueless as she described Robert’s striking features.

  The next day she had nipped out of the office to buy a sandwich when she spotted him approaching her. At first, she wanted to believe that it was fate that he happened to be buying lunch in the same sandwich shop as her but her scepticism soon took over. He asked if she would meet him when she had finished work. She had agreed but as soon as she had returned to the office she had used her workstation to check out his credentials. It had not been difficult to identify him. He was Robert Dragonovic and he was a known associate of Russian mob boss Victor Stratovsky. She knew he was the kind of man that her bosses would disapprove of, meaning a relationship was totally out of the question.

  She met him at the hotel where he was a permanent resident with a game-plan to tell him she had made a mistake the other night and could no longer see him. She figured if she told him she was married with two small children, he would back off and leave her alone.

  He had been in the hotel’s bar, sipping from a glass of scotch when she arrived. He had offered to buy her a drink and had handed her the hotel’s extensive wine list. She smiled and told him she would just have a mineral water. When the drink arrived she began her well-rehearsed speech about her family. He listened intently, not interrupting at any point, in fact showing no emotion whatsoever. When she finished he took another sip of scotch and said calmly, ‘I know you’re not married Lauren and I know you don’t have any children.’

  The statement blindsided her and, before she could argue, he added, ‘I also know that you work for the British Security Services.’

  43

  She had blushed as she realised their meeting the week before had not been by chance, and she felt cheated that their lovemaking had been pre-ordained. The immature school girl inside her wanted to pour the whisky over his head and storm out but the inquisitive detective in her kept her seated.

  ‘I have a proposition for you, Lauren,’ he had whispered conspiratorially. ‘Let us have dinner and we can discuss it.’

  He spoke so confidently, like a man who always got what he wanted, and as much as she knew it was a bad idea, she had agreed to food at the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant. To test his resolve, she ordered the most expensive starter, main and dessert on the menu but he didn’t bat an eyelid when the bill arrived, instead just scribbling his signature on the slip of paper to charge it to his room. The conversation during dinner was pleasant enough small talk but it wasn’t until the coffees arrived that he told her his thoughts.

  ‘You want me to provide you with classified intelligence information on your associate?’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s right,’ he smiled, as if his request had been a perfectly reasonable one.

  ‘And what makes you think I would even consider doing something like that?’

  Again the smile, ‘I know how much a person in your line of work makes per year, Lauren. Did you know, there are university lecturers earning more than you? Some doctor’s earn maybe three times what you do in a year and yet, commercially speaking, you probably save more lives than the NHS combined. It’s not right, Lauren. You risk your life for your country and who knows about it? Hmm? You work in the shadows, never getting recognised for the great work that you do, and yet there is no celebration of what you achieve. You pass on valuable information to operational chiefs who claim all the credit when one terrorist cell or another is infiltrated or another assassination attempt on the Royal Family is prevented. You deserve better, Lauren. How many times have you passed on intelligence to your bosses, only for it to be ignored? And how many of those times has your intelligence proved to be correct?’

  She knew he was trying to butter her up: to appeal to her opinions and thoughts and to empathise with her; it was chapter one in the handbook on soliciting an asset. Yet what he was saying did strike a nerve. He had chosen the wrong motivator though. Whilst he was right that her salary was a pittance of what she truly deserved, she had not taken on the role for the money. If she wanted to earn more money then she could work in the private sector. She was a civil servant because she wanted to save lives. She continued to listen to him speak, wondering whether he actually believed that he was winning her over.

  ‘I’m sure you are feeling hurt by what I have said this evening,’ he continued. ‘Please understand, it was never my intention to make love to you the other night, but, when you came onto me, I was unable to resist you. You are a beautiful woman, Lauren. Believe me when I say that, what happened last week had nothing to do with what we are discussing now. I made love to you because I wanted to, not to trick you.’

&n
bsp; She didn’t believe him, although in fairness it had been she who had made the first move.

  ‘I think perhaps you should think about what I have proposed? I can arrange for my driver to take you home if you require?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ she had politely declined. ‘I will make my own way home.’

  He passed her a business card that claimed he was an international trader; trader of what she wasn’t sure: people maybe.

  She left the restaurant, angry at having been so easily duped into bed with a villain after only one thing, and on The Tube back to her house she vowed not to contact Robert Dragonovic ever again. His waiting car at her actual townhouse was an unnerving surprise. It meant he would have known she had taken him to a safe house the week before, yet still he had entered it with her. She pretended not to notice the car until he wound the window down and called out her name. She was smiling as she continued to ignore him and put her key into the front door. Before she had managed to close the door, he was jamming his foot in the gap.

  ‘Please, Lauren?’ he said.

  She pulled the door back open and saw him standing with a beautiful bunch of red roses. He passed them to her and repeated that he really had not intended to hurt her. He was taking a massive risk to come to her house like that, and the sentiment caught up with her as she invited him in and led him upstairs.

  He had again left her during the night, but this time he promised he would be back in touch to find out her decision. As she strode into work the next day, there was a definite spring in her step. She had purposefully marched into her boss’s office and closed the door behind her. She told him everything that had happened; in sordid detail. When she had finished, he looked more puzzled than angry.

  ‘Before you get angry,’ she said as she had rehearsed a dozen times in her head that morning, ‘I think we could play this to our advantage…’