MR FRANKENSTEIN
RICHARD FREEBORN
Contents
Title Page
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Copyright
1
‘Is there anything more I can do for you, Mr Richter?’
No, he said, thank you, except explain to me why anyone, let alone his mother, not to mention his mother’s lover, should be crazy enough to offer that much money for something as apparently insignificant as the text he had found on his smartphone.
It must mean it had some value. If it came from his friend Boris Krestovsky, he must have thought it valuable. But was it so valuable that Boris had only been prepared to speak of it in whispers and had ‘disappeared’ or ‘disapparated’ or – whatever the term was – used his particular cloak of invisibility to hide himself because he was frightened to be associated with it? But the world, after all, was not populated by wizards, so there had to be reasonable explanations. For his part, he had to suppose that, if it did come from Boris, it had arrived at No 17 because he, Joseph Richter, was known to be there. So who else knew?
Jenny knew. Back here in London after two weeks in New York, she knew.
‘Thank you, no.’
He left the bank. Enough cash sat in his pocket to give a spring to his step. He was Joseph Ambrose Percival Richter, known to himself and friends mostly as Joe Richter, mid twenties, officially unemployed after his contract with a Russian outfit known as RGD, Russian Gas Distribution Inc. or Roszapgaz, had been rescinded. Promotion of the benefits of gas imported from Siberia had been part of his job, but unemployment, along with a minor domestic problem, had led him to rethink his purpose in life. Naturally a new source of funds, even though they might come from his mother, was as welcome as an unexpected lunch at such a moment. He would do what he had to do after the free lunch at Scythian Gold, of course, except he knew there were no free lunches and he would have to sing for it. Leo Kamen, after all, wanted the material, indeed had bought it and received it at the free lunch. Why, he didn’t know, except that his mother had said it was important. But Jenny would come first, he assured himself, as he climbed the final, narrow flight of stairs to what the agent had called this de luxe studio apartment that had a fancy hotel-style panel to its front door. He shoved in the keycard. It astonished him how easily the door opened.
Keen to contact Jenny, he instantly used his RGD-issued smartphone to call her mobile number. It rang and rang and was not diverted. He waited. A female voice finally answered somewhat hectically. No, Miss Malden was not free. She was in conference. He thanked the voice, said he would call later and ended it in a silly fit of resentment at the curt female reply and slightly appalled by the sight and smell of the apartment.
In the mid-afternoon it smelled dirty and unaired. What had seemed smart white walls the previous evening had now acquired a hint of yellow and the white carpet simply looked shabby. How could he live in a place like this? It made an absurd contrast with the showiness of Scythian Gold.
He switched on the fan-driven electric fire. It immediately set up its effect of hot coals and bright red flames. He opened the sash window. The neon-lit sign on the opposite side of the street – ‘HEat your home, HE is best’ – was still flashing away. The room’s unsavoury atmosphere, though, remained the same. He stood there blinking his eyes, faced by brilliantly searching afternoon sunlight that directed nearly horizontal rays over the bed and projected the frame of the window in sharp straight lines over the table, his old laptop, his printer/copier, even onto the black television screen fixed to the wall above the table. It picked out everything with a nearly magnifying accuracy. It picked him out in the utmost detail.
Quite unavoidably there he was – in the long mirrors on the wardrobe doors. He stared at himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, broad in the face, attractively open, clear, trusting blue eyes, so trusting, as Leo had claimed, he’d never be able to disguise his feelings completely. The bruise on his forehead was not too conspicuous. The conspicuous features were the abundant and untidy blond hair and the hint of physical strength in a strong chin and wide mouth. Watching himself, as if he were encountering a rival, he slowly undid the belt of his raincoat.
Then it wasn’t the smell, or the dust, or the shabbiness. It was something else. Things, he realized, had been moved. His laptop had been moved. He was sure the wardrobe doors had been moved, separating his reflection into two mirrored parts. More certain still was the fact, however inconspicuous, that the paper he’d used to do the initial translation had been moved from beside his laptop to the other side of the printer/ copier. Why? A cleaning woman perhaps? No. He’d made no arrangements.
But someone had been in his room.
Someone had moved his things about, not in the process of cleaning but of searching, and it seemed to him it wasn’t valuables or money they’d been looking for. He was sure it was the material he’d received. It couldn’t be anything else. He decided he ought to speak to someone downstairs. As for the only other apartment on his top floor, he had no idea whether it was occupied. In any case, he felt first of all he should call the agent and reached again for his phone.
He had scarcely raised it to his ear when he heard a movement outside on the landing. It drew his attention to the door. He noticed something seemed to be wrong with the metal plate of the electronic door-lock. Peering down to look more closely, he opened his mouth to speak into his phone and found it dashed from his hand.
The door suddenly came inwards with the force of an explosion. Three men in leather jackets and crash helmets dashed in, giving him sudden, misshapen glimpses of faces and eyes through the translucent visors but coming from the dark landing they resembled enlarged cyclopean biped insects who seized him before he could shout or defend himself, thrust something in his mouth and almost at the same moment punched him so hard in the ribs he almost buckled. One moment later a vice-like wrestler’s hold was applied to his neck, tape stuck over his eyes and he was thrust into an upright armchair with more tape fixing his arms to the chair arms and tape wound very swiftly round his legs and loosely securing them to the chair legs. He was more trussed up in an expert way in ten seconds than he could have imagined possible. The speed of it all, not to mention the thunderous pain of the punch to his ribs, took away breath, pride and resistance.
He was left with an awareness of something hard, presumably a crash helmet, pressed against the back of his head. When he jerked the pressure grew stronger and, sniffing, he felt the smell of a leather sleeve just below his nostrils. What annoyed him most was the stuff thrust in his mouth. It had a sickening chemical taste and left him only able to draw breath through his nostrils. He tried shaking his head but he couldn’t. He felt he was about to lose consciousness. Struggling, he found he could do no more than squirm about in the chair and make a slight groaning or whimpering. He tried to get the foul-tasting thing out of his mouth and cursed himself for being open-mouthed when his attackers pounced.
‘Relax, mate! Just relax!’
The helmet-muffled voice came from behind his head. It commanded rather than threatened. It was like a doctor’s, even a trifle reassuring. So they were after his money, that’s what it was all about. He relaxed at the thought he’d banked most of it. As it was, he began to feel nauseous. Sweat broke out on his temples. He felt he’d vomit soon.
‘Please be still
, Mr Richter.’
He tautened. This was another voice. It came from directly in front of him. Muffled though it was, it seemed familiar. He recognised in the slightly lilting elongation of the vowels the artificial, almost manufactured sweetness of a Russian speaking good English.
‘Please, no noise. You must be quiet. We will not hurt you. We will remove gag soon.’
The room was in fact quite quiet. Even the hiss of the fan in the electric fire could be heard. Closer to him he heard the creaking sound of the leather jacket belonging to the man behind him. As he struggled to move his chin he heard the leather creak again and sensed vaguely that the arm in the sleeve was tiring.
‘We need answers. You must promise to be quiet if I…’
The gag was pulled slightly forward as the words were spoken, allowing his tongue to move. He realized he was in no position to bargain and tried to nod. In fact, hands were searching his pockets. They found his wallet and his money. The gag having been moved, he could almost move his lips, but what concentrated his thoughts was the realization that his laptop was being opened.
‘So you have it – and money, yes? Bud’te liubeznyi, drug moi, i daite mne iskrennye otvety. Otkuda vy dostali etot, nu, vot, novyi material?’ He felt the movement of gloved fingers near his lips. The voice went on, speaking in fluent Russian: ‘I want honest answers, you understand. Where did you get it?’
His dry mouth and the pressure of the stranglehold on his neck made speech difficult. Before he could do more than lick his lips and try to get rid of the taste the voice went on speaking in Russian.
‘This morning you went to a restaurant. To a club. You met someone. But now I see you have money. What is it, four, five hundred pounds? You have an interesting new material, yes? I know you can translate our language, so I do not find it difficult to understand that you have been paid to translate it, yes? Am I right?’
He preferred to nod rather than speak.
‘But not very much. If this material contains important information that requires accurate translation, then this money is nothing! You have portativnyi. You will use it, will you?’
He began a quick run-through of likely identities. The Russian voice, he thought, must belong to a former colleague from RGD, where he had worked until a week ago. But he had never told anyone there that he had rented this flat. For the first time he felt frightened.
‘You see, we know very much.’ The voice had reverted to English. It contained a note of triumph laced with scorn. ‘You do not understand. Perhaps laptop contains nasty tricks, very nasty tricks.’
‘If you want my money, take it!’ he blurted out, his arms and legs struggling against the tapes.
‘The money, it is nothing, as I said,’ To emphasize the point the banknotes were flapped to and fro against his cheeks. ‘Oh, you disappoint me very much! You see, if it contains nasty tricks, then we can also play nasty tricks.’
The words were practically spat out, as if they were too distasteful for the speaker’s lips. Then the voice drew much closer and the fingers held his chin in a tight grip. It was all now in Russian, spoken very quietly hardly an inch from his face. He cringed from the sourness of the breath.
‘The international working class must always be on guard against lies and nasty tricks. Especially lies manufactured by agents of the international bourgeoisie. If what you have is what I think it is, then it belongs to the international working class. You see I think it contains valuable evidence of the work done at the beginning of our movement. You are ignorant, very ignorant, and I think you do not understand. But if you help us we will be kind. We will open it on your portativnyi, on what you call your laptop.’
‘There’s nothing on it,’ he managed to say.
‘We will wait and see, then. We will open it and see.’
His little Dell laptop gave the requisite bells and whistles. He heard the disc drive set up its purring sound once the keys had been pressed.
‘I tell you there’s nothing on it,’ he repeated.
‘Nothing, you say. Ah, I see. “Access only by password and code.” So you will help us, yes? What is password?’
He knew he could challenge the voice. ‘One condition,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Release me.’
‘Oh, no, Mr Richter. We can be nasty, you know, if you don’t help.’
‘I am helping the international working class by not revealing its secrets…’ He paused in the hope that this would seem ingratiating, even fraternal. When there was no reaction, he added for possible good measure: ‘By not revealing its secrets to a possible class enemy. In any case, as I said, there’s nothing on it.’
‘We are not enemies of working class,’ the voice announced in a suitably offended manner. ‘But you are class enemy, I think. For instance, you hit our most respected colleague.’
What the hell was he talking about? ‘Who?’
‘Comrade Potseluev.’
So that was it! Scythian Gold! The Russian restaurant. The encounter with The Kiss. He drew in his breath sharply.
‘Oh, you are violent, Mr Englishman! But we can be violent, too, if we wish. Now all we want is what belongs to us. Tell us password, tell us code. And tell us where you obtain the text. Povtoriaiu, otkuda vy dostali etot tekst? Please.’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
The strong fingers once more seized his jaw and jerked it. He gave a sharp cry of the kind a dentist’s drill might cause. ‘Tell me!’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
‘Oh, dear, oh, dear, you are not helpful.’ The voice grew soothing. ‘But we have some knowledge. We will take what belongs to working class and of course we will set you free. We will leave a mark, that is all.’
The chloroformed thing was pushed far back in his mouth. His chin was again jerked. It made him very angry and he struggled violently. He realized that the strain of holding his neck was beginning to tell on the man behind him. The breathing in the crash helmet grew louder and the grip looser. There was also some whispering from the other man.
‘Yes, yes…’
The hissed affirmatives seemed to indicate that the Russian voice was apparently acceding to whispers. The speaker was no longer close to Joe’s face. But before he had time to think what to do next his right arm was released by the tape being cut, only for it to be jerked up behind him in an agonising arm-lock while his left arm, though also freed, was pinned down firmly on the arm of the chair by the knee of the man who had been behind him. He tried to kick free and succeeded in making the tape round his legs seem looser. Then the pain in his right shoulder grew intense. He yelled through his gag and made some kind of strangled noise. Simultaneously he felt the left sleeve of his raincoat and shirt being drawn back. An injection, he thought, my God, an injection, they’re going to inject me! The thought brought him out in an instantaneous sweat.
He waited for the prick and the leap of fluid into a vein, the sense of total physical violation that he always experienced from injections. Then he felt his wristwatch being unclipped.
‘We are warning you. Do not play tricks.’
Again that soothing, accented voice speaking its lilting English. Joe stopped struggling. His eyes searched backwards and forwards, to and fro, behind the tape blindfold.
‘We leave mark. It will be hidden, but some of us will always know.’
What the hell? What mark?
‘It will be hard to remove. It will always tell us who you are.’
Something was pressed into the skin of the inner side of his arm, close to the inside of his wrist. At first the sensation was cold. He tried to withdraw his arm but it was held tightly, his left hand palm upwards, his inner wrist exposed. Then he felt a sharp burning. It was like a sensation he had experienced as a boy when a red-hot splinter of wood had sprung from the fire on to his bare arm. It had burned a patch on his skin that was there to this day. This time the sensation was as keen. He even thought he could smell his skin
burning. He struggled violently against whatever it was, trying to make as much noise as he could through the gag. To his astonishment the effort paid off. He suddenly found one leg free. He kicked out. The kick struck someone’s leg, probably on the shin, because there was a cry and then a command of ‘Out! Out!’
There was a pounding of running feet, but not another word spoken. Tearing the tape off his eyes and untangling his other leg from the loosened tape, he jumped out of the chair to see the back of a man in a dark blue leather jacket disappearing through the door. He rushed after him and was quick enough to stop the man trying to close the door behind him. But as he reached it he was still unable to bring his right arm properly round and his wrenched shoulder shot explosions of pain right across his back. He crashed against the frame of the door in time to stop it closing. The blue leather jacket was already going down the steep narrow stairway, apparently hobbling. Joe flung himself after him across the landing and by luck was able to kick him right between the shoulder blades and send him spinning down on to the landing below. As he did so he struck his right shoulder against a light switch on the wall. He grabbed at his shoulder with his left hand, groaning, trying to spit the foul-tasting gag out of his mouth. Standing at the head of the narrow stairway, he watched as one of the helmeted men seized the man in the blue jacket and hurried him down the wider stairs out of sight.
His shoulder throbbed. The pain of it took his breath away. He leaned against the wall and succeeded finally in spitting out the gag, but too late to shout. Surely, he thought, someone below, on the first floor or the ground floor where there were offices, must have heard something. Someone must have noticed something. But there was no sign of anything like that. Traffic noises from Courtier Street, muffled sounds of activity such as doors closing and scraps of conversation. Nothing else. He descended to the next landing and looked over the banister. All he could see was the narrow well of space between the descending stairs and what looked like refuse bins and black plastic bags stacked at the bottom, presumably on the basement floor. He could see no sign of movement, no faces peering upwards. He turned round and slowly retraced his footsteps up the narrow stairs, coming to a full stop by the open door to his flat.
Mr Frankenstein Page 1