by Ted Denton
I can’t betray you Matilda. My dear, beautiful Matilda. I just can’t.
‘Please. I don’t know where it is. I gave it to Michael. He has it. I swear’.
‘Michael Hausen? The physiotherapist at the training centre?’
‘Yes, yes. I gave it to him to look after.’
‘We will check for this. If you are lying to me I shall be most displeased, I can assure you.’ Sergei straightened up to leave but checked himself. He leaned back in towards Daniel and casually stubbed the cigarette out on the side of his neck, tossing the butt dismissively onto the floor. He exited smartly, leaving the cell behind him filled with rabid screams.
Chapter 37
SPAIN. SESEÑA REGION. 08.19 HRS.
I punched the freshly memorised contact number into the new disposable phone. I had been grabbing some kip, pulled up in a lay-by in some dusty Spanish shithole of a town, the kind littered with high-rise blocks that no one wanted to live in during the good times let alone in the long distant aftermath of a financial crisis. Still, on the bright side, some global business sectors were thriving. I could think of at least two that were booming: Kidnap & Ransom on one side and Hostage Recovery on the other. The Unit was prosperous.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been, Hunter?’ Ella exclaimed with a tone of practiced injured innocence. ‘We’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘I’ve been a little busy. Had to find out that the Target wasn’t at that address the hard way.’
‘Sorry Tom. We checked out the address you gave us. It’s a viable location for us to assume the Target was being held at. Things have changed, we’ve got fresh intel on the movements of one of the key suspects in this shake up. Mickey’s getting a lock on the Target. We need you there right now.’
‘I could probably have done with knowing that before I crashed the wrong party. Don’t think I was the most popular guest somehow.’
‘Well if you answered your bloody phone sometimes, it might just make communication a little easier,’ she teased.
‘Okay, okay. Mea culpa,’ I grinned into the handset. ‘Guess I was just eager to crack on.’
‘What went down?’
‘Helped a couple of damsels out of a jam I guess, but I used a little too much force.’
‘Stop it. You know I love Dylan too, Tom,’ she cooed. ‘Blood on the Tracks?’
You know your music, babe. It did get a little messy in there.’
‘Not more bloody body count? You’ll have police forces from all over Europe looking for us now as well as the whole of Africa. You’re clearly all right though and back to your charming self. And how could I not have guessed that women were involved somewhere?’
‘I’ve only got eyes for you, Ella. You know that.’
‘Enough!’ she giggled. ‘I’ve been doing some research for Charles. This whole gig runs deeper than just a few rogue caddies, Tom. Read the bloody report this time and I’ll get back to you when I receive the latest location co-ordinates from the tracker Mickey placed on Sergei Krostanov’s car. We’re closing in on Daniel’s real whereabouts at last and we’re going to need you there sharpish. And please, Hunter, be bloody careful.’
I hung up the phone and scanned through the report.
Originally founded as an entity named Rublucon, Rublex Corporation had its murky origins from foundation in 1986 during the transition of the USSR at the time of perestroika. An aggressive and suspected unauthorised takeover of previously state-owned oil and gas fields in Siberia had turned the prodigiously youthful and ruthlessly ambitious owners into billionaires overnight. Rublucon had rapidly expanded into new markets and territories enriching those officials who enabled its growth whilst building a morass of enemies along the way. Growth was seemingly always at the expense of the common man, with thousands of homeowners and farmers displaced to make way for new infrastructure in specific territories. After the land grab, the business ostensibly cleaned itself up and was renamed Rublex. There wasn’t much information on the ownership of the organisation.
By the turn of the millennium, Rublex’s operation had sanitised itself further. Reach had spread internationally and there were photographs on the Internet of Boris Golich, one of the original founders, socialising with world leaders. The conglomerate would now withstand all scrutiny and was considered beyond reproach. A massive pipeline had been constructed through Kurdistan and down through Turkey, providing access into Europe. The latest news was of a gas exploration in the international waters off the Falkland Islands with several national governments interested in partnering to develop the resources. The sanitisation of this once dubious organisation seemed complete.
The report also contained details of the fifty million pound sponsorship deal with the European Tour, now in the second year of five. They supported the overall Order of Merit sponsorship and end of season championship, something of a big money bonus shoot-out which replaced the successful and long-standing Race to Dubai. In addition to this, they funded provision of the physiotherapy truck and a fleet of personal trainers available to those players without one already in their team. There were pictures of Krostanov everywhere: with players, at dinners, with the Tour committee. Ella had updated her cast of characters and mugshots too. The ‘usual suspects’, as she referred to them every time she pulled profiles together regardless of the job. She’d been thorough with the catalogue of caddies and officials who could possibly be linked to the disappearance. Using state of the art image recognition software, she had searched for further images documented around the world to link them to those under suspicion in the kidnapping. She had found some of Sergei in an American investment prospectus for an oil exploration company in Uzbekistan. A strapping man in his thirties. In one grainy image, he was standing in front of a corrugated iron hut, framed by a backdrop of vast rugged mountains wearing a hard hat and smiling. He held a clip board, his arm clamped around a mine worker. Tough beginnings. A world away from the opulent and refined environment of the golf Tour where he now seemed so central. There was a caption accompanying the photograph.
Site manager Sergei Krostanov with engineer Andrei Sharplov at the Uzbek oil refinery pumping station, 10 September 1999.
Ella had highlighted the name in red to make a point. Andrei Sharplov. I zoomed in and centred on the face of the other man in the picture. Scanned through the list of other faces to compare. He was also wearing a hard hat and the photograph wasn’t the best, but the bone structure and those eyes, even early traces of that sculpted beard, were all the same. There was little doubt. Soviet mining engineer Andrei Sharplov and former colleague of Sergei Krostanov was now Aaron Crower’s caddy on the European Golf Tour, Andy Sharples.
Two old men, skin leathered from years of exposure to the sun, played cards over tiny cups of coffee outside the beleaguered café opposite. They looked up in unison, briefly startled by the thrust of the engine. Then resumed their trusted early morning ritual which served as an unspoken distraction from the slippage of time, lives winding down like the setting moon over water. Nothing else in the town stirred as I sped through dirty deserted streets and back out onto the motorway. Reinvigorated by news of Daniel’s location.
SESEÑA. OUTSKIRTS OF FRANCISCO HERNANDO VILLAGE
‘Get lost again did we, Tommy Boy?’ Mickey called over to me as I pulled off the road about thirty miles south of Madrid. We were sheltered under a large shady fig tree which cast long shadows over a cluster of disused farm buildings. ‘I hope she was worth it mate. I’ve only been ‘ere for four blinking hours.’
‘They inside?’ I nodded towards the large hacienda style property at the back of which we were parked, judiciously ignoring the well-meaning jibe.
‘It’s well-protected. I’ve clocked at least six different heavies coming and going so far but there’s bound to be more inside the compound we don’t know of.’
‘And Krostanov?’
‘Yep. All parked up. If our sources are correct, he’s probably attending to some busine
ss with Daniel in there right now. Assuming the kid’s still alive.’
‘I’d usually wait for night fall to lead a strike but I think we’re running out of time. Is Hand sending in anyone to assist? Where’s Phil Manning when you need him?’
‘Phil’s in London, mate. He’s working the Golich angle in town. It’s getting serious at that end too with an assassination order made on some government official or other so it’s just you and me on this one pal.’ He slapped me hard on the back displaying something near to genuine affection.
‘What have we got in the way of heavy artillery, Mick?’
‘How did I know you’d bloody ask that? You do love your toys, Tommy,’ he chuckled. I followed the wiry little character about fifty yards to a clump of dry thorny bushes nestled behind a masonry shed, probably used to house livestock at some time or other. Partly covered in the undergrowth, an old Spanish bakery van lay concealed. Mickey had clearly swapped vehicles at some point. He unlatched the back of the van and I peered inside. An assortment of various weapons were neatly strapped against the metal sides of the van. I selected a snub nose Kalashnikov machine gun. It fired an armour piercing round with greater range, accuracy and penetrating capability than those sub-machine guns which load pistol-calibre cartridges.
Smirked at the irony that this fine personal defence weapon as they were known, was in fact a product of the Russian Motherland. The ‘PDW’ label was used to justify their existence, in my opinion, by the powerful American gun lobbies. They had flooded the black market since the early nineteen nineties, when it became a trusted favourite of the notorious Jamaican Yardie drug gangs. But this was Russian weapon technology through and through and now I’d be using it on some of their own. I strapped it over my shoulders.
‘Big guns too, Mick?’ I nodded inside the van.
‘Quite proud of myself on this score actually, mate.’ He straightened, appearing pleased as punch.
‘I have only managed to acquire our very own M9A1. Yeah, a bazooka! I didn’t like doing it, mind, but the Hand of God set me up with a meet with them ETA Basque fellas and they were happy to trade. Seems they bought a load off the Portuguese Defence Forces after they’d finished fighting them Marxist guerrillas in Africa during their colonial wars in the mid-seventies and just had them lying around. Hand figured that if it’s just you going in there on your tod then you’d want me to at least clear you some space.’
‘A bloody antique then?’
‘I’ve done some testing and trust me, mate, the rocket launcher has still got some grunt in it. You all good for small arms too?’
‘Need some mags for the Beretta, but otherwise I’m good to go. You’re on point for this one, Mickey. I’m gonna need you to smash the gaff up a bit with that bad boy.’ I nodded to the big metallic tube that Mickey was caressing like a six year old with a new favourite Christmas present. ‘Draw their fire whilst I bust in. Keep hidden and be ready to get us the fuck out of Dodge when I come out with the Target. That van’s good cover. It’s slower than the Range Rover but we won’t get picked up as easily.’
‘Sounds like a plan, mate. Make it happen, Tom.’
This was going to be an in and out job. Crude but effective. And just my style. Mickey was tasked with blasting the crap out of the east side whilst I penetrated the kitchen door on the patio at the rear from the west. Once I was inside, I would be taking out anyone who didn’t look like either a kidnap victim, and I’d met a few in my time, or resemble the picture of Daniel Ratchet that I had committed to memory. Not particularly scientific, I know, but there was no time to get fancy and I wasn’t here to be making new pen pals.
The message from Ella buzzing through on the phone didn’t improve matters.
The graveyards are full of indispensable men.
- Charles de Gaulle
Funny thing. That girl had an unnerving sense of pertinence and timing with her quirky military quotations. Not particularly helpful given that more often than not they had a knack of turning out to ring true to the situation. My stomach churned. I’m not sure it was what I needed right before going into theatre.
Chapter 38
ENGLAND. LONDON. THE GHERKIN BUILDING.
The stage was dark. A screen curved across its back, displaying a changing montage of uplifting and iconic images. Oil fields. Gushers. Mountains. Sunrises. Teams of smiling workers. Gas tankers in rapid convoy on otherwise empty roads. Bustling offices. Graphs depicting positive growth spikes. The Union Jack fluttering in slow motion. The legend which ran across the top of these pixelated images read:
A NEW UNION FOR GROWTH. DELIVERING ECONOMIC
SUSTAINABILITY AND CREATING BRITISH JOBS.
Rows of journalists and especially invited delegates from government and the ranks of the Ministry of Trade and Investment and Department for International Trade sat patiently facing the stage waiting for the activity to begin.
Andy Bartholomew strode purposefully onto the centre of the stage. He cleared his throat and paused briefly to survey the audience who studied his every move.
‘Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you all for coming. I know that today has been somewhat shrouded in secrecy but until now the government hasn’t been in a position to release details of the historic deal which my department has been working tirelessly on. A deal we’ve agreed in order to generate and guarantee seven thousand British jobs over the next ten years!’
The audience erupted into spontaneous applause. Bartholomew looked really rather pleased with himself.
He continued. ‘As you well know, ladies and gentlemen, there hasn’t been much real cheer for the economy in Britain since we cast off from a toxic Europe over the last wee while. Well this government has bucked that trend at last! We have beaten off fierce international competition for this deal and we have created a union to deliver fiscal growth, to safeguard and create British jobs!’
More applause. Andy savoured every last morsel, not deeming to commence his next sentence until the very last strike of hands coming together had completed.
‘Therefore without further ado,’ he rolled his R’s like a bugler trilling the arrival of the regimental goat, ‘I am honoured to introduce the Prime Minister to share the details on this momentous day.’
The Prime Minister swaggered onto the stage, tracked by a spotlight. Announcements of this type usually took place in Westminster, not amidst this poor imitation of American-style political razzmatazz. It had been Bartholomew himself who had choreographed the slick stage-managed announcement, apparently so as to generate maximum media interest and impact around the globe.
‘Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve no need for me to remind you of the torrid economic and political climes through which we have lived and served and although, over the last couple of years, there has been something of a modest upturn, due to strict austerity measures and the manifestation of Brexit, we know that many parts of the European Union continue to wallow in the swamps of financial despair. During this sorry chapter of our time trading partners have collapsed, currencies have fallen, banks have gone bust, businesses have failed, jobs have been lost, lives have been ruined.’ He paused for the implications to settle and continued on with some gusto to announce the steps taken to consign these bitter memories to history once and for all. The speech detailed how, in the face of stiff foreign competition, the government had secured a trading alliance with the Rublex Global Corporation, one of the most prodigious and fastest growing oil and gas distributors in the world. The historic deal, partially funded by the UK, would create a minimum of seven thousand jobs for British workers over the next ten years and was worth an estimated seven billion pounds to the UK economy. It was, he hoped, a defining moment. He turned, half-facing the vast screen stretched behind him as the lights dimmed again and a video vignette offering detailed factual content on the deal danced into life.
As the audience settled, fixated on the images playing out in front of their eyes, a figure emerged from a throng at the
back of the room. Calling out as he approached the stage, a thick sheaf of papers waving in his hand, The Minister, Brian Weston, shattered the silence within the room.
‘Prime Minister! Stop this charade. You have left me with no choice.’
A hundred heads swivelled in unison to watch as he sprang onto the stage. ‘Stop this nonsense, Prime Minister. I beseech you. Stop this at once’.
‘Take a hold of yourself, man,’ warned the Prime Minister stepping towards him.
‘Prime Minister. I cannot allow this to proceed. You have chosen to consort with Boris Golich, a man whom we have now unequivocal proof of involvement in the most audacious of criminal activities.’ He faced the audience urgently. ‘You have opted to commit Great Britain to a commercial relationship with a Russian Mafia overlord via the veiled guise of oil and gas exploration which is merely a front for laundering dirty drug and extortion money. You risk tarnishing our standing on the international stage through supporting such nefarious criminal activity and costing us millions in the unwarranted joint venture infrastructure fees needed to facilitate this cursed deal.’
‘Have you lost your mind, Minister? You simply have no grounding for these quite absurd and unsubstantiated allegations. I won’t tolerate such insubordination.’
‘Stand aside,’ the Minister admonished. He depressed a button on a clicker which, until now, had been concealed within the pocket of his suit jacket. The visuals on the screen changed. Now a series of enlarged scanned documents were presented there.
Warrants for Boris Golich’s arrest under the charges of conspiracy for the acts of the organisation of murder, extortion, embezzlement and various other criminal atrocities committed in several of the old Eastern Bloc countries. Additionally, a number of bank statements highlighting a series of large off-shore payments made to numbered accounts purported to link the Prime Minister to Hamilton Advisory, a consultancy advising Rublex on the marketing of incomplete or non-existent casinos and resorts. The PM held a fixed smile on his face, conjuring mock laughter as his head rocked from side to side in faux disbelief. Hoots and howls of derision from the audience followed. Displayed on the screen next came photographs of abandoned building sites at the locations of these ghost developments. Then followed swiftly by screen grabs of sexy marketing material featuring quoted endorsements in the name of the UK Prime Minister. Apparently they had ‘strong investment potential, impressive sustained occupancy rates and unparalleled facilities’.