Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  “If you are as important as you say you are, then yes I will meet you again. But will you meet with my brother Alex? He is also a businessman from our beloved homeland. I think you would like him. He is looking for work. Please.”

  She locked her eyes onto his and for the first time in years he did not blink.

  Dalca was besotted. “Yes. I can do this. Get him to ring me on this number.” He handed her a white card with his number embossed upon it.

  They had drunk a toast or five to their newfound venture. As the lesser members of Fratia had left the superbly decorated clifftop home in Sa Riera and were ferried back into the nearby town to continue their celebrations, they did not think for a second that Dalca would be vulnerable. He had earned his reputation as a ruthless businessman, sitting high above the town on the steepest of cliffs with roads that spiralled up the precipices towards his gated status symbol.

  The term ruthless was perhaps erroneous. Where finances were concerned he was indeed merciless but he did not possess any elements of cruelty. He had once rescued a fly from its web-based death, such was his compassion.

  Dalca leaned forward to clash his small green glass containing Tuica, a spirit derived from plums and at least sixty percent proof. His smile was warm and genuine. It was also brimming with confidence.

  “‘Look at this man before me, on his knees in my home – the great Alexandru – the Jackdaw – actually he is nothing, I have scraped worse from the bottom of my shoe. Despite what you think, I know all about you. I am one, or two steps ahead of you.”

  He tilted his head backward, exposing his throat – it was all the Jackdaw needed to set the record straight.

  A simple cut-throat razor had brought an unexpected end to his new associate’s life. Fool. He should have known better.

  He actually enjoyed the feeling and the sound of the blade slicing through his windpipe. He pushed himself back to avoid the pressurised blood and stood over him, grabbing a handful of his silky black hair he spoke.

  “I would say that this sends a message to your people, Andrei – such a shame that you cannot deliver it in person.”

  Dalca was unable to answer as he drowned rapidly, his words replaced by a pathetic sound, a mixture of effervescing blood, escaping air and panic.

  “I also feel it important for you to understand that your dear brother’s will not miss you, for their fate is also sealed. As I stand here and watch you fight for your life, they are doing the same in London and our beautiful city of Bucharest. It is only right that I mark the occasion with a toast.”

  He tipped Dalca’s head back further and poured the colourless liquid, straight from the bottle into his mouth until it spilled out, down his neck and mixed with his oxygenated blood.

  “Come now, surely you will join me in a toast?”

  He paced now, seeking another opportunity to carry out a malicious act, whilst Dalca was still alive. He only had seconds.

  He opened the razor once more and in two decisive, clinical swipes had carved a cross over his face. A mark of betrayal. He had instructed the two teams in London and Romania to do the same.

  “I pity you. You are a little boy still, and now you won’t get to see and enjoy the obscene symbols of your own success. I shall have to add them to my own collection. For example…”

  He continued to talk, even though he knew that the younger male had barely a moment left to live.

  “…this fine Fabergé piece here. If I am not mistaken is an Imperial Easter Egg, given by Nicholas the Second to the Dowager Empress Maria. It is delightful. But it does not go with your décor. So revolting.” He tossed it onto the stone floor causing it to shatter, then walked over to it and stamped on it repeatedly, each time a more aggressive action until it was almost certainly irreparable.

  “But this, this is most exquisite, my friend. May I? Thank you, a truly wonderful gift and one that I accept most humbly.”

  He picked the walking cane up and admired it, another Fabergé piece it was no doubt worth millions. Where it had come from, he simply didn’t care, the fact that its purple amethyst handle captivated him was what was important, that and the fact that he now considered it his own.

  He ran his hand over the white enamel, rose and yellow gold detail, and his fingers selecting and feeling the string of white pearls until he had counted every one. When he had finished, he knew that Dalca was dead.

  He walked over to him and placed the razor into his lap, having washed it in the remnants of the Tuica before dropping the bottle at his side. It smashed and allowed the last remains to seep into a broad crack on the stoneware floor.

  “Do not ever forget this night, Andrei. I know I won’t.”

  He whistled theatrically as he strutted from the living area, swirling the cane in his hand and laughing as he turned off the lights with the tip of the cane and pulling the main door shut behind him.

  He walked to his awaiting car, got in, lovingly placed the cane on the rear parcel shelf and grabbed Niko’s face and open mouth kissed her, licking her neck, his tongue darting into her eyes, his hands holding her cheekbones, wiping his former business partner’s metallic, fresh blood onto her face as he did so.

  He had her in the back of the car whilst his driver watched discreetly in his rear-view mirror, wiping his blood-stained hands over her semi-naked torso.

  Even his driver, who was now used to such behaviour thought that his boss was becoming a little unstable, narcissistic and dangerous. He wouldn’t mention it, he had a family and bills to pay, and besides, the Bulgarian girl was very attractive.

  They remained in Spain, but now, with the additional wealth that his growing business empire attracted, they could travel anywhere. He took her to far-flung places and showered her with gifts, everything, the best. Weeks seemed like months as they tried valiantly to dent his ever-growing bank balance.

  He even told her in a moment of apparent weakness that he loved her. But still he abused her. It was as if she were his highest paid escort – competing for attention among all the others he entertained when she was asleep or deliberately oblivious.

  She had long lost contact with her controllers, but she had made a pact, and one day she would carry it out. With each day, with each month, the desire lessened.

  At some point in February 1988 and with a significant amount of anxiety, she announced that she was pregnant. She had been hesitant, knowing that he would probably beat the child out of her or at best ensure its early termination. However, contrary to her thoughts, and certainly those of everyone who knew the Jackdaw, he mellowed, altered and became suspiciously paternal.

  “She will want for nothing. She will have the best of everything. She will be protected, taught how to survive, and never have to look over her shoulder like I have done all these years. She will be proud of her Roma ancestry. She will have your temperament, but my striking looks!”

  He laughed at himself, “Listen to me, the expectant father, Alexandru Stefanescu, a father who would have thought it possible, eh, my little Nikolina, who?”

  All she could think of in reply was, “Yes, Alex, she will be very resourceful.”

  She became less attractive to him but he nurtured her every waking moment – that was when he wasn’t nurturing two or three hookers from various parts of the world; he had introduced themed months to which he invited his closest friends, it was July so this was ‘Africa’ and he found himself entwined in a hot tub with two young girls who said they were from Nigeria.

  His reputation continued to worsen, or through his conceited eyes to improve. He had even gained a place in the Interpol ranks of the despised, infamous and wanted.

  Thumbing his nose at them, he travelled back and forth to Romania, conducting deals, enforcing his reputation and revelling in his own magnificence.

  She gave birth on the 5th November 1988, a girl. Slender like her mother used to be, with flaming red hair, vivid green eyes and the appearance of a gypsy dancer. He was infatuated.

  He
held her up and looked into her jade eyes, “We must call her after my mother; her name will be Elena Stefanescu.”

  For fourteen years Nikolina had endured his subtle beatings, hiding the wounds and psychological harm from her growing daughter.

  Elena was everything her father said she would be; beautiful, multilingual, bright, witty and resourceful. Against everything he stood for he insisted she became educated and that she was never to be exposed to obvious criminality, and never, upon his life, ever to commit a crime.

  It was, he said, what he had worked for. If anyone should ever harm his little girl, he would tear their eyes out with his bare hands.

  She had changed him, weakened him, scraping the mortar away from the brickwork of his life, softening the foundations of his empire.

  Because she was so bright and perceptive, she also saw the subtleties of a hideous domestic situation. Her mother was on one hand an apparently capable person, confident, possibly even trained by the military, articulate and gifted in linguistics and yet desperately, desperately sad.

  Each time she saw her mother flinch she knew another punishment had taken place. She never once saw physical proof, but she knew and as each day progressed, she grew to hate her father, little by little until the hatred became a driving force.

  Unlike her mother she was realistic and knew she couldn’t act alone, but in a quiet and rare moment alone they formed an alliance that went far beyond that of a mother and her daughter.

  “Why do you choose to live this way, mother?” she had asked.

  “Because I do Elena, because when this started, I had a mission, a purpose, but the longer I remained with him the more I forgot the reason. I once even thought that I loved him.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, I know that it is too late to change anything, but for you the future is clearer, do not be like me, a star that was never allowed to shine.”

  It was agreed that at some point, sooner or later, one of them would seek retribution for his cowardly, callous acts and they would do this alone, together or with an unforeseen ally.

  He was oblivious to his daughter’s plans and blinded by love, which was now so genuine he could only see her for what she was; his most successful venture to date.

  Seizing the opportunity to enhance her education and knowledge, Stefanescu sent her to a private school in Montpellier, France where she would learn the local language and be schooled in the finer things in life too. Money, he said, was no object.

  Later she would travel to another similar institution in Bulgaria – he wanted her to know about her past. He would miss her terribly and he told her so. He gave her a trust fund to live off, more than most of the students would see in a lifetime.

  Sadly, she would never know of her grandfather, who had died during the harsh winter of 1990, found alone and frozen in his sterile apartment complex. The reports were thorough; he had died of pneumonia, a complication of influenza. The information, along with his history, was cross-shredded, steam pulped and then burned.

  Within a week, the Directorate had contacted her. She was walking along a side street, back towards college, when a kindly looking male approached her and enquired about her mother. He knew all about her, her father too and her grandfather. Clearly, he was to be trusted.

  After only three more meetings, she had been unwittingly or deliberately converted.

  The day arrived. Nikolina took the chance. He was drunk on power, arrogant beyond belief, rising to the status of Interpol’s most sought-after organised crime leader and heading for even greater infamy.

  She withdrew the aging umbrella from her bag and fired the mechanism into his leg.

  He flinched and slapped at his limb, apologising for startling her. He was in seventh heaven, and not even a pesky bee could upset his day. He had scored another huge financial success. He was being warm, even, some might say, loving towards her.

  It was most surreal. Had she done the right thing?

  Yes.

  If the chemists had done their job, he would be dead within a day, less, hopefully. She would wait long enough to see the initial impact, then leave. She knew her exit plan intimately, for she had lived it for the last few months.

  So, what if she never returned to the motherland? Yes, she would miss her dear father. Yes, the Bureau would certainly be lost without her, but she knew what their ultimate plans were; her Papa had told her.

  Sadly, she also knew that his days were numbered. They had said their goodbyes, agreeing that one day they would meet in heaven, where, with any luck, he would finally take her Queen and be able to rest – the game won.

  Alex Stefanescu slept well that night, yet, his partner of fifteen long years hoped he would never wake up.

  She left quietly at four the next morning. With minimal luggage and a pile of Euros, she was able to move quickly. She walked into a part of town where she was unlikely to be recognised and got into a taxi outside a nightclub, still busy disgorging its patrons.

  “Airport.”

  Her instructions were simple. The driver nodded, switched on his meter and pulled away from the rank.

  She checked in at Malaga Airport, placed an envelope into the nearby post box, trusting that the recipient would deliver the message, and then continued with her journey, passing through Spanish border control and into the gate lounge.

  She feigned a smile at the pretty cabin crew girls as she boarded the 737 to East Midlands Airport. Other than a region in England, she had no idea where the East Midlands was and didn’t care. She had money; she had skills, and she needed to get away whilst she could.

  Hopefully, by now that evil bastard was dead.

  For the immediate future, she had a different challenge and had to put her beloved Elena into a private compartment deep within her mind. She would be safer there. She made a promise to watch over her.

  Her father, despicable though he was had provided for her.

  Even that cold, calculated tyrant of a man wouldn’t harm her; he was wrapped around her finger, which had come as a shock, even to him. He had once told her earnestly that he would protect her with his life – or end hers rather than allow someone the pleasure. Despite apparently mellowing he still held a streak so ruthless that at times he even feared himself.

  Nikolina had always wanted to visit London and London was where her final challenge lay, albeit she wouldn’t exactly be a conventional tourist. All she needed was a friend, someone to trust, to deliver a message to and then hopefully gain asylum.

  The message was simple, yet complex, at a level even she, with her myriad departments and layers of security, could not fathom. She had a message, not a note, or a report or a higher-level communique, just a plain and unequivocal statement to deliver to the British Foreign Office. It was a story, of sorts, told to her by a man she had grown to know very well. She hated him and loved him in equal amounts. But she knew deep within her soul that to retain the information would be damaging to both her, her country, and her intended new sanctuary.

  Once delivered she had hoped to plan her own future. It was relatively straightforward for someone who had grown up in a country as divorced from simplicity as it possibly could be.

  Her next task and possibly her last was to reunite with her daughter. For now, yes, she was safe. For now, perversely, her father would never harm her. Wherever she was, she was safe. She took some comfort from that. But he had told someone, deliberately she suspected, in her hearing that he would kill his offspring if he had no choice. As a mother, it was abhorrent.

  However long it took, months, years, it mattered not; they would reunite. She would receive the letter – God willing, and when she was old enough to read it herself, she might be able to form an opinion.

  She had arranged to meet a man who could ensure her immigration into the United Kingdom would be anonymous, painless and whilst expensive, permanent.

  She walked head-down along the aisle until she reached row 29, placed a small bag in the overhead
storage compartment, sat down and put her seatbelt on. A large male was sat next to her; he was very casually dressed and reeked of cheap antiperspirant.

  He smiled and said hello; it was all she could do to reply, smile back and turn her head away before she laid her blonde hair on the headrest and slipped into a welcome and long overdue sleep.

  Survival was in her female genes; her mother had seen to it and she had made a pact to pass them on to her own daughter.

  She was pure, defiant and compelled, and no one would prevent her from achieving her goals. If she kept uttering these words, they would come true. She had failed her first goal, now she needed fate to play its part, she certainly couldn’t achieve the rest on her own.

  Part One: Summer 2014

  Chapter One

  Coromandel Peninsula, New Zealand

  The sun radiated in a consistently azure-blue sky, and at just a few minutes after five thirty in the morning it had the makings of another good-looking day. The air was crisp and provided a refreshing start after what had been a warm, sultry, almost uncomfortable night. The crickets had serenaded the neighbourhood until the early hours and now their raucous, daytime, hissing, clicking, ever-present counterparts had commenced their own day-long appeal for a mate.

  He tolerated the cicada, but much preferred the melodic, peaceful and vaguely tropical song of the cricket. He had also endured the relentless humidity of a February night in the southern hemisphere, somehow considering it more than worth the exchange when he finally climbed out of his bed and prepared to run to the nearby beach.

  A creature of habit he would normally make the bed before leaving, a legacy of his disciplined past. Conventionally he would crease the Egyptian cotton sheets and place them methodically in situ before arranging the pillows, just so.

  Exactly four minutes after leaving his home, his overtly coloured Asic Gel Kayano running shoes left the sterile concrete surface of the pavement as he leapt onto a wooden walkway that took him swiftly into the heart of a pine forest.