She was gifted and growing exponentially more beautiful. He was looking at her one day; she was deep in thought, pondering whether to move knight or rook.
He smiled. If or when the time came, he would protect her with his own life.
He met his supervisor one Thursday morning, brushing the sheets of rain from his overcoat and shaking off the cold. After three cups of strong Turkish coffee, his manager agreed that when the time came Nikolina Petrov would join them at the Bureau of Statistics.
In the spring of 1987, she joined her father at the Bureau and in six short months, by working long hours and studying at home became a rising star, translating information received from their ‘statisticians’ who were domiciled in neighbouring countries.
She was indeed brilliant, so much so she had soon learned that the data she was translating and analysing was in fact raw intelligence. Quite how much she would be allowed to learn about the Bureau was subject to weekly meetings; for now, the risks far outweighed the consequences. She was worth ten of the male staff in the unit. They would nurture her, protect her, and train her.
She was now an asset and a deployable one. They could send her almost anywhere in Eastern Europe; with her looks, which belied her age, her training and her linguistic skills, she was quite simply a sensation in the chilled, shadowy and staid halls and meeting rooms of the 1st Main Directorate.
Her father was immensely proud of her, but now saw how quickly the government had wrapped its tentacles around her. She was no longer his.
They were teaching her more advanced linguistics, drilling down to local dialects; they taught her how to drive and how to use rudimentary weapons. She learned the art of close quarter combat – how to utilise her slender build to act as a lever upon her opponents. She grew to adore the sessions by day and by night studied, and if very fortunate would find herself deployed on surveillance operations.
She started to travel. Initially, this consisted of domestic and regional journeys, they were often arduous as the transport systems were in places archaic, but with government and offshore investments beginning to flourish they could only improve. With each trip she learned more, remembered much more and grew steadily more confident.
Meanwhile, her father stole secrets from under the nose of his employers and sold them to Russia.
Gorbachev’s superpower state was calling upon its satellites to implement Glasnost – freedom of speech – but despite this it still craved secrets from its bordering nations and was highly suspicious of Bulgaria’s drive towards Westernisation. It had to be stopped before it created a wave of enthusiasm among lesser Eastern Bloc states.
Yosif Petrov had become a spy. Somehow, at some point, he needed to be taught a lesson or two.
An opportunity arose. The Directorate required a female to head into Romania to collect intelligence on a rising star in the world of organised crime. He was hurting his own people, but damaging the Bulgarian economy, furthermore he was bribing officials and that was simply unacceptable.
Her father was called into the meeting room.
“Yosif, Yosif, my friend, my brother. Your daughter is a fine young woman, she is ready, you should be proud. She will go to Romania tomorrow and carry out a set of orders. If she is successful, then the world will be truly at her feet.”
Yosif Petrov knew that a reply was neither expected nor warranted; he nodded curtly and walked back to his own frigid office. He closed the door and picked up the telephone.
His daughter answered.
“It is me; they want you to go to Bucharest tomorrow. Please, for me, say no, it will be dangerous, risky; I do not want you to go. You are far too young…” He paused, but the answer was not what he wanted to hear.
He had used a straightforward set of words that conversely excited her rather than dissuaded her.
She travelled the very next morning; a simple kiss on her father’s cheek proclaimed her departure. She was like a schoolgirl heading away on a summer camp, except this diminutive female was capable of killing any predator.
Two men spoke quietly in a corridor of the 1st Directorate.
“So, she has left to carry out her duty?” enquired the first.
“She has, sir. At best she will find him and kill him. At worst, she will gather information which we will use to kill him,” replied a younger male, clearly subordinate.
“Good. It will be her swan song, her final effort, a grand gesture to the glory of our homeland, in memory of her father, a great man. He will be proud. The Durzhavna Sigurnost will be proud. Deal with him as we dealt with Markov in London. Then when, or if she returns, we must ensure she too is eradicated, she is young and quite disarmingly pretty and we have trained her well – however, in time she will not be missed.”
The junior member of staff nodded politely and allowed the elder to walk away. His task was simple, eloquent and ruthless. Deploy, retract and erase all evidence. Such a pity, for his superior was right; she was attractive and so exceptionally gifted.
She walked alone along the Bulevardul Ion Mihalache on a brutally cold December night in 1987 and despite her head screaming ‘No’ she walked confidently, almost arrogantly off the street and into Byzantin.
On the other side of its imposing twelve-foot-high polished teak doors she found herself drawn to the Western music, the alluring smell of alcohol and cigarettes and the sense and sound of hedonistic pleasure.
He had been exquisitely clever in the way he had manipulated her from Day One. To her mind it was Day One, an event in her life that would act as a catalyst for a series of further occurrences.
She had been equally astute in how she had manipulated him too.
He observed her entering the crowded space and was immediately captivated by her. Either way, he would have her. He could have any woman in the city. None of them resisted – those that did were more of a challenge; he was wealthy, powerful, corrupt and evil. All the traits a father loathes and all the characteristics a daughter is drawn to.
Moth: flame.
Her first drink arrived with a comment from the barman. She pushed it away and shook her head. The barman looked over his shoulder. A male looked back at him. He had cold, hooded and black eyes, olive, pock-marked skin, a strong, straight nose and thick black hair that shone with blue-grey hues.
He wore a plain white, short-sleeved, open-necked shirt which revealed a few dark chest hairs. Nestled among them was a simple but expensive platinum necklace.
The shirt masked a slim but muscular frame which was only evident in his forearms, which bulged with veins and a network of scars. On his left wrist he wore a Patek Philippe wristwatch, elegantly adorned with phases of the moon and three subsidiary dials. It was also platinum and was signed by the maker, highly expensive, but again, quite discreet.
On the inside of his right wrist a tattoo of a wave jostled for attention among his thick, black, short hairs. Unlike similar marks, his tattoo was black.
The male gestured to the girl to take the drink. She felt alone, isolated and on the edge of a significant decision; powerless, yet vaguely in control. Aroused, scared and perversely, excited. The skin crawled across her shoulders. Someone had just walked slowly across her grave.
She took the drink and smiled at the male.
She was his.
He was hers.
What was she thinking?
Her training had shaped her into a highly accomplished and yet somewhat inexperienced agent. Never had the Bulgarian government seen such a rise to readiness. They had filled her head with knowledge and confidence. All she had to do was draw him in and take the opportunity to carry out her instructions.
Kill the man called Alex; retreat, remain alert, stay under cover, return and live a life as a heroine of the Bulgarian people.
The Intelligence Division had briefed her thoroughly.
Alexandru Stefanescu was a career criminal. Starting with low-hanging fruit, he burgled his neighbours, stole old cars and progressed to more sophisticate
d burglaries.
It was at this time he crossed the border into Bulgaria and really began to shine as a criminal. He was always one step ahead of what he considered to be the enemy, but he knew that one day they would be waiting for him.
Having learned his tradecraft whilst in Sofia, Bobov Dol and Stara Zagora prisons, he soon gained a reputation as a formidable fighter with a ruthless streak that preceded him. His physical size was at best average. He was far from a powerful man – but his strength came from within. His forte was an ability to see deep within the mind of his enemy and use his or her own power as a self-destructing weapon.
What his mentor saw was an evil – inexplicable – to inflict pain on his fellow human that even he, with a career of harm, found distasteful.
He repaid his mentor in kind and after three years had risen through the ranks of organised criminality, creating fear, notoriety and a growing band of brothers from his homeland who melded with occasional converts from other Soviet states, all eager to experience the trappings of wealth that they had been sheltered from for so long.
He had become an underground rock star, feeding off his own reputation, stronger by the day, stronger still by night. His thoughts were always of betrayal, retribution and reward. He led as he expected to be followed; loyalty first, nothing else mattered.
The emergent group needed a name to which to fasten their loyalty. Alexandru christened them Primul Val – The First Wave. It was a name that suited the group, and the birth of a menace – but he always intended for the name to be short-lived. He had another, and in time that would follow.
By the late eighties, he was responsible for the movement of stolen goods out of Romania and Bulgaria and into Western Europe in exchange for high-value vehicles, prostitutes and drugs.
He would consume the women, drive the cars, but never go near the drugs. He despised their ability to destroy a strong man, or his family. But the lucrative aspect to their sale was addictive enough for him to overlook the issue of morals.
He was also the only man to break into the Headquarters of the Durzhavna Sigurnost; turning a photograph of the Director upside down, just to prove a point. He left it so perfectly square that a spirit level would have failed to find fault.
He was arrogant beyond belief, a burgeoning icon with a selected band of followers baying for more.
He was walking back to his palatial flat a few days after his most daring feat when a group of specialist police stopped him at gunpoint, cable-tied him and took him away in an unmarked, anonymous blue van. Those that saw the event soon forgot. It was better for everyone that they did.
By the time the team had arrived at prison, an institution with an infamous reputation, he was bruised beyond recognition.
What privileges he had were removed and four days later after attempting to stab a hospital orderly with a makeshift knife, he was beaten senseless once more by the very nursing staff charged with caring for him.
Arriving back on the wing he was attacked, proselytised and tortured, forced to shower in freezing cold water, to lie in his own faeces whilst strapped to what loosely constituted a bed and kept awake for days on end.
They would break him.
But in spite of the endless abuse he never gave in. He was Roma and that meant loyalty to his beliefs and his people; a race who had lived through hatred, prejudice and genocide.
Did these people really think they could break his will?
His subsequent and unexpected escape caused frustration, embarrassment and anger and his captors were duly punished; the prison Governor soon found himself in Stefanescu’s cell, enduring the same treatment, strapped to his still-putrid bed for twenty-two hours a day until he gave in, unable to take the mental torture a day longer. Better to die at his own hand than theirs.
Arriving back in Bucharest, Stefanescu gathered his people around him; he would gain a sense of retribution and take every opportunity to crush those that had left him with his mental and physical scars.
He continued to grow wealthier, exploiting collapsing European borders, infiltrating government units and seeking out officials who were prepared to be corrupted. And there were plenty of them it seemed.
He had an eye for beautiful cars, boats, watches and women. Women of a size and type that he found alluring were retained for special occasions, the rest were abused and wholly taken for granted.
He had a sixth sense for business which in another place, at another time he could have exploited – arguably the next Trump, Jobs or Branson he quickly recognised a commodity and where and how to gain a return. His many private hours in prison were devoured by thoughts, unable to even gain access to books he wrote his own internal business plan – and God himself would need to step in and deal with anyone who chose to get in his way.
With an eye on the future he had also noted a sense of change in Europe, which he considered fortuitous. His people, long the bane of many a politician, were ready to move, to travel as they had for centuries. This time the travel involved heading north, deeper into the European Union, however, this could only happen when what many saw as the most powerful alliance on the globe allowed it to happen. Opening the door, even slightly, might allow a flood of immigrants into already over-populated countries such as France and Germany and Great Britain.
Alex knew that somewhere in the halls of power, the very existence of his people, his nation and those that were geographically aligned to it was currently under discussion. It had to be, Europe was expanding rapidly and with the dissolution of the Soviet Union it was just a matter of time before trade talks and the political benefits of immigration were discussed.
Like a limited number of similarly minded people, he was ready to exploit the situation for all it was worth. Dishonesty, deceit, treachery, call it what you like, they were all by-words for success, wealth and status. To gain the latter he was willing, and very content to do whatever it might take.
Stefanescu and the girl drank together, watching, alert to a sign of weakness. To the awe of his cohorts, he buckled first.
“So, tell me, what is your name, my pretty Bulgarian friend?”
“My name is Nikolina, and yours?”
He laughed, a cackling laugh that haunted her. But she knew she had to stand her ground.
“You have some courage coming into my world and asking me my name Miss Nikolina, what, are you a spy?” He regarded her through his granite eyes, never once leaving her own stare.
He liked her, a lot.
“What kind of spy would walk into the lion’s den, alone, at the age of twenty-one and try to seduce the number one criminal in town?”
He laughed again, clapped his hands warmly and ordered more drinks. He owned the club so they were free; he owned everyone in it too, and the six adjoining buildings either side.
“Come here, woman; let me get to know you better.”
She sat on the leather sofa and slid slowly towards him.
“Your summation of my success was a little insulting Nikolina. I am the ‘Number One Criminal’ – full stop.”
Without shame or warning, he pushed his hand up her dress and stroked the inside of her thigh, probing with his fingers until she gasped. It was a genuine response. Apart from the pathetic boys at college who craved her and were rewarded with a kiss, this was, despite all of her training and exposure to danger, the closest she had come to a true sexual encounter.
“You feel more like a sixteen-year-old to me, and if you ask my friends, I much prefer them to twenty-one-year olds. Now, I will give you one opportunity to be honest with me, how old are you?”
She told the truth, causing him to smile a broad smile and involuntarily rub his hands together, steepling his fingers, a non-verbal sign that he was in control.
She had been confident that she had the upper hand but started to have an over-bearing sense of fear that she was perhaps too isolated, too vulnerable and too foolish.
He pirouetted around her, imbibing her with drink, but she seemed abl
e to avoid its effects. He was captivated by her looks and her youth, but above all her incredible confidence.
This one would be most enjoyable.
“Another drink?” he enquired.
“Just water thank you…I’m sorry, I want to call you something and I still don’t know your name…”
“My, you are persistent my pretty young thing, most persistent indeed. I can only hope you are this willing later. Well? Will you join me?”
It was time. She took her bag, which contained her purse, a supply of forged identity documents, some low-level narcotics and makeup, lots of makeup.
She also had a small collapsible umbrella. Her hands brushed against it, giving her confidence and courage, in truth she was now scared and rather naïve, and yet somehow, she was still energised by the whole experience.
She was seventeen going on thirty, skilled, devious, quick-witted but seventeen, female and acting on her own.
She could only hope her short but highly intensive regime of exercise, defence and psychological strengthening would support her.
He dismissed his entourage and led her to his apartment, where she saw for the first time the opulent trappings of his success.
A sorrowful polar bear skin lay next to an enormous Gothic fireplace which was roaring, its fresh pine logs spitting against the fine metal guard. A tattered Romanian flag hung defiantly from the ceiling and works of art, no doubt stolen, adorned the walls. There was more gold than she had ever seen.
On a table, placed perfectly on a silver tray were two crystal glasses containing mineral water. He beckoned towards them.
“Your water, Nikolina…”
She hesitated, fractionally but enough for him to detect.
“By the way, forgive me, my name is Alexandru Stefanescu. It is my pleasure to meet you. Don’t worry child, all that talk downstairs? It was just that, I am not the monster many think I am; I am a tiger, but a toothless one. Some call me the Jackdaw, but you can call me Alex.”
Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1) Page 2