Wicked Leaks

by Matt Bendoris

  ‘Katusha, you are going to break so many hearts when you’re older,’ Connor remarked.

  ‘Ya, and I am going to break so many legs,’ her mother replied as Katusha wandered back towards the kitchen.

  Connor laughed. ‘I know you’re not kidding, Anya.’

  ‘So how can I help my favourite reporter?’ she asked.

  ‘“Favourite” because I’m the only one you know?’

  ‘This is very true. I don’t have much to compare you with, but for now you’re my favourite.’

  ‘I need your translation skills. I am meeting Russians and I just want to make sure I’m not missing anything.’

  ‘But that is not all, ya?’

  ‘Correct. It could be dangerous. So I want you to think about it first.’

  ‘I have thought about it: let’s go.’

  ‘What about Katusha?’

  ‘She can come too. KATUSHA, DAH’LING. TIME TO GO,’ Anya shouted in the direction of the kitchens.

  ‘But I said it would be dangerous.’

  ‘Not so dangerous if we bring a beautiful little blonde girl with us, I think.’

  ‘You always think one step ahead, Anya.’

  ‘Where I come from, it was how you stayed alive.’

  ‘I need to fill up my car first,’ Connor said.

  ‘Let’s take mine. I prefer to drive, anyway,’ Anya insisted. ‘And I have a nicer car than yours,’ she said, grabbing the keys to her Mercedes Benz.

  81: Precision

  Kelly administered another dose of morphine to help with Monahan’s pain. He smiled broadly as the pain reliever coursed through his veins, and closed his eyes to sleep. Kelly took her time checking his heart rate and blood pressure, then finally his temperature. Satisfied all was in order, she leaned over and gave him a small peck on the forehead and left to go and make herself some lunch.

  As she closed the door to the bedroom behind her, Monahan immediately opened his eyes and retrieved his iPad from beneath his pillow. He had pre-written a set of explicit instructions with precise timings and colour coding, so everyone was in no doubt as to exactly what they had to do. Monahan had lost none of his legendary attention to detail in his weakened state. He pressed Send then waited for the confirmation replies, which he had demanded were sent back immediately. Only when the last one dropped into his inbox was he finally satisfied. He switched off his iPad and placed it back under his pillow and closed his eyes.

  This time he would make sure he enjoyed his morphine-induced sleep, as he knew he would need every ounce of his remaining energy for the final push. With any luck he may even dream of one of his missions again. Just the thought of being in the field brought that cocky smile back to his face.

  As he slowly began to drift off, the image of a dying woman filled his unconscious state.

  But this time it wasn’t Diana he was dreaming of, from his dim and distant past. It was a vision of the future. Monahan liked what he saw. He looked forward to his dream coming true.

  82: Attack

  Stevie Brett gasped for air as the rag, covered in cat hairs, was held against his nose and mouth. He tried to thrash his arms and legs to break free from his attacker, but the powerfully built man held him down on the floor of his flat, with the rag firmly in place. Whoever was attacking him had done their homework. Nothing brought on an asthma attack for Stevie Brett like his cat allergy. A cat only had to have passed through the landing of his apartment block and he could feel his chest tighten up. But now he was inhaling lungfuls of feline fur.

  ‘Where’s the copy of the hard drive?’ a gruff voice demanded, removing the hairy rag to allow Stevie to answer.

  ‘In… data… storage,’ Stevie spluttered, his intakes of air becoming shorter and shorter.

  ‘Which one?’ the man demanded. Stevie gave up the name of the centre where he and Connor had made and kept a copy of the hard drive.

  ‘Make any more copies?’ the man demanded.

  With no breath left to speak, Stevie shook his head.

  ‘Good lad,’ the man said, releasing Stevie’s arms and stuffing the cat hair rag into his jacket pocket. ‘You had better find your inhalers, then,’ his attacker smirked, as he left the apartment, leaving Stevie in the foetal position on the floor.

  The computer hacker dragged himself to the chest of drawers that contained his inhalers, knowing he only had seconds before a full bronchial spasm, which would close up his airwaves for good. Stevie was still half lying on the floor when he pulled open the top drawer and felt around for one of several inhalers. He clutched one, put it in his mouth, squeezed the button and inhaled as deeply as he could. But no life-saving vapour came out. He took it out of his mouth and pressed the button twice more, but didn’t see the telltale cloud of mist, meaning it was empty. He threw it away and grabbed another, this time pressing the button first before trying to take a breath. But it was empty too. As was the next one and the next. Stevie’s head thumped onto his wooden floor, a knowing look in his eyes. His attacker had emptied all of his inhalers.

  His post-mortem would state that he died from a massive asthma attack, while an inquiry would conclude that he probably would have survived if he’d kept a closer eye on his inhalers. The official report didn’t state it, but anyone reading between the lines would see that Stevie Brett died as a loner and a loser. Only Connor Presley would know that neither was true.

  83: A voyage of discovery

  Anya, Connor and Katusha drove towards the west of the city on the M8, heading for the A82 and then the A83. The radio was on, with some BBC phone-in show full of old people moaning about whatever the topic of the day was.

  ‘Every time I hear that programme it’s the same old biddies complaining about the same things,’ Connor remarked.

  ‘They should come and live in my country – then they would have something to moan about,’ Anya chuckled.

  ‘Pensioners have never had it so good. Seriously. They get everything for free. Free bus pass. Free TV licence when they’re seventy-five, or whatever. Yet still they complain,’ Connor ranted.

  ‘What is it kids say now? “Meh”? Everything is “Meh”. So, meh, let them on your radio shows and moan. If we moaned about our Government on radio back home then they’d shut down the station. Straight away.’

  ‘Aye, suppose you’re right. Freedom of speech and all that. Just a pity it’s always the same people who exercise that freedom.’

  ‘Do you think this country has freedom? Truly?’ Anya asked.

  ‘Not truly. I mean, how come on my first day as a cub reporter I was told that Jimmy Savile was a paedophile who was being protected by the establishment? Not a word of it ever made it to print. Yet on his death it all came pouring out. The biggest serial paedophile in British history. Hundreds of victims, from kids to grannies to cancer patients. It was all there in front of us, yet again hidden in plain sight. But none of this came out when he was alive, and he lived a long, long time – right into his eighties.’

  ‘How is this possible? How could you not report it?’ Anya asked.

  ‘I obviously didn’t try hard enough. There were other journalists just like me who were desperate to go after him. But, mysteriously, all their investigations would be wrapped up with a nod and a wink and a word in the ear of the editor from some establishment figure, promising God knows what. Knighthoods, probably. All editors want to be remembered for their contribution to journalism with a knighthood.’

  ‘And the establishment would do this? Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because child abuse is rife in the establishment, simple as that. So it’s in their best interests to cover it all up. But I may finally have proof in a black box in my bag. I haven’t had time to go through it all in detail, but it appears to all be there.’

  ‘Your chance to finally put a wrong right?’ Anya asked.

  ‘Something like th
at. Sadly, I believe the same still stands today. If I took this to my editor, it would never see the light of day. So I’ve been told to take it to some Russians, who will leak it all out. That’s where you come in. I need you to be my eyes and ears. I want to make sure this gets to the right people,’ Connor said, tapping his man-bag.

  ‘No problem. Let us see if your Russians know their Russian. Katusha, tell these people we meet about your favourite kids’ show, Nu, pogodi!. Tell me exactly what they say.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ her daughter replied dutifully.

  • • •

  They continued driving north, around scenic Loch Lomond, passing through Tarbet, swinging through the curved bay of Arrochar, before putting the pedal down to tackle the steep incline of the Rest And Be Thankful stretch of the A83. A name that, back in the day, would have perfectly summed up the feelings of any coachman making his way over the pass. They continued towards Loch Fyne, with its famous Oyster Bar, hugging the loch as they wound down towards Inveraray.

  ‘We’ll stop for a cone, Katusha – and one for your mum too,’ Connor promised.

  ‘I will have a 99,’ Anya announced. ‘I love those chocolate Flakes. In Russia we did not have these chocolate Flakes.’

  ‘I’ll have a Flake too, Mama,’ Katusha beamed.

  They parked in the high street just down from the medieval jail, which had long since been converted from a place of misery and torture into a tourist attraction. Minutes later they left a shop with three large cones, complete with the promised Flakes sticking out of the top.

  ‘What a beautiful day,’ Connor remarked.

  ‘Any day it doesn’t rain in Scotland is a beautiful day,’ Anya said.

  Connor shrugged in agreement. ‘This was supposed to be my big James Bond mission. But it’s turned into a family day out.’

  ‘And this is bad, why? Maybe you need more normal days in your life, Elvis,’ Anya mused.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said as they climbed back in the car. His mind now refocused on what lay ahead and the instructions Monahan had given him. ‘Our final destination is Crinan. You’ll love it there. It has locks, a harbour and even a lighthouse. It’s gorgeous. We’ll act like day trippers, take in the view and see if anyone approaches. Sound like a plan?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Sounds like spy movie. James Bond, just like you said. This is exciting.’

  They sat in virtual silence for the rest of the journey, only breaking it occasionally to point out sights as they passed through Lochgilphead then joined the narrow windy road that hugs the canal built in the early 19th century to connect Loch Gilp with the Sound Of Jura.

  ‘This is the most beautiful part of Scotland I have seen. I had no idea,’ Anya said.

  ‘It’s one of my favourite places. I love the way it opens up to the rugged West Coast. Stunning. I used to come here with my mum.’

  ‘You don’t mention much about your life, Elvis,’ Anya said.

  ‘There’s not much to mention. Raised by my mum. We were skint. No big deal in the Seventies and Eighties as everyone was. Then my mum got ill. Huntington’s disease. Hereditary. No cure. Horrible. She started going downhill from fifty-five. By sixty-five she couldn’t speak or even recognise me.’

  ‘Hereditary. So you can get it?’

  ‘Yip. A straight fifty-fifty chance.’

  ‘Are there tests?’

  ‘Of course. Great if I’m negative. But what if it’s positive? Who wants to know that in ten years’ time they’ll be shitting themselves and unable to speak?’

  ‘That’s heavy.’

  ‘I tend not to dwell.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What can I do about it? Balance is one of the first things to go. As soon as I start falling over I’m off to Dignitas.’

  ‘You are not serious.’

  ‘I am deadly serious,’ Connor assured Anya, killing the conversation stone-dead for several minutes.

  ‘We’re almost there, ladies,’ Connor announced. ‘Stay close to me and keep your wits about you.’

  84: Inferno

  The flames from the data storage centre could be seen from almost everywhere in Glasgow. Several incendiary devices had gone off in the mail room at the same time, having been delivered that morning by someone doubling as a courier.

  Normally, the internal fire suppression systems would have activated, suffocating the flames almost instantly with a mixture of inert gases, and saving the valuable data from being destroyed. But someone had disabled the entire system when the whole surrounding area suffered a major power outage just seconds before the flames took hold.

  The delivery man drove off in his courier van, smiling at the raging inferno that danced around in his rear-view mirror. Job done.

  85: Cruising

  Connor instructed Anya to park next to the Crinan Hotel, by the flagpole that marked where the rocks fell away to the sea below. They walked past the boathouses leading down to the harbour, where yachts glide out to Scotland’s West Coast islands and beyond.

  Katusha was giddy with excitement. She was also hungry. ‘Can we get a sandwich, Mama?’

  Connor answered for Anya. ‘Of course, there’s a café just down by the water.’

  ‘What about meeting your Russians?’ Anya asked.

  ‘I’m pretty sure they’ll make themselves known to me.’

  They ordered a burger, sandwiches, cake, coffees and a soft drink for Katusha, and then took a seat outside to make the most of the little sunshine Scotland has to offer. Connor made his excuses to use the loo inside, which had only one cubicle. He had just finished urinating when he turned round to see a white envelope had been pushed under the door. Whoever put it there had certainly moved stealthily as he hadn’t even heard the main bathroom door opening. He tore the envelope open to see three tickets for a boat cruise to the Corryvrechan, with a handwritten note saying it left in ten minutes.

  He knew one little girl who would love it. He just hoped her mum felt the same after he explained they were about to visit the third largest whirlpool in the world.

  ‘I got us tickets for the Corryvrechan tour,’ Connor said as he returned to the table.

  Anya looked sceptical. ‘Most men just get piss on the seat when they go to toilet. But you get boat tickets?’

  Connor knew he was well and truly busted. ‘Okay, I was given tickets,’ he said in barely more than a whisper.

  Anya raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, let’s see what happens,’ she said, placing a napkin over the pointed steak knife she’d used for lunch and deftly slipping it into her handbag. Connor looked at her in surprise, and she simply said, ‘In Russia you must always be prepared.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think that’d be a good motto for Scotland too.’

  86: Wessel

  The catamaran was around 35ft long and seemed to have been moulded out of one piece of fibreglass. Connor gave a wry smile at the boat’s name – Dignity – and wondered how many vessels had been named after Deacon Blue’s dismal Eighties hit about a bin man who saves up enough money to buy his own ‘ship’. Given that the pop group was made up of university graduates, Connor was less than convinced that they’d known many council workers over the years. But he knew that was just the cynic in him, and millions of people had lapped up their brand of middle-of-the-road melodies.

  Connor helped Anya and Katusha aboard from the jetty. The rear of the boat was covered in a canopy to try to protect the paying customers from the worst of the Scottish weather. But today was one of those rare days when the sea was calm and the skies clear. Connor did a quick head-count – there were twenty passengers on board including themselves. For the next few minutes Connor and Anya studied them all, looking for anyone who looked remotely Russian. But Connor found it hard to tell as they all looked like typical tourists, with their bright-coloured rain jackets and
sun-tanned skins from warmer climes. He shot a quizzical look at Anya, who shrugged before whispering in his ear, ‘I can spot a Russian at twenty paces, but the only Russians here are me and Katusha.’

  The skipper was a tall man who did nothing to conceal his height, holding himself up poker straight. Connor took an educated guess that he was a naval man, which was confirmed by his clipped manner when he spoke.

  ‘As you can see there is plenty of room to move about. But please don’t let these lovely calm conditions fool you. The Corryvrechan is the most unpredictable lady in the world,’ the skipper said, giving a well-rehearsed briefing, which he’d probably repeated hundreds of times before. ‘But seriously, you never know how you are going to find her. I’ve been spun around 180 degrees in a split second. I know of other vessels that have been rotated 180 degrees. That’s upside down to you non-nautical folk. We really don’t want that to happen today.’

  The passengers gave a nervous laugh in unison, but Connor knew the skipper wasn’t joking.

  ‘So, with that in mind, we shall all put on our life jackets when we are approaching the Corryvrechan. That’ll be in about an hour’s time. Now, everyone always forgets to fasten the most important part of the life jacket, which is the crotch strap. Please don’t be embarrassed to be rooting about down there. It may just save your life. Oh, and if we do have to jump into the drink, please make sure you hold the collar of your jacket tightly. You’d be surprised how many people break their necks with these things – which are supposed to save you, not kill you.’

  Definitely military, Connor surmised. In his experience, people in the services always speak about life and death in such a matter-of-fact way.

  ‘Will we see any dolphins?’ Katusha asked, with her hand in the air as she would do in school.