Revenge

by James Patterson

  This was where his need to know the truth and his sense of duty had brought him: her in the hospital, him off to meet Chechens. Jesus.

  He started the car.

  CHAPTER 56

  GRANDFATHER’S CAR PULLED into the car park of the MOT & Service Centre, where his driver knew better than to attempt to offer a hand, waiting patiently for Grandfather to climb out.

  The driver unlocked the service centre door. Lights inside the reception area flicked on as Grandfather led the way through reception, through the office area and then into the workshop. Here the lights were already on, the place empty of its usual clinking-clanking industry, the machine shop door at the end closed with its chain and padlock fastening hanging loose.

  Grandfather stood slightly to one side in order to allow his chaperone to open the door, and then together they entered the room.

  His face fell. He had rather hoped the woman would already be in place, but although the chair was in situ there was no sign of a subject. At least his instruments were there, laid out on the table: scalpel, surgical saw, pliers.

  He was about to make his way over to the table and take a seat when he felt arms grasp him roughly from behind. ‘Hey—’ he started to say as the first man was joined by a second and he was lifted bodily, dragged to the chair and shoved down. In a routine that he himself had witnessed many times before, the men fastened him to the chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said with no hint of fear or surprise in his voice, because he had always half expected that something like this might happen. ‘Who is behind this?’

  His answer came as one of the men dragged across a second chair and set it up in front of him. A silver laptop was placed on the chair and opened. The man fiddled for a while before an image resolved.

  ‘Full screen, make it full screen,’ said another. Now Grandfather could see who was behind this role reversal.

  It was Sergei. At the other end of the link he sat and dispassionately surveyed a scene that he had presumably masterminded. More than ever now, Grandfather was pleased that he had made Ivan Vinitsky suffer. Now he understood it was Sergei’s intention to make him suffer in return, to avenge his brother, but – and here Grandfather smiled – they would not have the stomach to inflict the kind of pain that was his speciality. They were too weak for that.

  ‘Hello, Ded,’ said his grandson’s second in command over the link. ‘All has gone according to my plan, I see.’

  ‘Your brother begged,’ snarled Grandfather. A grin split his lips despite himself, despite his situation.

  ‘As will you, Ded, as will you,’ Sergei assured him. ‘Now, where shall we start? Is everything ready?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Tell us, Ded, where should we begin?’ asked Sergei politely.

  ‘The nipples,’ croaked Grandfather. ‘I always start with the nipples.’

  He looked into the eyes of the man who had betrayed him as they cut off his sweater and then sliced his nipples away. And when that was over, he told them, ‘Next … next, the ears.’

  Sergei shook his head in disgust and closed his laptop, leaving a black screen to watch the rest of the old man’s torture.

  CHAPTER 57

  RIGHT, THOUGHT SHELLEY. He had just enough time to get to Millharbour across the river, a journey he had to make quickly, but without attracting attention from the cops. In his favour: he had an hour. Points against? This was London and you never went anywhere fast.

  As he drove he watched Canary Wharf Tower grow in his windscreen, steam rising from its pyramid roof, the aircraft-warning light blinking on and off hypnotically. Soon enough he had passed it, and he knew he was close to Millharbour. Now it was as though he were in its shadow.

  Funny, he thought as he travelled, he had been brought up not far from here, in Limehouse, but it might as well have been another country for all he recognised it. In his time it was abandoned dockyards. There were no towers, just neglected cranes. He’d gone away, joined the army at seventeen and when he returned the London he knew had gone.

  As he left Canary Wharf behind, the elevated tracks of the railway line – the Docklands Light Railway – rose to his left, tracing his journey as the gleaming office blocks eventually gave way to the more modest units at the far end of Millharbour, all of which backed onto a less picturesque and therefore less expensive section of the River Thames.

  Here there was little to no traffic. The main reason anybody had to be in this area was to work at one of the office blocks or factory units, and most of those were shut for the night, workers tucked up in bed.

  And then he came to it, the road he needed. He hadn’t realised the last time he’d come – something to do with being cooped up in the back of a van – but it was a cul-de-sac. On one side was a row of office units, on the other a patch of land fenced off, signs promising more office units to come.

  Further down the road he saw that three of the units were burned-out shells, and parked close to them, in the middle of the road facing towards him, was a black Jeep Cherokee, headlights on half beam. Shelley stopped. A stretch of road lay between his Mini and the Cherokee.

  Taking a look around, it struck him that with the undeveloped site on one side and the cover of the burned-out buildings on the other, they were shielded from view. Anybody coming down here would be doing so by accident. The other units were vacant, so with Foxy Kittenz and the building next door out of commission, there was literally no reason for anyone to use this road.

  He switched off the engine and then reached into his trousers to drag out his phone, about to dial Dmitry when it rang in his hand.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, raising it to his ear.

  ‘Hello? Is that Captain Shelley?’

  ‘It is.’

  Pause. ‘I mean to say, is that Captain Shelley whose car I am looking at?’

  Shelley flashed his lights twice.

  ‘One, two, three in a row, please, just to satisfy me.’

  Shelley did as he was asked.

  ‘And you have come alone?’

  ‘It’s in our interests to keep up our end of the bargain, Dmitry. I only hope you feel the same.’

  In the rear-view mirror he saw the shape of a black Transit van about a hundred yards at his six. They were boxing him in.

  ‘Who’s that behind?’ he said sharply. ‘Is that your men?’

  ‘Why, yes, of course. There is a need to prevent anybody accidentally using the road, no? We do not want to be disturbed.’

  Okay, thought Shelley. Stay frosty. He’s making sense.

  On the other hand, they could be blocking the road to stop Shelley and Susie leaving.

  But no. Everything so far pointed to Dmitry wanting a smooth exchange. Shelley had to go with his gut on this one.

  ‘Well then, Captain, would I be right in assuming you have brought the necessary details you need to make the transfer?’

  ‘I need to know something first,’ said Shelley.

  Dmitry sighed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Just humour me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Emma’s death,’ said Shelley. ‘You said you weren’t involved …’

  ‘And I wasn’t.’

  ‘… but what about someone else in your organisation?’

  ‘You see,’ said Dmitry, ‘this is what I am trying to tell you, Captain Shelley. This is what you don’t understand. There are two types of people in this world. There are the bosses, and there are those who have bosses.

  ‘The bosses, there are very few of them, and they’re people like Mr Drake, who answer to no one and nothing, not even the law. And it is their attacks of pride, their whims, to which we must attend. They are the reason we find ourselves in positions such as this one.

  ‘Then there are the second type of people. That is people like us, Captain, you and I, who must do the bidding of our masters. Carry out their orders. Now, in most instances, people like you and I have only one aim. And that is to not displease bosse
s, and we do that by doing what is good for business. And what is good for business is making money.

  ‘Bodies, on the other hand, are bad for business. Because as soon as you have a body you have emotion. You have angry rich fathers, you have policemen becoming interested, ex-SAS men trying to make a quick buck. All of it is bad for business.

  ‘I would have had nothing to do with the killing of Emma Drake simply because it was bad for business and that would displease my bosses. My own employees would have nothing to do with the death of Emma Drake because that would displease me. Do you understand?’

  Now Shelley got to the point: ‘Okay, so not you. Not your men. What about your wife?’

  ‘Karen?’ said Dmitry with a mixture of surprise and affrontedness. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘What I say. Did Karen have anything to do with Emma Drake’s death?’

  ‘Karen works for me,’ laughed Dmitry loudly, ‘I am her boss. She also understands the need for good business. No. The answer to your question is no. Now,’ he sounded irritated, ‘shall we proceed? You have a smartphone, I take it, or did Mr Drake furnish you with a laptop?’

  ‘I’m using my own smartphone. I’ve memorised the information I need …’

  ‘Of course you have. I would expect nothing less.’

  ‘But here’s the deal,’ said Shelley. ‘I’ll transfer half to you now. I get Susie to the car, drive to the end of the road where your men are stationed, and only then do I transfer the other half.’

  He could hear Dmitry suck on his teeth. ‘And if you fail to do it?’

  ‘You tell your guys “fetch”.’

  He seemed to consider. ‘I’m not sure how this benefits you.’

  ‘I like those odds better.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Dmitry. ‘Just don’t forget, Captain, that I intend to abide by this arrangement. If, however, I think even for a second that you do not, then my retribution will be swift and ruthless. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘All that’s important to me is making sure that Susie Drake is safe,’ said Shelley.

  ‘And all that is important to me,’ said Dmitry, ‘is my twenty million.’

  ‘Then yes,’ said Shelley, ‘we do understand each other.’

  ‘At last. Now, step out of your car, please, Captain Shelley.’

  Shelley found himself reaching to the grip of his SIG for comfort. ‘You’ll need to do the same your end,’ he said. ‘I want to see you, whoever is with you, and Susie.’

  The Cherokee sat, keeping its secrets, the lights on low beam but still xenon-white and bright.

  ‘Captain Shelley,’ began Dmitry, ‘please stop trying to play the hand as though you hold all the cards. I find it a little annoying. I will show you Susie Drake. After all, she is the reason we are all here. Now, step out of the car, please. I enjoy our little chats, but maybe not as much as I will enjoy getting home at the end of the night.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m getting out of the car.’

  Heart hammering, he picked up his hat and fitted it to his head. Then he reached for the door handle and stepped out.

  CHAPTER 58

  OUT OF THE car he was in the open. A sniper could take him out. But then again, no, what would be the point?

  This was what he told himself. To take a shot at him before the cash transfer would be crackers, the behaviour of a fool. And one thing he was pretty sure of when it came to Dmitry: he wasn’t a fool.

  But on the other hand, maybe it all felt too easy. Thanks to Johnson the kidnappers had the whole process sewn up. After all, the snatch had happened that morning, and here he was ready to do the exchange. This was a procedure that Shelley had known take months to complete, being wrapped up in just a matter of hours. They’d used the word ‘negotiation’ but there hadn’t been one: just two sets of people who couldn’t wait to get it over and done with.

  Was that it? Was it all going too well?

  The Cherokee was about a hundred yards away. He turned his head. About the same distance in the opposite direction was the Transit. There were already men standing close by. Their breath billowed and he saw the outline of the handguns they held, but otherwise they were silhouettes, like targets at a shooting range.

  Facing front again he watched as the Cherokee decanted its passengers. First came a woman, and for a disorientating second Shelley assumed it was Susie, but no, of course not, it must be Karen Regan. She wore a dark, belted coat and from this far away it was too difficult to make out features, no way of recognising her as the same woman who had put a gun to the back of his head fourteen years ago.

  Now came a second woman, this one with rounded shoulders, wearing gym gear. No doubt about it, this was Susie. Again, it was impossible to say from this distance but she looked unharmed. As he watched she seemed to straighten, as though remembering herself, wanting to present a proud face to the world. ‘Well done, Susie,’ he said under his breath. ‘Give ’em hell.’

  Next to Susie stood a man with dark hair and a pronounced widow’s peak, who Shelley recognised from the photos. This was Sergei Vinitsky.

  Beside him came Dmitry Kraviz, slightly taller, wearing a T-shirt with some kind of logo, an unzipped top worn over it, and a pair of spectacles, the kind that hung on a chain around his neck like schoolteachers used to wear.

  Now they faced each other, like gunslingers, which he supposed at least three of them were. Dmitry raised a hand, beckoning Shelley forward, calling at the same time, ‘Come, Captain Shelley. Let us finish this thing, yes?’

  Shelley walked forward, seeing his own breath cloud in front of him, dragon’s breath that billowed then evaporated, billowed then evaporated. He felt in his chest the rhythmic but reassuring thump of his heart, calmed by the fact that he had long ago learned not only to control but to harness his fear, and feeling a little bit of that old buzz back at the same time.

  Opposite, the four of them began to walk forward. Behind them, the two front doors of the Cherokee opened again and a couple more guys made their presence known, standing close by the vehicle, ready if needed.

  Jesus, how many guys have they brought? Shelley was relying on Dmitry’s integrity, telling himself that it didn’t matter who was along for the ride because what they didn’t have was the money, and they wouldn’t get that until Susie was in the Mini and they were home and dry.

  Just a few yards apart now, and the Dmitry quartet drew to a halt. Night-time mist, lit by the headlights of the Cherokee, swirled around their feet. He could see their features now: Dmitry, relaxed and cool, Sergei and Karen unreadable, Susie proud but unable to completely hide her fear.

  ‘Susie, are you all right?’ he asked her.

  She looked at him, staring hard at him, and he thought she was trying to tell him something, trying to warn him of something, maybe. But what?

  Dmitry said something in Russian to Sergei, who nodded in response, before Dmitry took a few more steps forward.

  And then, behaving as though he had just caught sight of Shelley across a crowded pub, his face split into a broad grin. ‘Captain Shelley,’ he exclaimed, spreading his hands. For a crazy second Shelley thought they were going to embrace but instead Dmitry continued, ‘I am very reassured by the sight of the phone you have in your hand, Captain. Less reassured, I must say, by the bulge at your waistband.’

  Shelley tipped his head behind and then at the Cherokee beyond. ‘By the looks of things you’ve brought an entire army.’

  ‘I had to,’ said Dmitry, as though such things were not beyond dispute, ‘I had to make sure that we had the place to ourselves.’ He gestured at the burned-out buildings to Shelley’s left. Through their blackened skeletal ruins Shelley could see the silvery gleam of the river, and beyond that a distant mosaic of lights from blocks of luxury flats on the far bank. In those flats people lay in bed or sat watching TV. Or perhaps they sat by their windows, enjoying their moderately expensive view of the Thames, oblivious to what was taking place on the other side of th
e water.

  ‘Can’t tell a lie, Dmitry, it doesn’t half make me nervous seeing all these guns,’ said Shelley.

  Dmitry pulled a mock-doubtful face. ‘Oh, I doubt that very much. You are Captain Shelley of the SAS. A few guns shouldn’t worry you.’

  ‘Tell you what, then,’ said Shelley, ‘how about you holster those sidearms, just as a show of good faith?’

  ‘Sounds fair,’ said Dmitry, pushing his Makarov into the front of his jeans. He tilted his head backwards and Sergei did the same. Karen, however, did not. Her black-gloved hands remained crossed, the gun held in front of her.

  ‘Your wife doesn’t seem to want to cooperate,’ said Shelley, speaking to Dmitry but directing himself to Karen.

  ‘Awright, hero?’ she said. ‘You know who I am, then?’

  ‘I know exactly who you are,’ said Shelley.

  ‘Good. That’s nice of you to remember,’ she said. She moved her right arm away from her body so that Shelley could see for himself that it had never fully healed.

  ‘You had to learn to shoot with your left,’ he said, saw the look of fury that passed across her face and immediately regretted his words, knowing that to antagonise her was a bad move.

  Meanwhile, Dmitry was looking from one to the other, Shelley to Karen and back again, like a man who had just made a delightful discovery, and who knows? Maybe he had. ‘You know each other, it seems,’ he said. Shelley caught the glint of a gold tooth.

  ‘Yeah, you could say that,’ replied Shelley.

  ‘We had a bit of business years back, love,’ said Karen without taking her eye off Shelley.

  ‘Oh,’ said Dmitry, rearing back. ‘You weren’t … you know … were you?’

  She gave a dry laugh. ‘Not likely. It was all business.’

  ‘Unfinished business, I think, by the looks of things,’ roared Dmitry, enjoying his own joke. ‘Don’t you think, Sergei?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Sergei.

  ‘Well, I shall look forward to hearing all about this business later, Karen. Now, Captain, shall we begin with the part where you show me the colour of Mr Drake’s money.’