Chapter 12
A crescent of pale sand stretched out before her; in the distance the blue ocean seemed to nibble against the beach as it held back the white breakers that carried the rolling energy from another continent. The air was filled with the cry of gulls as she skipped down the grassy dunes to the hard sand. The wind made the loose grains of sand scurry and slip. Each step she took made the sand squeak beneath her feet. She turned back to the headland beyond the dunes and caught sight of the white cottage, the tufts of sea grass waving in the wind... This was where she belonged – not that other place that she had never seen, had no ties to. This is where she could be happy.
It was now the gallop of white horses that caught her attention. She was transfixed by the sight as they raced along the shimmering silver beach. She tried to count them five, ten, fifteen? Where had they come from? Where were they going? They churned the shallows to foam with the pounding of their flashing hooves; their heads lifted showing the rhythmic wash of their manes, the ripple of muscle along their flanks. Their tails were held erect streaming behind in their turbulent wake. The scintillating spray lifting up against the blue sky, hazing the bright air which hung fresh and filled with the sharp tang of brine.
She was running now faster than she had ever run before and without the slightest effort. It was a moment of pure exhilaration. Her feet pushed her across the hard wet sand like a gazelle as she came closer to the waxing tide. There were pink and white shells, bleached by the sun as they lay glistening under a translucent iridescence of water. She danced over them as they exposed themselves to the sun winking up at her as if they were part of her joy. She ran faster and leapt over a gnarled and grey driftwood log that lay in rolling in the edge of the surf. Bounding forward her feet easily cleared the obstacle and then her feet skimmed over the sand an inch above the surface as she drove herself faster levitating by the force of her will. She was along side the horses now; the magnificent muscular creatures at once both powerful and yet delicately fragile. She held out her arms and catching the wind she lifted towards the blue horizon no longer tied to the ground... free at last she was flying. Soaring up into the clouds she danced with the gulls as if sharing some celestial joke.
In the darkness there were voices raised in a language she could not understand, coming from far far away. They pulled at her, grounding her again in the shadow of an unwanted reality. The sound of distant traffic, of children's play. Her cosmos was fading away, crystallising into harsh reality... No let me sleep, let me sleep.
"Wake up kid." A voice, a woman's voice, not a voice of anyone she knew. Let me sleep.
But they would not let her sleep. They pulled her from the soft warm cocoon of her bed and sat her in a chair, hard cold polished wood against her fragile limbs. She slumped, unable to support her own weight and they slapped her face, once, twice, left, right. "Sit up... Lift your arms."
What do you want? Who are you? But deep in the recesses of her brain she knew all too well who they were. They had come to kill her like they had killed Gregori.
A sweat-shirt was pulled over her head then threaded over her arms. She felt the bristled stroke of a stiff hair-brush as it pulled roughly across her scalp. Then a painful white light scorched her eyes as the blinds were lifted. "Hold this..." It was a newspaper, today's newspaper. She squinted at the page La Repubblica it said in thick black print. The cover held a large photo of a man with his head in his hands. His despair was displayed square on the front page, she didn't know him, she didn't care... the words were unreadable to her. "Hold it up like this..." Rough hands shifted her... She just wanted to sleep. "Open your eyes." Then the blinding pain of a camera's flash seared across her swimming synapses.
"Drink this..." A drinking straw was placed in her mouth... A milkshake maybe... She sucked greedily until the gurgling sound of dragging air told her there was no more. Then her sleeve was pulled up. A scratch, a sting. Heat flowing through her veins... It was dark again as the blinds were drawn. She could still hear the children's games outside; the rumble and sudden snarl of a motor bike as it tore up the street... A motor bike. She saw his face, the kind smile, the patience, the strong arms. Was it her father? Did he love her as much as she had grown to love him. Why had she never told him?
But she was flying again dancing with the gulls, circling the cottage, waving to her brother who looked up smiling... He was running after her but she was too fast in the air she laughed with bubbling joy, he could never catch her. But he was still alive still happy, she had always known that he could not really be dead, even through the mist of her tears. She knew he would never really leave her... Never... never... How could he? Then she found a soft cloud and lay her head against the comforting pillow of its warm embrace. It was peaceful as she swam into the darkness and found sleep.
The smell of distant cigarette smoke tickling against her nose roused her again. There was a flash of memory across the confusion. She tried to sit up but her limbs were not under her control. Sophie and Clémence the sound of the names rang in her ears as she dragged them from her memory.
They spoke French...She was blind...Her daughter pretty...As they stole her...From the city...
Which city? She remembered the toilets, the wheelchair... The panic before the peace came with a sting in her arm.
"Wake up Princess, its time to eat." She struggled to force her eyelids open. Soft light now from the feeble bedside lamp... the face a blur. "We need to keep you well, little one. You are worth a lot of money to us."
Natasha narrowed her eyes until the face resolved itself into a recognisable form.
"I know you..." The woman looked younger than she remembered but the features were unmistakable. "You are Sophie. You can see? Where's your daughter?" She struggled against the fog to remember the pretty woman's name...
"Clémence, that was it."
The words came out stubbornly, thick as if she spoke through a mouthful of half chewed bread. What does it mean when you don't recognise your own voice? She thought.
"Ha... Clémence was just a disarming distraction for your escort; she'll back on the streets of Marseille by now dressed in her Versace denim jacket and silk skirt plying her timeless trade. It's me you need to be concerned about but once this is over I will disappear forever and will not trouble you again. I mean you no harm little one."
Natasha could not make sense of the words any more than she could add two and two but slowly, drip by drip the memory of the morning came back... The cemetery with the sad sad woman, the flowers she left, then escaping the Mini... The breakfast... The breakfast! A sudden wave of panic took hold of her and she started to tremble. "I want Valentina..." She said through a burst of tears. Then someone else entered through the half open door, the presence heavy in the room seemed to crush her.
"I'll take over now." He said, the voice was familiar, the accent somehow hateful to her ears. As his masked face swam into focus she thought she recognised him, his vicious eyes. What is his name? I know it.
"Chicken soup, eat up Natasha."
A white mug, thick rimmed was pressed to her lips, the taste salty, savoury. She took it cupped in both hands and she drank greedily. It was good, she was so hungry. She chewed the small pieces of soft white flesh and sucked the nourishment from the mug. How long since I have eaten? Not since the cottage in the Camargue by the ocean... She thought from the depth of her wavering delirium. The mug was empty now, the steam still rising from the drained vessel curled into the chill night as she held it in her hands warming, comforting. Her eyes lifted again and saw his face, and she knew him and now she could name him. It truly was the Devil...
"I know you... " She whispered. "Have you come for me?" She asked more in dread than hope.
…
In Sachovia the rebel uprising was sending deep shivers of disquiet across the country. It was not only the government headed by Boris Koch that could feel the shift in popular sentiment in favour of the rebels but the official opposition party headed by Adam Prochni
ak also now saw the future through the prism of existential despair. For Boris Koch who's army was balanced precariously on the edge of outright mutiny, the future could only be salvaged by swiftly uniting the country under a new monarchy. Rescuing Natasha Kashinka was his only focus now.
Natasha's photograph was sent from a disposable phone which already lay crushed beyond salvation in the filth of a septic tank. One copy to Adam Prochniak in the interests of fairness, one copy to Boris Koch in the expectation of a considerable prize. The recipients had 24 hours to respond with an offer or Natasha Kashinka would be withdrawn from sale. What would happen to her then was not specified.
Koch sank into the soft leather of chair with a creak that he suspected came from his ageing bones rather than the plumply buttoned red leather. A laptop lay open on his desk bathing his face in a blue glow. The image of Natasha holding today's Italian newspaper scowled at him from the bright screen. He pressed his intercom: Karin... Will you ask Vladimir Koratov to come to my office. It is a matter of some urgency."
Vladimir's office was just along the tiled corridor. The walk would take the finance minister maybe 30 seconds. Boris watched the sweeping hand of his watch tick the seconds away. After one minute and 10 seconds a faint smile settled on his face as a dapper man, dressed in a sharply tailored grey suit, tapped and entered Boris Koch's office. He carefully closed the heavy ornately carved doors and turned back to face his Prime Minister.
"What kept you" A look of consternation flashed across Koratov's face.
"I'm sorry... I..."
"Only joking Vladimir, come and take a seat. At times like these we need to maintain our senses of humour."
"Is there a problem Boris?"
Despite the attempt at levity, the Prime Minister looked drawn. The last years had rather aged him and he had been transformed from a vigorous wrestler of a man with barrel chest and powerful arms into a greyed shadow of his former self.
"The child has been kidnapped." He said. Koratov paced forward in short almost feminine steps that might have belonged to Karin.
"What?... I thought all the arrangements were in place for her secure delivery."
"So did I Vladimir... Come sit down. I need some advice. Will you take a drink?"
Even with Koch slumped in his seat Vladimir felt the man's heavy shadow fall over him. He offered his Prime Minister a delicate smile.
"It may be wise to keep our wits sharp Prime Minister until we have resolved our response to this crisis." Vladimir sat, legs crossed, hands in his lap, what he lacked in physicality he made up for with the sharpness of his mind and the acuity of his near photographic memory. A memory he sometimes wished would desert him... He had seen things in his fifty years, particularly the war years, that no man with his delicate sensibilities should have to remember.
"You may be right Vladimir we'll hold the drink until later... I received this email not ten minutes ago." He turned the computer screen towards Koratov who peered at the screen over the rims of his glasses.
"You are certain this is genuine?"
"Always suspicious Vladimir, its why I keep you close... It's certainly an image of Natasha Kashinka, I have a portfolio of her pictures sent from one of my agents... I believe you know Valentina Gussev, a formidable agent during the war."
Koratov nodded, the Gussev name was familiar to him.
"It was Valentina Gussev who discovered Gregori Kashinka and his little sister I understand Prime Minister."
"She was too late to save Gregori but she took Natasha under her wing and has kept her safe until now."
"I wonder if you see the hand of Adam Prochniak directing the child's kidnapping."
"It's a possibility but not one that persuades me; he needs to appear squeaky clean to the voters if he wants to take my job. I believe this is just a criminal act with the intention of reaping a windfall of money."
"I find myself troubled by the prospect of negotiating with these kidnappers whoever they are. We might consider them terrorists... In that light is it wise to negotiate with terrorists?"
"That is a familiar and overused chant the West uses for it's own political justifications. I take a more pragmatic approach, indeed I could argue that buying our way out of this situation is by far our best option. We may be able to save the girl and restore the Monarchy at a very modest cost, far less than if Sachovia were dragged back into another tragic war."
Vladimir Koratov nodded, he knew when it was best to avoid clashing views with Boris Koch. Over the past weeks as it became apparent that the rebels were starting to acquire heavy weaponry, Koch had been attempting to negotiate a rapprochement with the opposition leader. He had suggested, despite the distaste such negotiations incurred, that they might work together in an attempt to quash the uprising. Of course they still stood poles apart on the monarchy issue but if the country were to be destroyed by another war then neither of their causes would benefit.
"So Vladimir... We need to make an offer. What sort of figure do you think would satisfy these criminals without over-troubling our coffers?"
"I'll need to take some advice on that Prime Minister..."
"Very well, report back within the hour with a recommendation will you Vladimir. Time is not on our side if we are to save the girl and the monarchy."
Boris Koch watched as his finance minister withdrew to consider the prospective negotiations. In the distance he could already hear the sickeningly familiar sound of artillery as his reluctant army pounded at the rebel positions. He could feel his dreams starting to run through his fingers like a river of sand but he was not ready to give up on them yet.
The Midnight Falcon Page 12