Max & Olivia Box Set

by Mark A Biggs

  ‘No, the Yugoslav army left in 1991, about the same time that you left me with my parents.’

  ‘What is it about this place that draws you to it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I answered, trying to appear surprised by the question.

  ‘People touched by war often have a place that means something to them, and not always in a good way. I don’t know what happened after we left, but you were in a war zone. Zvornik, near where you lived, became synonymous with mass-murder by Serb paramilitary groups like the White Eagles and Yellow Wasps. If my memory serves me correctly, a total of 3,936 people, were killed or went missing between 1992 and 1995, near where you were.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I snapped while trying to hide a slight lump that had formed in the back of my throat.

  ‘We may have left you but we never forgot you.’

  For the briefest of seconds, I let Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth invade my consciousness. Out, damned spot.

  By clenching my fists, I pushed her away but not before saying, indignantly, ‘Why is it that you go to war, kill and God knows what else, but become a victor? On the submarine, Captain Andrey called you a hero of the Russian people. I do no more or no less than you and I’m a war criminal.’

  I waited, wanting Max to reply, but he didn’t and, for more than a minute, silence hung in the air before I felt compelled to continue, this time soberly.

  ‘I visit this place whenever I come to Dubrovnik, though I don’t like the memories it evokes. It draws me to it like a malevolent force that I can’t control. The ruins remind me of another time, one of war. The burned-out shell is a monument to darker days. As I said, the contrast is alluring, a ghostly reminder of the past.’

  ‘What happened when you went home, after we freed you from Macinec?’

  I hesitated, before deciding to share some of my story. I skipped the first couple of years, saying that it was difficult to fit back into family life, and started when I ran away to join the Yellow Wasps. I recalled how I enjoyed the discipline, the rigorous exercise and how I excelled in combat training. The Yellow Wasps and my activities during the conflict, I left out. I did wonder, when I moved the story to fleeing Yugoslavia and entering Britain illegally, if Max would ask but he didn’t. Instead, we moved to where we had a better view of the ocean. Surveying the waves, I pondered whether I should continue my tale and found I wanted to tell my story but was worried that it would come out wrong. No one had ever been interested, so it was a chronicle never told before. Luckily, Max seemed content and patient to wait.

  ‘When I came to London,’ I said, ‘it was as an illegal immigrant. You see, I had to flee Zvornik toward the end of the war and I arrived with nowhere to stay, no friends, little money and no work. I ended up in a cheap cold and damp boarding house in Soho, sharing a room with four, sometimes five, other girls. On the trip over, I heard others say how important it would be, if you wanted to avoid deportation, to become fluent in English. Although I had basic English, that I learnt as a teenager, from the moment we landed, I set about mastering the language and softening my accent, which was predominantly Russian from having been held captive during my developmental years. Being virtually penniless, even though I picked up a few low paying cleaning jobs, I discovered that hanging around in libraries was a good place to be because they were warm in winter and cool in summer. It was there that I taught myself to read, and discovered it was fun. I could escape from reality by becoming absorbed in a book. I was a quick learner and a frequent visitor. One of the librarians introduced me to western classics and I greedily indulged myself in their covers. Although I was broke and powerless, I learned that, in British society, fun could be had by using literary references as a weapon, which only encouraged me. The girls I was staying with didn’t understand and, eventually, suggested I leave. One of them, Stephanie was her name, who was also leaving, told me of a lap dancing job she had acquired at a place called the Mayfair Club. She told me that they were still hiring and suggested I pay them a visit.

  ‘The Mayfair Club turned out to be an exclusive strip joint in London. I was given a trial as a lap dancer and, with a good teacher, picked it up quickly. The money was better than I had been getting as a cleaner, but not as good as those girls who were willing to go the whole nine yards, as the Americans would say. The club provided private booths for those clients wanting additional services and I was surprised by the number of girls who were using prostitution to pay their way through university. It was a good place to work.

  ‘As a lap dancer, I was forbidden fruit, the honey pot, tantalising and arousing the leering and lecherous men by rubbing myself erotically close to their bodies as I could without touching them. They would push £50 notes into my knickers while fantasising that the paper was their fingers. At the same time, I would let my breasts brush once or even twice across their face. I did my job well, stirring them to uncontrolled excitement by being sexual without being sexual – yet with the promise there. When I finished, they would be willingly escorted away to one of our private booths, to release their pent-up desire and money from their wallet. My salary was linked to a conversion rate, lap dancing to private booth. Most men are weak,’ I scoffed, wondering if I was shocking Max and realising that I was not, I continued, ‘and fell easy prey to my entrapment. Even those who would regret it later succumbed.

  ‘I was good at the job and it was easy money. Anyway, within twelve months or so, I had worked my way up to supervising some of the girls. Because management saw me as well-spoken, classy and able to engage in intelligent conversation, I was often asked to join the table of some of our more influential clients. This was not as a lap dancer but as a concierge to ensure the night met their expectations; organising company and other requirements they had. That’s how I met Monya. He wasn’t a regular but, when he was in London on business, he would use the Mayfair Club to host guests or for his own personal enjoyment. I knew him as a Russian property tycoon, although it was rumoured amongst the girls, that he was involved in the Mafia. Compared to some of the other gangsters who frequented the establishment he was perhaps more genteel, sophisticated. Whatever it was about him, he didn’t come across as a thug but I knew that he was dangerous because he was always accompanied by bodyguards.

  ‘On one of his business trips to London, he visited the club almost every night accompanied by, and entertaining, different people, some of whom I arranged for our most discreet girls to meet, all at Monya’s expense of course. Two nights before he was due to return to Moscow, I was invited, through the club, to organise and attend a private gathering for six of his closest associates at the penthouse where he was staying. His private secretary came to the club before the night and I was taken shopping for a new wardrobe that I was expected to wear. I remember that day even now because I never imagined having that kind of money to spend, or standing in front of a mirror thinking and feeling how beautiful I was in a blue Versace dress and gold necklace.

  ‘The afternoon of the function, a silver Rolls-Royce came to the club and I was chauffeured to an amazing landmark building on the banks of the Thames. The penthouse suite covered the top two floors and had a grand entrance hall that was lavishly panelled in a dark rich timber. Ahead was a living room and above was a magnificent chandelier and the landing of the floor above which was accessible by an elaborate marble stone staircase with black wrought iron railings. Marble was everywhere from the entrance hall to the kitchen and the bathrooms. And what bathrooms they were! Spas, soaking tubs and I remember this huge mirror; it was glorious. We had something similar at our club but this place was prestigious and tastefully decorated; it dripped wealth. My favourite room was the private study with its imposing curved oak desk, deep rich red leather seats and a magnificent bookcase. A personal sanctuary and I could imagine myself locked away here, lost in my reading. A rooftop garden with its unrivalled views over London complemented the penthouse.

  ‘I arrived a few hours before the guests were due and went over t
he arrangements for the night with Monya, including which girls were to accompany each guest. He chatted warmly. I found him charming and he seemed to enjoy showing me around the suite. It was also the first time that I had seen him on his own as the bodyguards had been stationed outside the front door. It was, he told me, to be a very selective gathering. My girls were to add atmosphere, to be disarming, enchanting, yet unobtrusive and were to withdraw to another part of the penthouse when directed. Six girls were required, one for each of our visitors and they were to arrive an hour before the first guest. Monya wanted them to be dressed elegantly, sexy without being erotic.

  ‘Promptly, at 7.00pm, the first of our guests for the evening arrived. He was greeted at the door by the butler and then escorted to the lounge by his consort for the evening, where Monya and I were waiting. This scene played out another five times until the gathering was complete. The wine and champagne flowed freely, as did the conversation, but the girls and I were under instructions to moderate our drinking, helped by the wine waiter who ensured that our drinks were diluted, though it appeared to our companions that we were enjoying the beverages with them. Monya played the same game.

  ‘The dinner was exquisite, formal but relaxed, and I recall it being one of the finest meals I had ever savoured. When it was over, the chef, butler and waiting staff were each dismissed for the evening. Monya had given me the nod and I discreetly directed the girls to remain at the table, as the men retired for after-dinner drinks and business discussions. As he was preparing to leave the table, Monya said, while extending his arm for me to take, “Walk with me Claudia.”

  ‘Arm in arm and with a champagne flute in my other hand, I escorted him to join the other men. When we arrived, he directed me once more by saying, “Thank you, Claudia,” and I knew that it was my turn to leave.

  ‘The sitting room, where the men were meeting, was an extension of the grand entrance hall and I chose to walk close to the front door, to examine the chandelier, before making my way back to join the women. Despite the soft music that was playing in the background, I recognised the muffled crack-crack noise from outside of the door immediately, the unmistakable sound of bullets being fired through a silencer.

  ‘Swerving quickly, kicking off my high heel shoes in the one motion, my movements caught the attention of Monya. “Take cover,” I called as softly as I could, but with urgency in my voice, “We are about to have unwanted visitors.”

  “What’s going on?” Monya called back, and he began to stand.

  ‘I put a finger over my lips to indicate that I wanted him to keep quiet. “Gun shots. Get down on the floor,” I mouthed while looking about for the light switch. Finding a bank of switches, I turned off everything and the room was bathed in twilight, the city glow entering through the uncurtained windows and the light from the rest of the building preventing the darkness I craved. Once through the door, I knew it would take only seconds for our assailants’ eyes to adjust. Scanning about I assessed the options. Unarmed, they appeared limited. Glancing towards Monya and his companions, I could see them prostrate on the floor with no guns to be seen. No one was carrying.

  ‘At first, I positioned myself behind where the door would open but, realising that they would use small explosives to gain entry, I moved back a few feet.

  ‘After smashing the champagne glass on the marble tiles to create a jagged edge, I crouched down like a coiled spring, ready to pounce. The moment the first person came through the door, I would have less than a second to react if we were to have any chance of surviving.

  ‘Bang, bang, bang!

  ‘The explosions came in rapid succession – hinges and lock targeted and the door fell to the floor with a thud. A hooded figure dressed in black and holding a pistol burst into the room but the assailant’s entry was slowed by the semi darkness. I leaped like a gazelle, thrusting the broken glass into his exposed neck, turning the bleeding and convulsing body toward the next intruder as a shield. Using the assailant’s pistol, still in his hand, I discharged two shots, hitting the second assassin who dropped to the floor.

  ‘Crack, crack!

  ‘There came the sounds of more gunshots and I was knocked backwards. A third person, someone I hadn’t noticed, was firing into the body I was using as armour. Still holding the dead person, now with the pistol in my hand, I retreated further into the room, before dropping my shield and taking cover with Monya and the others while maintaining a clear view of the entrance which was lit with the light coming from the hall.

  ‘From my vantage point, unless we were stormed en masse, it would have been difficult for anyone to make it across the threshold alive. Whoever our stalkers were, they would know by now that we had called for backup. Their advantage was lost and I thought the attack was over but we remained hidden regardless, listening. No noises came from outside until we heard the ding of the lift arriving at our floor. I guessed that whoever else was out there had fled down the fire escape and pushed the lift button on their way past, as a diversion. Monya started to stand but I whispered, “Wait,” and gently pushed him back to lie flat on the ground. “It may be a trap, give it another thirty seconds, I’ll go and check.”

  ‘Everything was silent, so I cautiously moved from the centre to the corner of the room to improve the view I had of the corridor through the door. With the gun at the ready, I narrowed the angle between me and the gap. At the last moment and holding my breath, I stepped into the corridor, swinging to the right, the direction I couldn’t see and then rapidly back to the left, ready to shoot. Except for two dead guards and the second person I’d killed, the hallway was empty. Whatever remained of the assassination team had fled.

  ‘After that,’ I said to Max, ‘Monya wanted to know about my past. I left out those early years as a sex slave, starting with my paramilitary training during the war and fleeing to the UK to avoid prosecution. That led me to the Mayfair club. And that’s it really. As John Wade said in 1839, the rest is history. That’s how I came to be working for Monya.’

  ‘So, you took a job,’ asked Max, provocatively, ‘with the very people you escaped from as a child? And, doing the same thing?’

  ‘Sweetie,’ I snapped. ‘are you insinuating that I’m a child abuser? How dare you! I gave you more credit than that. Are you one of those naïve idiots who believe that 80% of those abused become abusers? You’re wrong. The majority of people abused in childhood don’t continue the cycle. I ended up working for the Mafia, for Monya, through fate. It had nothing to do with my childhood. It’s just the way things turned out when I saved his life that night.’

  Standing up, determined to end the conversation, I continued, but with the assertiveness gone from my voice. ‘Come on sweetie, it’s time we got going.’

  I reached out my hand towards his, intent on helping this senile and weak old man to stand.

  ‘What about Macinec?’ Max said, accepting the offer of my hand.

  Keeping the anger I felt absent from my voice, I said, ‘They don’t have children there anymore. No dark web or streaming child pornography. Child exploitation has gone to the Asians.’

  ‘You’re still trafficking in human misery. Your prostitutes are modern slaves. Oh, no physical shackles, but there are financial ones that make it impossible for them to work their way out of debt. When Monya asked you to go there, I could tell that you were uncomfortable.’

  I didn’t answer immediately, contemplating as we strolled towards the car. I wouldn’t admit that he was right and I didn’t want to talk about it. Of all the things I did, Macinec was a place I wanted to stay away from.

  Instead of responding to Max, wanting to alter the direction of our conversation and restore my authority, I said, ‘Olivia is searching for you!’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ he replied, content for a change in subject.

  ‘No. It would be difficult if she were to come here.’ Then, raising the game, I added, ‘You do understand, that if I’m ordered to, I will kill you both!’

  ‘Th
ough you don’t want to.’

  ‘Yes of course. If I’m ordered to was what I stated.’

  Max stopped, turned and faced me.

  ‘That’s not what I said. Even though you don’t want to.’

  ‘Sweetie – you and me, we’re the same. If your government ordered you to, you would kill me without a moment’s hesitation.’ I paused for effect and exaggerated the words as I added, ‘Even though you don’t want to!’

  ‘There’s a difference!’ Max replied, carefully.

  ‘A difference to whom?’ I scoffed. ‘In either case, one of us is dead and then what? Do you think a dead person can see the difference, that your God will see a difference? No Max, we are remarkably similar. You think you are morally superior!’

  ‘Claudia, I would never have been sent to kill you, unless you were a threat to many innocent people. You would dispose of Olivia and myself because we are an inconvenience.’

  ‘Sweetie, we both follow orders.’

  ‘Is that what happened in Yugoslavia?’

  ‘You killed in war, just as I did.’

  ‘Is that why you had to flee to London?’

  I felt the anger welling again within me.

  How dare he be so sanctimonious.

  Before responding, I called up my training, aiming for calm to reduce my aggression. It didn’t work and spat.

  ‘Each of our activities, sweetie, were sanctioned by our governments. The only difference is, you were on the winning side. You, considered a hero of the Russian people. What rubbish.’

  ‘The submarine captain, if he knew what you did, how would he describe your time with the Yellow Wasps?’

  War criminal, I thought privately, but aloud I said, ‘Thou shalt not kill. You’re a man of the cloth, isn’t that a commandment? It’s not meant to be a suggestion, sweetie.’

  ‘Sometimes we must do things for a greater good; especially when failing to act is a greater evil.’

  ‘Sweetie, who decides what is this greater good?’