Closer Than Blood

by Paul Grzegorzek

  Donieta led me down a narrow stairwell and into another dim corridor, then through a plain-looking door and into the most opulent office I’d ever seen in my life.

  Every surface and ornament that could have been gold, was. The large desk was topped with burgundy leather, studded around the edges with gold. The light fittings were also gold, as was the clock on the wall behind the desk and the ashtray that sat on top of the burgundy leather.

  The chair Agon sat in was calfskin by the look of it, trimmed with an exotic fur that I didn’t recognise. The whole thing was garish and gaudy, and totally at odds with what I thought I knew of the man. That worried me.

  “Mr Bell,” he stood and flicked the shirt cuffs out of the sleeves of his Armani suit. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  He held out his hand and I shook it.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” I wanted to grab his expensive lapels and shake the drive out of him, but sometimes you have to play the game.

  “Please, sit.” He motioned to one of the men, who left, returning a moment later with a cheap bar stool, the leather patched and frayed. Amongst the luxury of the office, the choice of seat spoke volumes. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “You bought a flash drive from Craig Harrison,” I said without preamble, “that actually belongs to a group of Russians. Those Russians are currently holding my ex-wife, and if I don’t deliver the drive to them then they’ll kill her.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” he sounded anything but sorry, “but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. I run a club, nothing more. If I want flash drives, I go to Curry’s.”

  I was half off my stool before one of Agon’s men grabbed my shoulder and shoved me back down. He wasn’t gentle about it and the stool almost toppled.

  “This is not a game,” I said angrily. “I’m not here as a copper, I’m here as a man who needs help. What will that help cost?”

  “More than you can afford,” he looked me up and down and took in my tattered appearance. “Even if I did know what you were talking about, which I don’t.”

  I reached into my pocket and immediately felt the tension in the room ratchet up as everyone went stiff. Very slowly, I pulled the Russians’ phone out and placed it on the desk.

  “They gave me this phone. Not only can they hear everything that’s being said, but they can track it too, so they know exactly where I am. If you don’t help me, God only knows what they’ll do to get that drive back.”

  Agon reached out and picked the phone up, thumbing the screen.

  “Ah,” he said, holding it up to show me. “The perils of being in a basement. You have no signal.”

  Strong hands grabbed me from behind and pulled me backwards off the stool. I struggled this time, throwing an elbow that should have connected with the man on my right’s nose, but he slipped under it and bound my arm in a lock so tight my shoulder almost popped out of its socket. They dragged me towards the door.

  “They’re GRU!” I shouted. “The Russians. Whatever is on that drive, whoever you’re selling it to, wouldn’t it be better if you could get rid of it knowing that the only people who know you had it were dead? If you won’t sell it to me then help me. Help us both.”

  He let them take me as far as the door before raising a finger. They paused, and he leaned back to take a long look at me.

  “Why would they bother me once I’ve sold it on?” He pulled a packet of cigarettes from a drawer in his desk and lit one.

  “They killed my brother because he stole it, even though they knew he didn’t have it anymore. They know you have it, just imagine what it will do to your business if your men start turning up dead. You’ll lose credibility if nothing else, people will say you can’t look after your own people.”

  “You think anyone would dare?” He sounded angry for the first time since I’d entered, and a small tick had started in his left eye. I was playing a very dangerous game here, but I didn’t have time for subtlety.

  “I’ve seen what they can do first hand. They are not nice people. The woman running them stabbed my wife in the leg and told me she’d leave the knife there until I returned with the drive. She’s bleeding out, right now, and you’re the only person I can think of who can help me. Now, tell me what I need to say or do to get that help, because the only ways I’m leaving here are either with you, or in a body bag.”

  “I pabesueshëm,” he laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve got some balls. Search him.”

  Before I could protest I was pushed down onto the floor, nose pressed into the rich carpet. Rough hands did a thorough job of searching me. I winced as the dressing over my knife wound was stripped away, but it didn’t start bleeding again. When they’d finished, my NCA phone, my wallet, warrant card and an awful lot of pocket fluff were piled on the desk. They let me up but maintained their grip.

  “So you’re not wired. I was inclined to believe you anyway, this is not the sort of shit you make up, but I wanted to be sure. Is this your phone?”

  “It’s a burner,” I lied, “they took my phone so I bought one for emergencies.”

  He nodded as he leafed through my wallet, checking it carefully. He pulled out the picture of Sally that I kept in there and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. When he was finally satisfied he waved at his men who let me go. Rolling my shoulders to loosen them, I sat back down on the stool.

  “Well?”

  “This morning,” he sighed, “my life was simple. Now I find myself being asked to start a war with the GRU. If I do this and even one of them escapes, it will be very, very bad.”

  “She only has a few men, how many can you field?”

  “In a hurry? Ten, maybe twenty.”

  “That, er, that should do it.” And then some.

  “In return, I want access to the police intelligence database. You will work for me until I say otherwise, and if you think this woman is bad, just try and cross me and see what happens to your wife.”

  “Done.” I didn’t rise to the bait. “So how do we do it?”

  “I’ve already worked that out, but you won’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because for this to work, I’m going to have to kill you.”

  Chapter 43

  There’s not a lot to be said for kneeling in a muddy field with a gun to your head.

  An hour ago, one of Agon’s men, who bore a striking resemblance to his boss, had driven away in his Mercedes. Not long after, Agon had smuggled me out of the club’s back door and into the back of a small van that smelled of B.O. and onions.

  Twenty minutes later, we had stopped a few miles north of Brighton. We’d left the van parked at the side of a narrow country lane and hiked out into the fields, all of us pouring sweat under a steel grey sky. There had been some scattered conversation in Albanian, but I’d been assured that nothing relevant would be spoken about within range of my phone.

  It had felt like a storm was about to break and the air was thick enough that it was like moving through syrup.

  One of the men had munched noisily on an onion as we walked, and when he saw me staring, he offered it to me. I had shook my head, feeling sorry for whoever had to kiss him at night.

  Despite the relaxed attitude of the Albanians, I had serious doubts that this plan would work. I’d needed the NCA to track Harrison, but waiting for them to get their arses in gear would have taken too long, not to mention the risk of them taking the drive and leaving Sally to her fate.

  I had wanted to ask Agon if he’d looked on the drive yet, but as I had the phone back in my pocket I couldn’t risk it.

  “Here,” Agon had said, judging the random piece of mud we had been walking through was suitable. “Kneel.”

  I had thrown him a frown, but he had motioned at the ground. Guessing that he had his reasons, I had knelt but couldn’t help flinching as he pulled out a pistol and pointed it at my head.

  “Call them. On speaker.”

  I took the phone
out and dialled, then put it on speaker.

  “What’s going on?” Svetlana’s voice came out tinny through the speakers.

  “I’ve, uh, I’ve found the drive,” I said, a quaver in my voice that wasn’t entirely faked.

  “Where, and why are you where you are?”

  “He’s here because I brought him here,” Agon leaned down slightly so that the microphone would pick him up clearly.

  “And who are you?” Either she was slipping or I was getting better at reading her, but Svetlana sounded wary.

  “I’m the man who has your drive.”

  “The Albanian?”

  “Në shërbimin Tuaj.”

  “I don’t speak your language. Talk in a civilised tongue or not at all.”

  “It means ‘at your service’.”

  “That remains to be seen. What do you want for the drive?”

  “Your man tells me you have his wife. Is she still alive?”

  “She is, but she doesn’t have to be.”

  “No, no. Why waste something of value? I paid a lot for your drive. I will accept fifty thousand pounds in used notes and the woman.”

  “Why do you want her?” She sounded suspicious, which was what I’d been afraid of. Agon assured me he could convince Svetlana, but I had my doubts.

  “Look at it as doing us both a favour. I’ve seen a picture of her, and I know I can sell her in Albania and make a small fortune. It’s easier for me to smuggle her out than it is for you to take the time to hide her body.”

  “What if I’d prefer her dead?”

  “Then kill her, but I hate to see good flesh wasted.”

  “You bastard,” I shouted, realising that I’d never remain silent if this was real. “You touch her and I’ll fucking …”

  He hit me in the cheek with the butt of his pistol, a fleshy smack that felt much harder than it needed to be as I collapsed to the ground, half-stunned. Suddenly, I wondered if this was going to go the way we’d agreed or if I’d made another huge mistake. The promise of me spending the rest of my career working for Agon didn’t seem like much of a guarantee, compared to fifty grand and however much Sally would fetch being sold to some fat millionaire in Albania.

  “Sorry about that,” Agon continued as I struggled back up to my knees. “You were about to say?”

  “You can have the woman. Drive north, then turn off towards Haywards Heath. Keep this phone on you, I’ll call with further directions when you are closer.”

  “Do you still need Bell?” he asked, looking down at me over the pistol, eyes hard as flint. “Only I’m in the middle of nowhere with a gun to his head, and it seems a shame to waste the moment.”

  “No. Kill him.”

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” he said, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 44

  I could still smell onions, mingled with the faint scent of dogshit from the carpet in the back of the van.

  I lay face down in a pool of my own blood, only half aware of my surroundings as the voices of the men in the van drifted in and out of focus. My head was pounding, and it felt as though my eardrums had burst. Even the sound of the diesel engine was muted, little more than a murmur when it should have been a roar.

  I wasn’t badly injured, but the combination of being pistol-whipped and having a gun fired right next to my ear had taken its toll. To add insult to injury they’d dragged me back to the van in case anyone happened to be watching, and by the time they threw me in the vehicle I was only half conscious.

  After a time things slowly swam into focus. I was relieved to find the blood was only coming from my cheek. He’d hit me right over the place where the sniper’s bullet had grazed me the day before and so it bled still, although it seemed to be scabbing over.

  I sat up, but a foot immediately pushed me back down. I didn’t bother protesting as I had no doubt Svetlana was listening carefully to everything said in the van.

  This, I knew, was the point at which our worryingly basic plan stood the most risk of falling apart. Unable to contact anyone in case we were overheard, we had to rely on the two cars Agon had arranged to follow us, with strict instructions to keep us in sight unless the driver of the van put his hazard lights on.

  The only thing we had going for us was the simplicity of our plan and, hopefully, the element of surprise. Svetlana had no reason to suspect that Agon was anything but a money-grabbing gangster, so unless she planned to kill him anyway, we should at least get close enough to make our play.

  If they had eyes on us, however, there was a good chance they would spot the following cars and disappear, or perhaps ambush us to get the drive.

  I tried to work out where we were, but from down here it was hard. All I got was an impression of turning off onto a side road, the tops of trees just visible through the tiny slice of window I could see through.

  The phone rang. Everyone in the van went silent and Agon answered it.

  “Yes?” He thumbed the loudspeaker on so that we could all hear.

  “Keep going for another half kilometre, then take the right turn on the roundabout. Follow that for another kilometre and then take a left. You’ll see a sign at the bottom of the drive for an old retail park. Keep going up there until you see us.”

  The phone cut off. Agon lowered the window and threw it out.

  “Get up,” he said, nudging me with the toe of a handmade leather shoe.

  “That might have been useful,” I said, pulling myself onto one of the seats with a groan.

  “It’s more useful to be able to talk,” he pulled out his own phone and made a call, issued orders down the line in lightning-fast Albanian, then tucked it away in a pocket and turned to me.

  “Is there anything you don’t understand about the plan?” he asked. “Because now is the time to say.”

  “I’m good,” I replied. “I just want your word that if something happens to me, you’ll make sure Sally gets out in one piece.”

  “Of course!” He said it a shade too quickly for my liking, but I’d made my bed and it was too late to do anything but lie in it.

  “Then we’re good.”

  He turned away and began chatting to one of his men, leaving me to look out of the window at the passing countryside. This road was single-lane tarmac surrounded by fields and stands of trees, and I recognised it as one of the back routes into Haywards Heath. It was a good area for a meet between two armed groups, I had to admit, as it would take any serious police response at least half an hour to arrive.

  That realisation didn’t fill me with confidence, but then neither did my choice of companions. Agon was a gangster, through and through, and even in the circles he moved in he was considered a man not to cross. The only reason he was helping me was because I was more valuable in the long run than the drive was. Having me feeding him information from the police intelligence systems on both his friends and his enemies would double, perhaps triple his income within a few years, netting far more than the drive would. That and his typical Albanian hatred of Russia. That I had no other options didn’t make me feel any better, but I would have given anything to be travelling to this meet in a police carrier instead.

  As we reached a hairpin bend, one of the cars following us shot past, disappearing out of sight in seconds. I assumed they were going ahead to scout in case of an ambush, but driving like that they were more likely to crash before they got there.

  “Three minutes,” the van driver called over his shoulder.

  Agon and his men checked their weapons, two of them pistols and the third a wicked-looking knife and a set of knuckle dusters with brass spikes an inch long. The whole thing felt surreal, as if I was in a movie instead of real life. I’d been into dozens of violent and even potentially life-threatening situations before, but never with a bunch of criminals for backup.

  I tried to prepare myself for the imminent violence, searching for the calm I knew had to be at the centre of my being, somewhere. All I got was a slight lessening of m
y headache and trembling fingers as endorphins, adrenaline, dopamine and all the other ingredients of the chemical cocktail that fuelled fight or flight spread through my system.

  “We’re here,” the driver slowed and turned onto a rough tarmac track.

  Within seconds the main road was lost to view, the side-road lined with trees and thick bushes on either side. We passed a well-to do-looking house, the large garden gated with tall hedges, but then nothing but trees as the road meandered back and forth.

  As we drove, I had the sudden, certain feeling that things were about to go terribly wrong. Call it a hunch or a gut feeling, but I could almost taste death on the air.

  “You’ve gone white,” Agon noted, a sardonic smile playing across his lips. “I thought the famous Gareth Bell would be made of sterner stuff.”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped. “You just make sure you do your part and I’ll hold up my end, no problem.”

  “Hmm.” He checked his pistol again, the movements more nerves than necessity. Everyone here was scared, and rightly too. Only an idiot goes into a battle without fear.

  “Car.” The driver slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. I dropped to my knees and peered over the dashboard to see the Vauxhall Insignia parked across the track. Andrei stood nearby, a double-barrelled shotgun cradled in his arms. In a way it was a relief, as I’d been half-expecting to see AK47s.

  “What do we do?” The driver’s voice was an octave higher than it had been a moment ago.

  “I guess this is where we get out and walk,” Agon replied, looking down at me. “Are you ready?”

  I slid behind one of the seats and did my best to be invisible. Agon grinned and pressed something small and hard into my hand.

  “This should even the odds,” he said, and they opened the side door and filed out. I looked down to see a small taser. It didn’t fill me with confidence. I doubted it would be much use against a shotgun.

  The air that rushed in smelled of spring, trees and horse shit, finally overpowering the onion stench. I could hear the Albanians’ footsteps as they crunched towards Andrei, then the man himself calling, “That’s close enough.”