Unfinished Business

by W. Soliman

  “The piano, in a previous life. I haven’t played for years.” I glanced at my fingers, cut and bruised from countless battles with the boat’s engine. Brendan, my former music teacher who still doggedly kept in touch and tried every trick in the book to get me playing again, told me he wept buckets every time he saw them. A pianist was supposed to protect his fingers more jealously than he guarded his bank balance.

  “Oh, that’s a pity. Demands of the job, I suppose.”

  “Time for bed.” I had no intention of being drawn into this particular conversation. “I’d like to get away early in the morning. There’s a regatta at Cowes this weekend so the marina is likely to be full.”

  “Yes, and they don’t usually take advance bookings when there’s something on.”

  “Right. It’ll be first come, first served, which is why I want to get away early.”

  “Good plan.” She smiled at me and turned towards her cabin. “Good night, Charlie.”

  “Good night.”

  I had a nightcap and pondered the events of the day whilst I waited for her to use the head. My bruised fingers absently tapped out the harmonic content of “Jungle Line” on the galley surface. I could hear the bass register flirting with the tenor chords. Syncopated variants flooded my mind in spite of my best efforts to ignore them, and I was horrified to find myself improvising on my imaginary keyboard, asking myself what, if anything, I’d have done differently from Herbie to enhance the melody. I stopped abruptly when my actions registered in my brain, deciding Miss Webb had a lot to answer for. With Gil at my heels, I held that thought as I too turned in.

  The weather was fine and the No Comment behaved perfectly in the choppy force five that accompanied us all the way to Cowes. We arrived in the middle of the afternoon but the marina was already almost full. We were lucky to get a berth on the inside of the outermost pontoon.

  “Any later and we’d have been stuck on the outside,” I remarked as Kara efficiently made the last of the lines secure.

  “You stink-boaters are all softies.” She leapt agilely back on board. “There’s nothing wrong with being on the outside, or on a mooring buoy either, for that matter.”

  “Yeah, as long as you don’t mind being in the direct firing line of all the ferries and hydrofoils. And at the mercy of all the weekend grotty-yachties who don’t have a clue what they’re doing.”

  She poked her tongue out at me as she helped set up the shore power.

  “Come on,” I said when we were finished. “Let’s give Gil a run.”

  We walked down the floating pontoon towards the quaint semi-pedestrianised high street. It had retained its character and had changed little over the years, if one overlooked the fact that shops once frequented by the locals had given way to expensive chandler’s, Indian restaurants and fancy boutiques.

  I took Kara’s hand and she shot me a quizzical look.

  “We’re acting, remember.”

  “Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very easily. Obviously.”

  “Do you think anyone is actually watching us, Charlie?”

  “I haven’t noticed anyone but they’re hardly going to advertise their presence, are they? Let’s just assume they’re out there and give them something to talk about.”

  We strolled along Cowes seafront, skirted behind the Royal Yacht Squadron and headed towards Gurnard. I let go of her hand at one point and draped my arm around her shoulders instead. She leaned into my side and laughed at some inane comment of mine, as though I was the wittiest person on the planet. Her laughter rang in my ears and made me feel good. The pressure of her body against mine made me feel even better.

  I kept half an eye on the people ’round about, trying to decide who, if anyone, was watching us. I thought I saw the same gangly youth on a couple of occasions but he took no particular interest in us. Then there was a couple throwing bread for nonexistent ducks, which was being swooped upon by the seagulls instead. They turned away very quickly when they saw me looking at them, which aroused my suspicions. It also gave me an excuse to pull Kara a little closer. Just in case.

  When we got back to the boat, the outside of the pontoon was rapidly filling up.

  “Told you so,” I said smugly.

  “What do you fancy for dinner tonight?” She opened lockers in the galley and started rummaging around.

  “Why don’t we give one of those fancy Indian restaurants something to do?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  And so we did. Cowes Tandoori offered a bewildering array of dishes but I’d learned the hard way that they’re usually variations on a basic theme, disguised with different sauces. To be on the safe side I order chicken madras, which was okay. Kara went for prawns in a mild sauce.

  We lingered over our wine and walked slowly back to the marina, arms entwined. It still felt good. Too good. I wondered now if this was such a clever idea but had no time to dwell upon the deeper implications of our playacting, because as soon as we set foot on the boat I knew something wasn’t right.

  “Stay there!”

  Kara was about to swing a leg over the gunwales but paused to look at me quizzically.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Where’s Gil? Why isn’t he on the other side of that glass door wagging like crazy?”

  “You’re frightening me.”

  In spite of my telling her to stay on the pontoon, she’d come aboard and was standing at my shoulder.

  “Come inside, Charlie,” said a familiar-sounding male voice from the salon. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What the—”

  The door slid open a foot or two, enough for me to see Gil rolling on his back and having his stomach scratched by the elegantly manicured hand of my uninvited guest. My mind was whirling with possibilities. Gil was a soft touch but not to the extent that he’d allow someone he didn’t know into his domain and then lap up the attention. He didn’t even get up when he heard my voice. Hopefully that meant the intruder was one of the good guys, but I still couldn’t place his voice and it was too dim to make out his features. With no alternative open to me I walked into the salon. Kara was right behind me.

  My old boss, Chief Superintendent Gerry Monk, had made himself at home on the seating unit and was the one responsible for scratching Gil’s tender spots. He had a reputation as a snappy dresser. I’d never seen him in anything other than a suit and tie before but even dressed casually, in chinos and a polo shirt bearing the logo of an upmarket designer, he managed to portray an image of satirical elegance. His salt-and-pepper hair, still thick and wavy, was combed neatly across one side of his scalp. The expression in his intelligent brown eyes as he looked up at me was sardonically amused.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” My relief that the chief super was responsible for the break-in manifested itself in an outburst I’d never normally have directed at a man who’d always enjoyed my unreserved respect.

  “Close the door, Miss Webb,” he said calmly. “And it’ll be all right to put a light on now you’re back, Charlie. I dislike sitting in the dark. One never knows what surprises might be lying in wait when one can’t see the hand in front of one’s face.”

  “This is my ex-Chief Superintendent, Kara,” I explained, flicking on the lights. “And since he obviously knows who you are, there doesn’t seem much point in making an introduction.”

  “Obviously not,” she agreed, shaking Monk’s outstretched hand.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” I asked, rephrasing my original question a little more politely.

  “Why, I’m out for a weekend’s sailing and happened to see your boat.”

  I raised a sceptical brow. “And felt the need to break in?”

  “Oh, I’d hardly call it that.” He waved the suggestion airily aside. “I was curious to see what you’ve done to it, that’s all.”

  The chief super had left the local force about a year before
I resigned, destined for some mysterious post in London. No one knew quite what he’d moved on to and he wasn’t saying. But he’d heard about my resignation and made a point of coming to see me, spending a gratifying amount of time trying to get me to change my mind. That’s when he’d got to know Gil.

  “I see.” I regarded him levelly, not deceived. His sangfroid attitude caused colleagues and villains alike to underestimate his fierce intellect, but I’d learned early in my career that little got past him. Twenty-four hours ago I’d have trusted him without reservation, but since Joe’s revelations I was no longer sure whom I could place my faith in. Why was he here? And how come he knew who Kara was? There were many questions he needed to answer but those two were in a class apart.

  “I work for Her Majesty’s government in an unspecified role nowadays,” he explained.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just say I’m employed in an advisory capacity wherever I’m needed. Your name came up recently, linked to Miss Webb’s, and, well…here I am.” He stretched, looking totally unperturbed when I glowered suspiciously at him. “Got anything decent to drink on this tub?”

  Wordlessly I poured him a neat scotch, and then one for myself. I had a feeling I was going to need it. I looked at Kara but she shook her head. Before I could get my next questions out, a man I’d never seen in my life before emerged from the direction of the cabins and shook his head at my ex-governor. He was fairly short but lean and muscular, and looked as though he could take care of himself. He had close-cropped dark hair and eyes that appeared to miss nothing.

  “This is James Levine. He works for Interpol.”

  The man flashed his ID, which I took from him and studied carefully before handing it back. It looked genuine enough but these things were so easy to forge nowadays, especially if, like me, you didn’t know what the kosher document was supposed to look like. I took my time, looking between him and the plastic card in my hand, endeavouring to harness my anger. This man had been rooting around the boat, sticking his nose into my personal effects, and presumably Kara’s too. I don’t take kindly to that sort of intrusion.

  “Find what you were looking for?” I asked him in a voice loaded with sarcasm.

  “Just making sure no one’s planted any listening devices.” His laconic tone suggested bugging was an occupational hazard he’d learned to take in his stride.

  I frowned. “What’s this all about, guv?” I asked. I had a pretty good idea but wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “You’ve obviously lost your touch since leaving the force, Charlie. You used to be one of my most astute officers.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” I leaned on the galley counter, sipping my drink, still playing dumb. “Since I’m not answerable to you anymore, I guess you’ll just have to get over it. And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, you’ll tell me in your own time why you’re trespassing on my property and why you’re so paranoid about people overhearing us.”

  Monk shot me a look. “Well, obviously, it’s about Miss Webb’s sister.”

  “Jas!” Kara’s face lit up. “You know where she is?” I wanted to warn her that if Monk was involved, it wasn’t going to be that straightforward.

  “Oh yes, we’ve known exactly where she is for a long time.”

  “And you didn’t bother to let her family know?”

  “By the time she showed up on our radar she was of age.” He lifted his shoulders in a what-could-we-have-done sort of gesture. “She hadn’t broken any laws so it was up to her whether or not she got in touch with her family.”

  I felt Kara’s frustration and squeezed her hand. “Why are you, Interpol that is, so interested in Jasmine Webb?”

  “She’s not Jasmine Webb anymore. She’s been known as Nadia for years now.”

  Kara frowned. “Why?”

  “A very good question, Miss Webb, but I’d hazard a guess that it has something to do with her being married to a Russian gentleman by the name of Igor Kalashov.”

  “Who?”

  A few more pieces fell into place in my brain. The Eastern Europeans who’d strong-armed Ramsay into giving Jasmine up and Joe into threatening me through Harry. An organisation sufficiently well placed to know what Kara and I were up to every step of the way. The Russian Mafia. I’d known it all along, of course, but still felt a slight chill at the prospect of tangling with such brutal thugs.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Monk had been watching me closely and obviously realized that I’d figured some of it out. “I’m afraid your sister is mixed up with some rather dangerous individuals, Miss Webb.”

  “Do you know where she is now? Is she in Weymouth?”

  “Yes. Her husband has homes in Russia, the south of France and Weymouth, but your sister spends a lot of time in this country because her children go to school here.”

  “Children?” She shook her head as though on information overload. “Am I an aunt?”

  “Yes, Nadia Kalashova has two children. A boy called Sergei who is seven and a little girl, Saskia, who’s four.”

  “I think I’d like that drink now please, Charlie.”

  “Sure.” I poured a hefty measure of brandy and handed it to her.

  “So, what’s your interest?” I asked Monk.

  Levine answered the question. “Kalashov is former KGB. He’s fifty-two—”

  “A lot older than my sister then.”

  “Yes. He’s a Muscovite, from an ordinary working-class family. But even as a young man he had brains, charm and ambition, and the KGB was the perfect organisation in which to hone all three. He’d risen to the rank of captain by the time the KGB broke up.”

  “But,” Kara said, shaking her head, “that’s a different world from Jasmine’s. How could she have—”

  “The fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 had been widely anticipated,” Levine said, ignoring Kara’s interruption, “and an intelligent man like Kalashov couldn’t fail to appreciate the opportunities it presented. He certainly took advantage of the widespread corruption that prevailed. Poverty and distrust of authority was common, and it became a case of the survival of the fittest.” He shrugged. “I suppose it was inevitable that someone of Kalashov’s ilk would become involved in organized crime—”

  “Oh God!”

  Kara dropped her head into her hands whilst Monk took up the narrative.

  “Kalashov got involved in drugs, prostitution, gambling, smuggling of precious metals. In other words he was a fixer. He had all the contacts, was and still is barely on nodding terms with his conscience and supplied whatever anyone was willing to pay top dollar for. He ruthlessly wiped out any competition and established himself as a force to be reckoned with. He was suspected of arranging contract killings in the early days, and sometimes even carrying them out himself, but was never arrested or even questioned about those crimes. He now hides behind a wide network of intermediaries, and Interpol hasn’t been able to pin anything on him.”

  “But how did Jas get involved with him?” Kara asked.

  “We’re not altogether sure, but we’re able to make an intelligent guess. He loves yachts and your sister crewed on a boat for him—”

  “The Laissez-Faire.”

  Monk’s eyebrows shot up. “You knew that?”

  “We didn’t know who owned the boat.”

  “Well, we think Kalashov saw Jasmine crewing and wanted to get to know her. Our understanding is that his feelings weren’t reciprocated, which was the start of his obsession with your sister. He’s a good-looking, rich and charismatic guy who isn’t used to being rejected.”

  “Which is why he was reduced to manipulating Jasmine?” I surmised.

  “What do you mean?” Monk asked.

  I was about to tell him, then I remembered all the people who’d been corrupted by Kalashov’s organisation, and hesitated. Could I trust him? Was he only here to find out how much we knew?

  “If I was with them, Charlie,” he said softly
, “why would I be telling you all this?”

  “Yeah, I suppose.” I was in over my head and wouldn’t be able to get near Jasmine or Nadia, or whatever the fuck her name was nowadays, without professional help. Besides, I had to trust someone. I made up my mind it might as well be Monk so I told him how Ramsay had been forced into giving Jasmine up.

  Monk nodded. “That fits in with our scenario. Kalashov wanted a fling with Jasmine but he was married and Jasmine didn’t do married men.”

  “So what changed?”

  “Well, as I said, we think the more she rejected him, the more obsessed he became with her,” Levine said. “He tried everything but she remained unimpressed by his ostentatious display of wealth. In the end he offered her a prime job on his personal yacht, just to keep her close to him. If it helps you any,” he added, nodding at Kara, “I think she was unaware of the true nature of his activities, at that time anyway.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Kara said. “She wouldn’t knowingly involve herself with such people. I dare say she just wanted to work on the boat.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, a year after giving her a job, Kalashov’s wife died, supposedly after a long illness, but the circumstances are extremely suspect. As far as we’ve been able to find out from the few people of ours who’ve managed to penetrate his organisation, Jasmine was still refusing his advances and it was driving him crazy. He had to do something and for a man like him, getting rid of an inconvenient wife, well…” Levine shrugged, leaving his words dangling.

  “Kalashov has three children from his first marriage,” Monk said, taking up the story.

  “Two boys in their midtwenties. One is coordinating a building project for his father in Spain.”

  My head jerked up. “Spain?” My immediate concern was for Harry. I’d sent him there to get him away from these people. God forbid that I’d put him in the direct line of fire.

  “Yes, is that a problem?” Monk looked mildly concerned.

  “Probably not.”

  “Right, we’ll tell you more about his interests there in a minute. The other son’s in Russia. What his role is we’re unsure but we think it has something to do with facilitating the goods Kalashov supplies.”