Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  Smart, in turn, told him he would look into it when time allowed but at present they were far too busy with their current work load to re-open a cold case on the suspicions of a detective who was no longer part of their team.

  When Roper put the phone down he was angry. Smart was clearly an arrogant fool who could obviously not see beyond the end of his supercilious nose.

  He thought about taking the matter further, perhaps even reporting Smart’s lack of action to the Police Commissioner.

  However, as he placed his hand on the telephone, set to make the call, the dreadful image of Claudette Sekibo popped into his head once more. It was a sight he would never forget.

  He then thought of Merton, McCullough, Finch and Williams, the four despicable men who had raped and murdered her.

  Then he thought about what he might have done had he been in Sam’s position. If he had seen what Sam had.

  He lifted his hand off the telephone, admitting to himself that he would perhaps have done the same.

  Was it legal? No. Was it right? Who knew. But was it the justice those evil men deserved? In Roper’s mind, undoubtedly so.

  In which case, if it was, indeed, Sam Beresford who was out there somewhere, systematically hunting them down, then who was Roper to say that it was wrong.

  In fact, given the right circumstances, he might even be inclined to help.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  New York City, 1999

  From his corner office on the seventy-first floor of the Beresford Building on Fifth Avenue, Marcus Ellison had a spectacular view of the city. Indeed, on a clear day he could almost see as far as the New Jersey Turnpike.

  However, even though he greatly appreciated the view from his luxurious office, he spent very little time considering it as his focus was predominantly concerned with more pressing matters.

  Even though it was Marcus’ sixty-sixth birthday he had no plans to celebrate it. Indeed, with his wife gone and no children to share it with he thought his time would be better spent working on the solution to a problem that had recently presented itself.

  Yet it was not the affairs of Beresford Industries that were responsible for this rather concerning issue, but the telephone call he had received the night before.

  Indeed, since Marcus had taken the position of acting C.E.O. The Company had been booming, its stock price was up, its shareholders happy and its various divisions all positively thriving.

  After being asked by Sam to act on his behalf, Marcus had thrown himself into the task wholeheartedly, determined not to let his godson down. Furthermore, he was anxious to maintain the good things Benedict Beresford had achieved before his death and keep The Company at the forefront of American business.

  What is more, under Marcus’ expert guidance, Beresford Industries’ global expansion had increased substantially, too, and now they had major divisions on six continents - adding greatly to the burgeoning markets of some of the world’s fastest growing economies which, in turn, had earned The Company much power and influence.

  One such country who had benefited from this global expansion was Russia, who in recent years Beresford Industries had invested heavily in. As a direct result Russia’s economy had significantly improved and The Company was now viewed by The Kremlin as one of its nation’s most valued business partners.

  Which was the main reason for Marcus’ early arrival at the office that morning and a consequence of last night’s telephone conversation.

  Indeed, he was expecting the man he had spoken with to appear at any second and had already given strict orders for his assistant to show them in the moment they arrived. After which, Marcus had made it clear that he and his guest should not be disturbed on any account.

  Feeling a little anxious about what he had been told the night before, Marcus sat down at his large glass and chrome desk, surrounded by panoramic views of the Manhattan skyline through the floor to ceiling windows in what was simply a breathtaking office space.

  As he mulled things over in his mind, he absently smoothed down his grey wavy hair and adjusted the bright blue bow tie that he had selected for today’s meeting, hoping its cheerful colour might lend some much needed optimism to the proceedings.

  Nonetheless, he had no sooner made himself comfortable when his assistant knocked on the door and entered the office, showing Marcus’ guest in as instructed.

  Immediately he rose from his chair and walked out from behind the desk as his assistant backed out of the room and closed the door.

  “Hello, again,” Marcus said warmly, having only spoken to the man just a few hours before. “It’s good to see you.”

  However, Marcus had not seen him in nearly six years and now Vasily Voronin looked quite different to the young man who had turned up at his brownstone on the Upper West Side with Sam Beresford all that time ago.

  Vas was now older, of course, but he had also gained a considerable amount of weight. What is more, he was walking with a pronounced limp. Nonetheless, he beamed a wide smile and stretched out his hand in greeting, “Good to see you, too, Marcus. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  Marcus shook his hand firmly. “Not at all. Please sit down and tell me what it is that I can do to help.” He gestured to a comfy looking group of plush armchairs situated in a more shaded part of the huge office which he used for less formal meetings.

  The chairs surrounded a low glass table upon which his assistant had already placed an elegant white coffee percolator, two matching cups and an assortment of muffins and bagels.

  “Thank you, Marcus,” said Vas, limping over to the seating area. His injured leg had never fully healed even though Miriam had done an excellent job of repairing it after it had been so badly shredded by the gin trap set by Roger Finch in Pemberton Woods. But the truth of it was there had been too much ligament damage for his ankle to ever be as good as it had been before.

  Mostly it did not bother him too much but on occasion, particularly when he had been inactive for long periods of time, it was prone to give him some discomfort and even though he had flown First Class, the long flight from Moscow had exacerbated this. Indeed, some twelve hours after touching down at J.F.K., he was still feeling the effects of his transatlantic journey.

  He winced slightly as he sat down and he saw the concern in Marcus’ eyes. “Please, don’t concern yourself, it is nothing,” he said. “But we do have much to talk about, my friend.”

  Marcus took a seat opposite. “I know. We will not be disturbed. Take all the time you need - but maybe it would be best if you start at the beginning.”

  Vasily leant back in the chair and took a deep breath. “Very well,” he began, then proceeded to tell Marcus exactly how it was that Sam had managed to find himself locked in solitary confinement in a notorious Siberian prison camp.

  ***

  Marcus listened with amazement, learning all that had happened since he last saw Sam, discovering all that his godson had done in pursuit of vengeance, and finding it utterly staggering.

  Yet he did not condemn it. In truth, he was entirely satisfied that the men who had killed Claudette - and who had ultimately been the cause of Benedict and Meredith Beresford’s deaths, too, were actually getting the justice they so deserved - the rightful and only justice for animals such as them which no court in any land could lawfully dole out.

  But Sam could.

  However, Marcus was incredibly worried for Sam’s safety; from infiltrating a gang of violent skinheads to purposely getting himself sent to a prison in Siberia, he was going to painstaking and increasingly dangerous lengths to find the men he sought.

  His methods were clearly working but as for the personal cost to Sam himself, Marcus dare not even speculate. As for whether it was what Ben and Meredith would want for their son, he seriously doubted it. But even now Marcus still felt raw at their passing, his anger at the senselessn
ess of it all still burning through him whenever he thought about what had happened.

  So how must Sam feel? Not only had he lost his parents but his fiancé and unborn child, too - in such horrendous circumstances that witnessing it would almost certainly drive any normal man insane.

  Furthermore, Marcus could only imagine the pain Sam must still be living with, so who was he to deny him his vengeance, to say it was wrong or convince him to abandon his quest.

  The truth was he simply could not.

  What he could do, however, was offer Sam support whenever he needed it, to aid him wherever possible using any and all means at his disposal - and it was clear that Sam needed him now.

  According to Vasily, his father, Vladimir Voronin, had exhausted all avenues in his efforts to get Sam released from prison. In fact, he had used up many of his political favours to get Sam accepted into the Russian penal system in the first place. Now that antiquated regime, which was weighed down by crippling bureaucracy, was proving to be just too much of an obstacle to get him out again.

  Indeed, Vladimir and Vasily had been trying for over two years to get him released but their combined efforts had come to nought. What is more, in all that time Sam had been locked up alone with only one hour’s yard time in every twenty-four; the rest spent in a tiny cell with no windows and no access to the outside world apart from the regular letters he received from Vasily.

  Now, having drained all other options, Vasily had come to Marcus to ask for his help, hoping that where bribery and the grinding relentlessness of Russian officialdom had unceasingly failed, extortion and commerce might yet prevail.

  With Beresford Industries now such an established and vital force within Russia, Vas believed that Marcus may be able to exert pressure on the Ministry of Industry and Trade with a view to unravelling the red-tape surrounding Sam’s release.

  The threat of withholding services and goods, or perhaps even pulling out of Russia altogether being enough of an incentive to speed through the substantial amounts of paperwork involved with achieving their goal.

  Marcus sat thoughtfully for a long time after Vasily put this proposal to him, playing out all the moves in his mind in order to foresee a successful outcome.

  Eventually, unable to stand the silence any longer, Vas asked, “So, what do you think - is it something you think you could try?”

  Marcus looked at him directly in the eyes. “Yes, of course. There is no question. It is simply a matter of how to go about it - but I think I may know the best place to start.”

  ***

  Dimitri Markov was the Russian Minister for Industry and Trade. As such, he had been dealing with Marcus Ellison for several years and had been instrumental in overseeing Beresford Industries’ year on year expanse into Russian territory. In turn, this collaboration had greatly improved the health of the country’s fledgling post soviet economy.

  Ellison and Markov were not exactly friends but they did like each other very much. More importantly, they had a mutual respect for one another which was vital to maintaining such an important business relationship.

  So it was Dimitri to whom Marcus made his plea.

  However, in going into bat for Sam, he knew he must first reveal the truth. Make it known to Dimitri that the person whose freedom he was negotiating was the very same person who effectively controlled Beresford Industries.

  Marcus would also tactfully point out that Dimitri’s failure to help Sam would surely cause a downturn in Russia’s booming economic fortunes. Indeed, it would be a most unfortunate set back which The Kremlin would undoubtedly hold Dimitri solely accountable for.

  On the other hand, however, if Dimitri could possibly see a way of securing Sam’s imminent freedom, then Russia and Beresford Industries could certainly look forward to enjoying a blossoming future together - which, of course, would reflect very well on Dimitri personally.

  For these crucial talks, Marcus had travelled back to Moscow two days after meeting with Vasily in New York, having arranged to meet Dimitri Markov at the privacy of his weekend retreat on the banks of Lake Biserovo; a picturesque location some ninety minutes East of the city.

  The two men spent three days there, much of it in deep conversation, in which Marcus repeatedly put forward his case. Indeed, he was a formidable negotiator, particularly when matters of such personal importance were at stake and did not hesitate to put Sam’s freedom before the good of The Company. In fact, by the time they parted, Dimitri was under no illusions that if he did not confirm Sam’s imminent freedom then Beresford Industries would have no option but to cease all operations in Russia in preference of other more amenable territories around the globe.

  What is more, Marcus made it clear to Dimitri that no one, other than those absolutely vital to Sam’s release, should ever know his true identity. Markov gave his word that this would be the case and Marcus accepted it without question - both being men of considerable honour.

  Marcus stayed at the Lake House as Dimitri’s guest whilst the Russian returned to Moscow in a bid to circumvent the bureaucratic red-tape surrounding Sam’s incarceration, confident in his ability to do so.

  And rightly so, as in the end, it took barely a week for him to achieve what Vasily and Vladimir had failed to do in over two years. Indeed, within the space of just six days of leaving the Lake House, Dimitri returned with confirmation that he had, in fact, secured Sam’s release from prison.

  Furthermore, as proof of this impressive achievement, a Russian Air Force Mi–26 helicopter carrying Sam on board landed on the plush lawns surrounding Dimitri’s lakeside property just two days later with both Marcus and Vasily waiting eagerly on the ground.

  After being escorted from the helicopter by armed guards, Sam was finally released into Dimitri’s care after he had signed his name on the official paperwork to accept responsibility for the prisoner.

  Sam’s skin looked almost grey from a lack of daylight and he looked much older than his twenty-seven years; the tiny scars from his many eye surgeries shining pink against his washed out complexion and his shaven head making him look almost alien to those waiting for him.

  He looked weak, too, such was his skinny appearance; his cheek bones sharply defined and his neck scrawny, with the baggy blue prison uniform hanging loosely on his emaciated frame.

  However, he was free nonetheless and the moment the guards released him from custody he hurried to embrace Marcus and Vas, tears streaming from his eyes, having never truly known if he would ever see them again.

  Yet as he hugged them tightly, deeply grateful for their tremendous efforts in securing his freedom, all he could think about was the same thing which had kept him alive for the last two years; the thought of the fifth man and how upon his release, he would finally be able to catch up with him.

  And when he eventually did, he would be certain to kill that man whom he now knew to be Darius Purcell.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ténéré Desert, Niger.

  The man who called himself James Locke was profoundly bored. He was standing in the back of a stationary Jeep smoking a cigarette; one foot up on the open side and an elbow resting nonchalantly on his raised knee as he surveyed the seemingly endless sea of sand that stretched out before him.

  The Jeep was part of a safari comprising ten vehicles in total; three large covered trucks, a fleet of six shiny new air-conditioned Range Rovers and the open-topped 4x4 he was currently standing in. All painted in the black Q-Core livery with its logo emblazoned on every door.

  Locke was wearing a beige safari shirt with the same logo embroidered on the breast pocket, together with combat pants, heavy-duty boots and a wide-brimmed fedora. Around his waist he wore a thick leather belt from which hung a holstered pistol.

  The late afternoon sun was beating down as Locke squinted at the distant horizon, watching as the giant glowing ball made its gradual descent into th
e dunes; a heat haze making the exact meeting point between earth and sky impossible to distinguish.

  Behind him, an army of servants were busily preparing a silver-service dinner in a huge, open-sided tent which stood at the centre of a spectacular oasis encampment. This had been erected just a short time before the main group arrived with the men and equipment needed for such efficiency carried in the three covered trucks which had set out from the capital ahead of the others.

  The rest of the party had followed in their tracks an hour before first light in what had been the beginning of a long, hot, tiring day. This was due to be repeated again tomorrow as they were not scheduled to arrive at their final destination until the following afternoon.

  However, the camp for the evening was luxurious in the extreme with each guest having their own spacious octagonal tent. These came complete with king-sized beds, comfortable furniture and private bathroom facilities - supplied with fresh water from the oasis which had been boiled and purified by a team of personal servants.

  Locke had been assigned similar facilities, although somewhat less grand, but very comfortable nonetheless. However, he would have been equally satisfied with a blanket on the ground and taking refreshment directly from the waterhole, unlike the wealthy and spoilt guests he was being paid to watch over.

  Indeed, the whole desert expedition was the brainchild of Quentin Faraday, who saw it as a means to gain valuable face time with each of his heavy-hitting investors, carefully preparing them for the grand reveal once they reached their destination.

  Locke had been in the exclusive employ of Quentin Faraday for the last four years, ever since his failed attempt on Sam Beresford’s life, which was still a perpetual source of irritation.

  However, immediately after that incident, Miles DeVilliers, concerned that three of the men involved in Claudette Sekibo’s murder had already been killed, thought it best to enlighten his client, Quentin Faraday, about the situation. His fear being that if Beresford knew those who had been complicit in his girlfriend’s killing then Faraday might also be on the hit list - as might Miles himself.