Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  It was almost as if he was forgetting what Claudette looked like and all he had left of her was the pain of what she had suffered.

  But Sam did not admit this to Vasily. He kept it bottled up, hoping that his nightmares would end once he finally killed the last of the six.

  Maybe then, with his anger spent and his task complete, his dreadful guilt would fade enough to allow him to become the man he once hoped he would be. Perhaps then he and Miri might have a chance, too.

  Until such a time, however, all he could do was wait for Vas’ father to find a lead on the other men. Indeed, it had been well over a year and Vladimir was reportedly close but it had been a painfully slow process of deciphering information through back channels and trusted informants. Delicate, too, as one wrong word could cause the men they sought to scatter on the wind.

  Sam knew the situation could have been hastened considerably had he managed to extract the information out of Finch before he died. Yet it had not been possible and he had to console himself that he and Vas had made it out alive. Nevertheless, he was still furious at himself for not finding a lead on the others - which meant he had no choice but to wait on Vladimir Voronin - and that might yet take months.

  However, much to Sam’s surprise, word did come from Moscow just two days before Christmas.

  Although it was not quite the news he was hoping for.

  ***

  When Leon Bakkal saw the name ‘Voronin’ listed on the airline manifest on his employer’s desk, he recognised it instantly as it harked back to a dark time in his past.

  The passenger list had been sent through to DeVilliers from a contact in England but Miles had not made the connection, assuming Vasily Voronin to simply be a student friend of Sam Beresford’s.

  Yet Leon knew the name to have much more significance and had therefore sensed an opportunity.

  He and Vasily’s father had history, and he despised the man with a passion. But he was also in his debt, as many years earlier, in Moscow, Vladimir had spared his life.

  At that time, Leon had been just a young Turkish immigrant on the make, running with a gang who sought to steal money from a powerful Russian crime lord.

  Back then, as a K.G.B. official on the crime lord’s payroll, Voronin had discovered this plot and passed the names of the gang members onto his ruthless paymaster - all except for one; Leon, the youngest of them.

  Maybe it was because Vladimir’s first child had just been born and, with Leon being little more than a kid himself, he took pity on him.

  Whatever the reason, he had allowed the boy to escape on the understanding that he would be forever in his debt.

  Nonetheless, as a result of Vladimir’s information, the crime lord subsequently had all the conspirators killed. Additionally, he had their families murdered too, which was a horrific consequence that Voronin had not foreseen and an act for which Leon held him directly responsible.

  However, Leon’s debt to him still stood. What is more, Voronin had since become incredibly powerful within the Moscow underworld himself and to be indebted to someone such as him was not wise.

  Indeed, in the world Leon and Vladimir inhabited, nothing was ever forgotten and respect meant absolutely everything.

  Leon had been living under the yoke of this for years so when word reached him that Voronin was seeking information about a murder committed in Cambridge, England, his interest was instantly piqued.

  Furthermore, now knowing Voronin’s son to be the Russian who had flown out to New Hampshire to spend Christmas with Sam Beresford, Leon saw an opportunity to rid himself of his burden once and for all.

  If DeVilliers’ suspicions were correct and it was Beresford behind the murders of Locke’s men, then Leon thought it also safe to assume that Vladimir Voronin was assisting him, albeit indirectly - which was why he was after information.

  However, DeVilliers had been good to him and Locke was too dangerous to cross, so Leon had no desire to implicate either of them. But to divulge the name of just one of the men who had been with Locke on the Cambridge job would give him no such qualms. Indeed, he had been within easy earshot when the names had been revealed to DeVilliers, so it would be a simple matter to pass one on.

  Although the spotlight of suspicion could well fall on Leon if he divulged both names - and to get on Locke’s bad side or, indeed, DeVilliers’ for that matter, would not be a good thing.

  But one name, coupled with his ability to save Voronin’s son, might just be sufficient to get Vladimir off his back for good.

  So, the evening after DeVilliers and Locke had lunched on the yacht in Monte Carlo, Leon slipped ashore on the pretext of fetching supplies.

  From a telephone box near the Café de Paris he called a number in Moscow. After several minutes the gruff voice of Vladimir Voronin finally came on the line.

  “Yes, Bakkal, you have something for me?” He said.

  “You still want a name for that Cambridge hit?” Asked Leon.

  “I do. As many as you can give me.”

  “I only have the one,” Leon lied, “but if I give you it - are we square?” There was no point in playing his full hand unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “Come now, Leon,” replied Vladimir, “It is only one name - perhaps if you had something more to bargain with?”

  As Leon suspected, the name alone was not sufficient. “How about the name and your son’s life?” He asked. “Is that a suitable bargaining chip?”

  “My son?” Voronin was clearly shocked by the question.

  “Your youngest - Vasily is it?” Leon said, enjoying himself a little too much. “The one who studies at Cambridge - would his life and the name of the man you are seeking be sufficient to clear my debt?”

  The concern in Vladimir’s voice was immediately apparent. “What about Vasily? What is it you know?” He demanded.

  “First I need to know if we will be even,” Leon pressed.

  Voronin’s answer was instant. “If the information is good, then yes. If not, then we are back to where we have always been.”

  “It’s good. No question.”

  “Very well then,” said Vladimir, anxious for Vasily’s safety, “yes, we will be even. You have my word.”

  A few moments later, after Leon had hung up, he wandered back to the marina, safe in the knowledge that his debt to Voronin was finally paid.

  As for the information he had given, he felt confident Locke would silence Sam Beresford long before it ever became a problem.

  ***

  Locke approached the private island upon which the Beresford mansion stood by boat; the house looking the very picture of affluent America as it proudly took centre stage on the impressive 15 acre plot.

  It was just after two in the morning and the place was in darkness, as Locke, dressed in black fatigues and his face smeared with camouflage paint, stalked across the plush green lawn. In his gloved hand he was gripping a silenced Glock 18 and tucked down the side of his boot was his razor sharp trench knife with the brass knuckle guard, ideal for close combat.

  Within seconds of reaching the house he had located the junction box and disabled the alarm. He also cut the power to the whole estate - including the phones - to ensure no one inside could call for help.

  A moment later Locke was in the house, silently entering the living room through the french windows on the veranda. He smiled when he saw the Christmas tree and the presents beneath, sure in the knowledge they would remain unopened.

  Indeed, it was now Christmas morning and Locke found it quite satisfying that the two men sleeping upstairs would never see another.

  The house was large; six bedrooms, six bathrooms and numerous others but DeVilliers had supplied him with a floor plan of the place so Locke could find his way around. Although which bedroom belonged to whom was unknown. Nevertheless, he would find out soon enough and
neither Beresford or the Russian would know a thing about it.

  Moving stealthily through the darkness, Locke was soon at the foot of the wide staircase which was of a sweeping colonial style; the opulence positively oozing from every feature of the eight million dollar residence.

  A moment later, he was on the landing, the light of the moon shining brightly through the large arched window directly above the stair well.

  Working swiftly, he surreptitiously checked every room, silently opening doors and poking his head inside. Within the space of two minutes he had investigated four of the six bedrooms and found them to be empty.

  Approaching the fifth, he reached down and slid the trench knife from its sheath in his boot; the murderous blade gleaming in the moonlight. It would slice through a man’s neck like butter.

  DeVilliers had been adamant, ‘make it look like an accident’, but Locke could not resist, the scent of blood was in his nostrils and his lust for it was just far too compelling.

  When Beresford and his friend were dead, when Locke had slit their throats and satiated his bloodthirsty desire, he would then turn on the gas in the kitchen and let it slowly flood through the whole house. After which, he would simply turn the electricity back on; the slightest spark being more than sufficient to send the whole place up. The bodies would be burned to a crisp before the fire department had even made it across the bridge from the mainland and the whole thing deemed a most unfortunate accident - exactly as DeVilliers had insisted.

  But first there must be blood.

  However, after silently turning the door handle and slipping quietly into the fifth bedroom, he found that to be empty too.

  He smiled at his own stupidity. Obviously the two men were not just ‘friends’ at all - indeed, why they had wanted to spend Christmas together suddenly made complete sense. Beresford was clearly like Locke, himself, with sexual tastes that were somewhat ambivalent. Indeed, why plump for just chicken when steak was on the menu too?

  Locke felt a thrill run down his spine as he crept along the landing to the final bedroom; two kills for the price of one, how utterly delicious. He stood outside the door for a moment, savouring every ounce of pleasure before finally inching it open.

  The second he was inside, he rushed over to the huge four-poster bed, the trench knife held aloft as he saw the outline of a body beneath the covers. Upon reaching the bed, he slashed sharply downwards, the lethal tip of the knife stabbing into his victim time and again in a frenzied attack.

  Yet something was not right, the target was far too soft and suddenly Locke realised he was amidst a shower of small, white feathers.

  It then dawned on him that he had been played for a fool. He was not stabbing a body at all but several feather pillows which had been arranged under the covers in the rough shape of a man.

  Locke leapt off the bed, expecting an attack to come from somewhere in the darkness, knowing he had fallen for the trap.

  But no attack came. Indeed, as seconds turned into minutes it became clear that none would be coming.

  In fact, Locke realised that he was quite alone. The house was empty and the men he had come to kill were gone.

  He had missed his chance.

  ***

  The seaplane, a yellow and white de Havilland Otter, touched down with the grace of a swan as it landed serenely on the dark waters of the lake surrounding the private island. It then chugged slowly over to the wooden jetty at the bottom of the garden where Sam and Vas stood waiting.

  With the single prop still spinning, the pilot left his seat and hurried to the rear of the plane. Opening the cabin door, he nodded a greeting then climbed down the little ladder onto the near-side ski where he leant out and took their bags from them. Once their kit was safely stowed, he then helped them aboard too.

  Sam and Vas quickly found seats amongst the eight available in the otherwise empty fuselage and buckled themselves in as the pilot returned to the cockpit.

  A moment later, the plane was bouncing back over the low swells as it taxied towards the far end of the lake for take-off. Indeed, within barely five minutes of landing, it was racing across the waves once more and then, suddenly, they were airborne.

  As they swept up into the clear blue sky, the seaplane banked round steeply to pick-up their Northern flightpath, leaving the Beresford mansion and the island it stood on far below.

  Sam stared out of the window at the house he grew up in, watching as it quickly faded into the distance and knowing that it was no longer safe to stay there.

  What is more, as he settled back into his seat; the sound of the engine roaring in his ears and the pilot setting his course for Canada, he was aware that he might not see his home again for a very long time.

  ***

  The phone call came from Vladimir Voronin the day before Christmas Eve to say that he had received two vital pieces of intelligence.

  The first was that he had finally learned the identity of a fourth man who was reportedly involved in Claudette’s murder.

  The second was that someone was asking questions about Sam and Vasily. Furthermore, whoever that person was had also discovered that Vasily was staying with Sam in New Hampshire and a hit had been sanctioned to eliminate the pair of them.

  Vladimir’s message was loud and clear - they must get out as soon as possible or face being murdered.

  With this in mind, he had arranged for them to be flown to Canada via seaplane. From there they would board another plane which would take them onto Russia where, upon arrival in Moscow, they would remain under the protection of the Voronin organisation.

  However, for their own safety and that of those closest to them, it was imperative that no one should know.

  Not even Miriam.

  Part Four:

  A Cold Day In Hell

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Moscow, Russia, 1995

  Nothing could have prepared Sam for his first glimpse of the Vladimir Voronin’s spectacular home. Indeed, it made the eight million dollar house he grew up in look almost quaint by comparison.

  In fact, the Voronin mansion was nineteen million dollars worth of glass, brick and timber which formed a series of enormous interconnecting cubes. The ultra modern, high tech property sat above an underground garage, housing over twenty cars, and within its own nine acre grounds. This, in turn, was surrounded by a twelve foot high, barbed wire topped concrete wall which was patrolled by armed guards day and night.

  Inside, it was contemporary and chic with lots of wood, marble and expensive modern furniture, whilst fixtures and fittings were predominantly gold. Although perhaps a little too ostentatious for Western tastes, it was certainly luxurious and completely unlike anything Sam had previously imagined.

  Even though the house featured under floor heating which kept its temperature consistently toasty throughout, Sam was sitting alone on a bench outside, completely unconcerned that there was over eighteen inches of snow on the ground. However, he was bundled up in a heavy overcoat and wearing a cossack-style hat - much like the one he had rescued from the mud outside Finch’s cottage - so was warm enough.

  He had been in Moscow for a little over two weeks now, having spent both Christmas and New Year with Vasily’s family who had welcomed him with open arms.

  Sam had been a little daunted by the prospect of meeting Vladimir Voronin and his two other sons, knowing that they were all kingpins in the Russian Mafia with fearful reputations that had been well-earned, but he need not have worried.

  Indeed, Vladimir had greeted him like a long lost son; kissing him on both cheeks and embracing him in a bear hug that nearly crushed Sam’s ribs.

  Furthermore, both Vas’ brothers, Mikhail and Pyotr, greeted him exactly the same way, slapping him on the back in warm-hearted welcome as they hugged their newly adopted ‘American brother’ - as they now referred to him.

  In their
eyes he could do no wrong as he was the man who had risked his life to save their younger brother from certain death - as Vas had reported the events in Pemberton Woods.

  In gratitude for what he had done, both Mikhail and Pyotr had sworn a debt of honour to Sam. Even though he tried to protest and make light of his bravery, they would not be deterred. To them, family was the most important thing so for Sam to jeopardise his own life in order to save Vasily’s there was no greater service he could have done for them. Which, in their view, merited a reward of equal value.

  Vladimir, too, was similarly emphatic. “You have saved my youngest boy, tovarich - my wife’s favourite son - and there is nothing you could ever ask of me that would be too much.” As he spoke he placed one of his large, strong hands affectionately on Sam’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “Your problems are now my problems and I will do everything in my power to see them eradicated.”

  Vladimir was a tall, powerfully built man with thick, steel grey hair and a bushy black moustache. He also had dark intelligent eyes and a square jaw - and looked absolutely nothing like Vasily. Neither did Mikhail or Pyotr who were basically younger versions of their father, except neither had a moustache. The only other differences were that Mikhail, the elder of the two, had tightly cropped blonde curly hair whilst Pyotr’s head was completely shaven, but otherwise they were the image of Vladimir. Vas, by all accounts, took more after his mother.

  Nonetheless, shortly after his arrival in Moscow, Sam was called into Vladimir’s study to find him sitting behind his angular onyx desk. His sons already occupied three of the four leather chairs facing their father and, when bidden, Sam took the last remaining empty one.

  Immediately in front of him, on the desk, he found a slim, buff-coloured dossier which Vladimir then slid closer to him with one of his thick fingers.

  “What’s this?” Sam asked.

  “That, my friend, is the information you have waited too long for,” replied Vladimir in heavily accented English, his voice deep and authoritative. “My apologies, again. These things - they take time - but my source assures me, this is your man.”