by Chris Simms
‘Hello, this is a recorded message. The admissions office of the Royal Liverpool University Hospital is now closed. We open again at nine o’clock in the morning. If you wish to leave a message, please do so after the tone.’
As soon as the beep ended, Alice began to speak. ‘This is a message for Yulia Volkova. It’s Alice Spicer speaking, from RAP in Manchester. Yulia, I think I’ve found out her name. She’s called Amira. Call me when you get this message.’
Twenty-Eight
‘Valeri?’ Jon asked incredulously.
Mueller raised a finger. ‘You want to tell him he’s got a woman’s name?’
Smiling, Soutar opened the file. ‘This information comes from multiple sources, and some of that provided by the Russian security services is open to question. However, we know this much.’ He laid his hands to either side of the printed sheets. ‘Valeri Salnikov served in the regular Russian army for less than three years before he was selected to join Spetsnaz. I presume you’ve heard of this part of their armed forces?’
‘They’re like the SAS, aren’t they?’ Rick asked.
‘Essentially. Spetsialnoye Nazranie, or troops of special purpose, were a closely guarded secret for many years. When Salnikov joined in the early eighties, we think they numbered about thirty thousand. Their primary, wartime role, includes deep reconnais- sance of key targets and the demolition of strategic points such as bridges. We believe Salnikov went into an anti-VIP company whose specialist role was to seek out and kill important political and military leaders.’
Mueller grunted. ‘Assassinations.’
Jon glanced at Rick. ‘The garrotte.’
‘That’s one technique,’ the American answered. ‘And highly effective, too. Apparently Salnikov was deployed to Chechnya where he was busy using his favoured technique before being captured. We’re unsure of his whereabouts for the next few years – but it seems he spent some time as a prisoner of the Chechnyans. As payback, they used the garrotte on him, repeatedly. But they were careful to never quite kill him.’
‘The scars covering his throat,’ Rick said.
‘That’s right. We’re not sure how or when he escaped. But to survive what he did – well, he’s a tough cookie.’ Mueller tapped a finger against his temple. ‘Though I think a few wires have come loose, if you know what I’m saying.’
Soutar turned a couple of pages. ‘Then came the nineties. The coup in Russia and its period of economic decline. Like the rest of the country, the special forces faced crisis. Neglected, underpaid – and soon demoralised. Salnikov left to use his skills in the private sector. Many members of Spetsnaz did. He knows explosives, communications, surveillance, close combat. He’s been taught other languages, including English. And he’s been trained in the use of just about every type of firearm on the planet. He’s ice-cold under extreme pressure and he’s clever.’
‘You heard of the System?’ D’Souza suddenly asked, placing his forearms on his knees and looking directly at Jon.
‘No.’
‘It’s a Russian martial art. But there’s no rituals, no belts, none of that stuff. It’s more like organised street fighting. Close-range style, using wrestling manoeuvres, elbow strikes, kicks to the knee joint, quick fists to the face or genitals, choke holds. Anything goes – pulling hair, if it helps.’
‘He’s trained in that?’
‘Anyone who made it into Spetsnaz had to go up against a series of three or four soldiers who were already in – and they had to still be standing after twelve minutes of combat. You just wouldn’t get that in any Western army: it would be banned. Hospitalisations, the occasional death. Salnikov, we gather, excelled.’
Soutar flipped another page. ‘After leaving Spetsnaz, we think he worked as a bodyguard for senior executives in one of the country’s newly formed private oil companies. There’s evidence he started spending a lot of time in Iraq from the mid-nineties onward. Russian oil companies had extensive agreements with Saddam Hussein’s regime.’
‘Until the invasion,’ Rick said, a smile of understanding on his face. ‘Then they’re all booted out and the likes of Shell, Exxon and BP come in. I’ve read about this. What are they trying to call the contracts? Technical service agreements, that’s it.’
Soutar nodded. ‘The Russians leave. But Salnikov doesn’t.’
‘So who did he start working for next?’ Rick asked.
‘We’ve linked him to several assassinations of prominent figures in the new Iraqi administration.’
‘What sort of figures?’
‘A couple of Shia politicians. A Kurdish business leader.’
‘So, he’s working with the Sunnis?’ Rick asked. ‘Remnants of the old regime. Trying to destabilise things?’
‘He’s certainly got those connections. Maybe he was at first. But we believe he’ll work for whoever is prepared to pay enough for his services.’
‘Plus,’ D’Souza said darkly, ‘he’s implicated in a roadside bomb in Baghdad that killed three US marines.’
Jon pictured crowded, dusty streets, flanked by breeze-block houses baking under a merciless sun. Churning, oily smoke and the mangled remains of military vehicles. ‘And now he’s bringing that carnage here.’ Jon’s voice was quiet. ‘My God.’
‘So you see,’ Mueller sighed. ‘We want him pretty bad.’
Jon frowned, turning to Soutar. ‘Isn’t this a British investigation?’
Soutar looked at his CIA counterpart. ‘There are agreements in place between our governments.’
‘Don’t tell me, if we catch him, he’ll be rendered, too?’ Jon said accusingly.
‘He’ll be taken into our custody, yes,’ Mueller responded, looking embarrassed.
‘And then where will he go?’
Mueller shrugged. ‘I’m unable to say.’
Jon blew out breath. ‘This is so wrong. If we catch him, it’s on our soil. I can’t believe we’ll simply hand him over.’
‘To vanish into some black prison in Eastern Europe,’ Rick added.
Jon turned his head. ‘Black what?’
‘CIA interrogation facilities. They’ve got them dotted around the world. Countries where the regimes aren’t quite so accountable.’ He looked at the CIA agents. ‘I’ve read about them, too.’
‘Seems you read a lot,’ D’Souza replied, lips barely moving.
‘Enough to know the invasion would never have taken place if Iraq’s main export was carrots,’ Rick retorted.
‘Hey.’ D’Souza’s grin was cold. ‘Britain stood shoulder to shoulder with us, remember? So don’t start lecturing me, Detective.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Buchanon cut in, flashing Rick a warning look. ‘Agents Mueller and D’Souza are our guests here. And if it’s been decided he goes into US custody, he goes into US custody.’ He looked at Soutar. ‘This has all been cleared for tomorrow?’
‘It has,’ Soutar replied, closing the file.
‘Any other assistance we can give, please say.’
‘Thank you.’ The MI5 officer glanced at the door. ‘Is there a lavatory I can use?’
‘Yes. Rick, could you show Officer Soutar?’ Buchanon got up and extended a hand to Mueller and D’Souza. ‘I have some other matters I need to deal with. Pleased to meet you. And good luck.’ He paused in the doorway to glance at Rick and Jon. ‘Gents, my office, eight thirty tomorrow, please.’
Rick followed him out, Soutar just behind.
Mueller sat back and began to jiggle one knee up and down. ‘Listen, I’d be pissed off, too. You Brits have stuck by us. How our government’s playing things – well, it’s no way to treat an ally.’
‘Yeah, well. Seems we can’t do much about it.’
‘We’ve been reading your file.’ This from D’Souza. Jon paused in the act of getting up.
The agent chuckled. ‘Those boys in MI5 were getting pretty damned pissed with you.’
‘Really.’ Jon sat back down. ‘They never said.’
D’Souza grinned at his sarcastic tone. ‘I see you cap
tained Greater Manchester Police’s rugby team. Open-side flanker.’
‘Yup,’ Jon replied warily, wondering how much the other man had read about him. ‘You know about rugby?’
D’Souza nodded. ‘As a student, I played for the Keelhaulers.’
‘The who?’
‘I went to the Californian Maritime Academy, part of the State University. The student rugby team’s known as the Keelhaulers.’
‘I thought it was all basketball and baseball over there.’
‘Mostly, but rugby gets a bit of a following, too. Not much of one, granted. But there are leagues and competitions. We won the Pacific Coast Championship.’
‘Good to hear.’ Jon leaned back in his seat. He assessed the other man. Too small for a forward. ‘What position were you?’
‘Scrum half.’
That figures, thought Jon. Nasty little terrier’s position. Sniping at gaps, snapping at heels. Not ready to give the man any credit, he sighed. ‘Out with the girly backs.’
The American stared for a moment then gave a mock salute. ‘The girly backs. Not doing the . . . what do they call it? The hard yakkas you forwards do.’
Hard yakkas. Jon grinned at the Australian term for winning ground in the opposition’s territory, every inch bitterly fought. ‘That’s them.’
‘Well, you’ve been doing the hard yakkas up here, too,’ D’Souza responded, looking across at the closed door and lowering his voice. ‘I realise Soutar’s a bit abrasive. Touch of the officer class about him.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
Mueller spoke up. ‘You’ve been making things happen up here. You’ve got the ground-level knowledge we need.’ He removed a business card. ‘The number of my cell is on that. If you hear anything, call me. It won’t go ignored, trust me.’
Jon took the card, grateful to be acknowledged at last. ‘OK, cheers.’
‘And Jon?’ Mueller’s face was now deadly serious. ‘This Salnikov? Looks to me you can take care of yourself, and I know you’ve worked some tough cases, taken down some very bad guys. But he’s not the same. Did we stress that enough just now?’
‘You did.’
‘Good. You went after him – which took balls. But,’ he shook his head, ‘there’s only one way to deal with this guy. And that’s from a safe distance.’ He raised one hand and pulled an imaginary trigger.
‘He’ll be shot?’
‘We want to question him, but once he realises he’s trapped, I can’t see it ending any other way. Someone like Salnikov? He doesn’t do prison – especially after what happened to him in Chechnya. He’d rather go down fighting.’
Jon glanced at the men’s jackets, wondering what might be concealed beneath them.
After showing the three men out, Jon stood on the top step. Time to head home. An image of his front door appeared in his head and he quickly snuffed it out. Rick’s sofa, he thought. That’s where you’re sleeping tonight. He remembered his colleague’s comments about Alice involving her solicitor. Taking in a breath, he wandered across to his Mondeo. Once inside, he removed his phone, stared at it for a minute then keyed in Alice’s number. ‘It’s me.’
‘Oh. What do you want?’
Her voice sounded so clear. He closed his eyes and imagined looking at her. She was probably sitting at a slight angle on the sofa in the telly room, legs curled beneath her. Bare feet, tracksuit bottoms and her faded pink training top that was beginning to fray at the neck. What she always wore when just sitting around in the evenings. He gazed out the window. A row of dark vehicles stared back. ‘Is he there?’
‘No. What do you want?’
‘Don’t do this, Ali. Don’t involve a solicitor in this.’
‘Jon, there’s no point in trying to discuss with you—’
‘There is. We can sort this out.’
‘We’ve gone over all this before,’ she sighed. ‘It’s pointless.’
‘You want me to change. I will change.’
‘You can’t change.’
‘Give me a chance. I’ll show you.’
‘It’s not in your nature. You’re incapable of changing.’
‘I’ve said, I’ll give up the job, if that’s what it takes. Maybe if I was in something less intense. Dealing with murders; it takes over.’
‘Jon, you are that job. It’s like oxygen to you.’
‘No. You and Holly – you’re my oxygen. You two.’
‘Jon.’ Her voice had softened a fraction. ‘It’s not just the job. It’s about your need to battle – to fix something in your sights and defeat it. You’ll be doing that no matter what you do. At least in the police, it works to your advantage. I don’t want you to leave it – it suits you down to the ground.’
‘I don’t need to be battling things.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Well, you’re wrong.’
She snorted. ‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘I’m . . .’ Shit, he thought. She’s got me.
‘I just want a normal life, Jon. A husband who I know will be there.’
‘I’m there for you. I’ll always be there for you. If you ever need me, you know that.’
‘You weren’t!’ Cracks had appeared in her voice. ‘When I was in that hospital. You weren’t there, were you? Trying not to let Holly see my . . .’
‘Alice.’ He closed his eyes again. Here we are again, he thought. Back at the one thing I can never put right. He imagined his wife in that airless room when the sonographer said their unborn baby was dead. Holly sitting in the corner, wondering why Mummy suddenly couldn’t speak. ‘If I could change anything, you know that would be it.’
‘You left me on my own in there.’
‘You know there wasn’t anything I could do.’
‘I know.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘The job puts you in these positions. I know that.’ She sniffed. ‘I’m talking everyday things, too. Watching the telly. Shopping. Boring stuff.’
‘And you get that with Braithwaite?’
‘I get routine. He works ordinary times of the day. Things are . . . they’re normal.’
‘Slumped in front of the box, your life slowly ebbing away. Since when have you gone for dull?’
‘Not dull. Normal. There’s a difference. We’re able to plan things – even just going for walks, I’m not always dreading that phone call. You, working late, working weekends. “Alice? I’ve got a runner. Not sure when I’ll be back.” How many times have I heard that? How many times have I had to try and cheer Holly up when Daddy does another no-show?’
‘So you get normality. Great. Do you love him?’
‘He’s kind. He considers others – anyway, I’m not answering your questions. Do you love Carmel?’
‘We’re not seeing each other any more.’
A second’s silence. ‘Why?’
‘It just wasn’t working. I love you, Alice.’
‘Forget about me. We need to move on with our lives.’
‘It’s not only our lives though, is it? Think about Holly.’
‘I am thinking about Holly! Thinking about Holly is why I asked you to leave.’
‘And now look at her.’
‘What?’
You know what, he thought. I can hear it in your voice. ‘Look at her, Alice. This has turned her life upside down.’
‘She has routine. A solid base. Two people who she knows will be there for her.’
Jon felt the bile at the back of his throat. ‘He’s not her dad. He can never be her dad.’
‘So that’s your justification for stalking him, is it? You know what? She actually gets to see him! He reads her bedtime stories. So don’t you bloody dare try and use Holly in this.’
‘Use her? How am I using her?’ He heard the anger beginning to infect his voice, too. ‘You’re not thinking of her interests. This thing is wrecking her!’
‘Don’t you raise your voice at me!’
&n
bsp; ‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not wrecking – I’m not getting into this.’
‘Yes, you are. Admit it. Holly is . . .’ He paused. The line had clicked and he moved the phone away from his ear to see the screen. Don’t you hang up on me. He pressed redial. Engaged tone. Fuck! He threw the phone onto the seat beside him and started slamming the heels of his hands against the steering wheel.
Once the anger had subsided a little, he sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples. Why? Why are we unable to talk this through? He tried to replay the conversation in his head, vainly attempting to work out the point it had flared into an argument. Too many issues. This whole thing with us is a bloody minefield.
Back up in the incident room, the syndicate on night cover were gathered in one corner watching a football match playing out on a little TV.
On the opposite side of the room, Rick was at his desk, eyes roving over the screen of his computer monitor. The light was off in Buchanon’s office. Jon looked at his watch. Almost ten. He sauntered over to Rick. ‘You not got a home to go to, either?’
His partner glanced up. ‘Ha bloody ha. You drove me in this morning, remember?’
‘Oh, yes. Tell you what; I’ll give you a lift if I can crash on your sofa again.’
‘No problem.’ He clicked through to a new screen.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Stuff about those missing billions of dollars.’
‘Yeah?’ Jon drew up a seat. ‘What does it say?’
‘The figures are incredible.’ He flashed Jon a quick grin.
‘Makes the eight hundred and fifty million tossed from the Lesya seem like peanuts.’
Jon placed a hand over his eyes. ‘Don’t. You realise when that gets round this place, we’ll have the piss ripped out of us for months?’
Rick was scrutinising the screen. ‘Once the Americans were in control, Lukoil, the Russian oil company, was given the heave-ho. The US administration is now pushing for Production Sharing Agreements to be given to five Western oil companies. Basically, they’re no-bid contracts giving access to Iraq’s largest oil fields for a thirty-year period. Elements in the Iraqi parliament are desperately trying to oppose them.’