“Yes Papa,” he promised aloud, “I will complete my chores and better myself.” He unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the sleeve back over the grime and rubbed his watch glass; the smooth, domed surface always made him smile; transporting him back to Amsterdam. He had only been pimping back then, when opportunity had presented itself. How the American tourist had begged and pleaded. But showing mercy to your enemy disrespects him. Sun Tzu understood that. So, once he had taken the man’s watch and sneered at his flabby white body, he’d brought the knife easily to flesh.
In the shower he mentally relived the scene, enjoying the steady throbbing between his legs. The way the fat American had collapsed on the floor, squealing, oozing blood across the pale carpet. It was all so vivid, so alive. The frozen horror on the girl’s face, making her gleam like an angel; like a religious statue. He sucked in the shower steam, felt it hot in his lungs as his memory wound on. That sense of absolute power as he’d fucked the girl on the bed, oblivious as to whether the man lived or died beside them on the floor. At that moment he had become a god, made in his own image.
He tilted his face to let the suds run down the length of his body and squirted shampoo around his pubic hair. Water spattered off his erection as he closed his eyes, moving his hand, slowly, teasingly downwards. Images of girls — so many girls, willing and unwilling — danced around him in a kaleidoscope of pleasure. Yes, Yorgi; yes. Now, as his hand found rhythm, the images were interspersed with the flashbacks of violence — the heavy certainty of the trigger or the knife handle. Pleasure and pain; pain and pleasure. At the point of orgasm he dug his nails hard into his penis, sending a delicious chord of agony and ecstasy through his body. When the pulses of semen had stopped, he relaxed his grip and gazed down at the savage marks on his flesh, like the bite of an animal.
He finished his shower and shaved, adding cologne to sting his face awake. A pair of trousers and shirt that had been hanging up for days gave him a respectable and inconspicuous air. He put the watch back on and checked the time: seven o’clock. Time to gather his things — the old clothes he would dump; another skin shed. A charity shop would meet his needs for the time being. He’d paid cash in advance for this hovel so no one should be visiting for at least another two weeks. By then, Mr Svenson — the name he’d given to the greedy bastard who’d made £500 out of him — would be long gone.
At Victoria station he stashed his bag and walked away with only a small carrier, stuffed in one side of his coat. He kept the silencer in the other pocket. He knew that the van driver, Dechevez, was in a private room on the third floor. But beyond that he knew nothing more than when he’d first encountered him at Harwich. Then, it had been a warning. Now, a permanent resolution was required. That it concerned politics was of no interest to him. Politics, he considered as he passed the hospital signs, was just another business — profit, loss and opportunity. Dechevez — whoever he was — was simply no longer profitable to someone.
* * *
Yorgi slipped through the open door at the side of the hospital and went straight to the basement. The stifling heat and the noise of the boiler took him back to his time at sea, stoking the engines and avoiding the attentions of the drunken louts who liked to use young boys as playthings. He remembered hiding behind the hottest pipes, risking a scalding rather than something far worse.
He went deeper into the hospital basement catacombs and pressed a hand to the boiler pipe, resting it there until it felt like the paint was searing his skin. A sharp reminder of what he had endured. His ears picked out the shuffling gait ahead of him and the squeak of the trolley. He hid in the shadows and fitted the silencer.
The cleaner shuffled past then stopped, just beyond the alcove. He let go of his trolley, paused and turned. Yorgi stepped out of the shadows like a panther, closing on his victim like the predator he was. Yorgi thought, for an instant, that the look of dread hinted at some kind of recognition. The idea amused him — that this was one of the people he’d trafficked to freedom, only to come back and claim him when the situation required. He levelled the weapon, surprised to hear a native tongue.
Sun Tzu wrote of turning every situation to one’s advantage by reading the signs and acting accordingly. Yorgi believed knowledge was nothing unless it was tested in practice. He made the cleaner take off his overalls; promised him mercy as long as he didn’t piss them in fear; a promise Yorgi had no intention of keeping, especially since they may have met before. The man stood before him in his underpants and vest, weight sagged forward a little, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Yorgi smiled and the man relaxed a little, smiling back. The first shot to the head — hygienic and efficient; the second, to the heart — just because he could.
He dumped the body in a laundry trolley and wheeled it out of sight. Only then did he change into the uniform; the overalls were baggy enough to fit over his clothes — a bonus, as was the ID card. When Yorgi smelt a foreign sweat against his clothes and skin, he felt a sense of transformation, as if he now inhabited the dead man’s shell, claiming him. His mimicked accent might have sufficed to get to Dechevez, but this new persona offered a better disguise. Small matter that the photo bore little resemblance to him. A cleaning trolley and a hangdog expression would grant him anonymity, and people would see whatever they expected to see.
He exited the lift at the third floor. The air reeked of sickness and disinfectant; the heat smothered him like a blanket. He pushed his watch up his sleeve and wiped the tiny beads of sweat from his face. He started mopping along the corridor, head down, humming softly. The latex gloves were a little loose and he knew that later they would make his skin itch. But it was a minor inconvenience.
As the dry linoleum retreated and the room numbers counted down, he felt the thrill of anticipation and his erection pressing tightly beneath the overalls. He looked into the distance at the Asian nurse who was bent over, reading, and thought about what he’d like to do to her. He watched her for at least a minute until she looked up and gave a nonchalant wave in his direction. He responded in kind then furtively felt for the bulge through his pocket.
When she moved out of sight, he pushed the trolley closer and peered through the door-glass for the first time. Dechevez was there, sleeping like an innocent. Yorgi leered at him, his teeth reflecting in the glass like fangs. He turned towards the trolley and drew out the gun, keeping it at his blindside.
He waited, head down, watching as the pretty nurse picked up a folder and left his field of vision again. Barely breathing, he reached for the cylindrical door handle in small, precise movements. He felt the handle give way and the door ease in. Heat wafted around his face. He remembered then, as a young boy, his father coming into his room; stealthy, loving and unannounced. He always looked forward to those goodnights, but could never stay awake to catch him no matter how hard he tried. He would just open his eyes and Papa would be there, like Santa Claus, at the edge of his bed.
Dechevez sighed softly. Yorgi heard his father’s voice again: ‘Sleep well, Yorgi; you are my good boy.’ His eyes glistened as he squeezed the trigger, his lips forming the words: ‘I love you, Papa.’ Dechevez’s body twitched against the pillow and the blood seeped down the side of the bed, pooling on the lino.
Yorgi fired again, just to see the head jerk a second time, like one of Papa’s wooden puppets. He hummed as he closed the door, carefully spraying polish over the aluminium handle and door plate and wiping it tenderly. Then he collected up his cleaning implements, pushed the trolley round to the lift and left it there. As he headed for the stairwell he heard the lift door ping behind him and a murmur of voices carried along the corridor. He removed the ID card from his jacket, looked at the name and whispered his thanks to the original owner.
Outside, he acknowledged the other cleaning staff gathered by a side door to smoke. He declined their offer to join them and muttered ‘newspaper,’ waving casually behind him as he reached the corner. He removed his overalls in the nearby public toilets and packed them
into a carrier bag, ready for the nearest recycling bin. The ID he would keep — a souvenir of his own inventiveness. He felt for the watch underneath his overall sleeve; it was time to settle things with Petrov. And for that he’d need a vehicle.
Chapter 23
“Tommo, we got us a situation.”
Thomas watched himself in the café mirror as he answered the phone, staring back in dismay; he looked rough. “I’m listening, Karl.”
“I’ve located the hospital, but it’s bad news; two dead — professional hits. One’s our shooting victim from the docks — Dechevez — and the other's a cleaner. The police haven’t found a connection between them yet and we’re trying to keep a lid on things until they do.” Karl’s voice was unemotional; he could have been reading from a script. “The cleaner was Yugoslavian or . . . something Eastern European. I guess he’d be a former Yugoslavian now.” Karl had probably rehearsed that line.
“What’s the plan, then?”
Karl didn’t respond immediately. “There’s something else. I’m sorry, Tommo. There was a fire in South London, where you did the home visit.”
Thomas caught his reflection, nodding needlessly.
“The house is completely gutted, apparently. I don’t see how anyone could have got out of there alive,” the line went quiet.
Thomas let out a gasp. “It’s okay, Karl. I’ve got them! Petrov rang me — I put the family somewhere safe. This is down to Yorgi, isn’t it?”
Karl ignored the question and let out a whoop of joy. And then it hit Thomas like a smack in the face; he’d done something amazing. He touched his neck where the crucifix chain used to rub, back when he’d worn it to please his mother.
“Are you still there, Tommo? Wherever they are, they’re not safe; we need to bring them in.”
Now came the familiar dilemma: to trust or not to trust.
Karl wouldn’t wait. “Are you there? Listen to me. Yorgi is a Grade A psychopath. I’ve seen the file. If he’s killed twice today, he’s probably tying up all loose ends.”
Thomas felt a creeping sense of doom. “But I told Petrov not to call anyone.”
“Come on now — where did you take them?”
“Near Paddington — I cut through the City to save time.”
“No!” Karl wailed, “Central London — the congestion charge; there are vehicle recognition cameras everywhere.”
“I don’t understand. If Yorgi’s working alone . . .”
“That’s just it, Tommo. These people are pros — they’ll have connections. You better give me the details and pray Yorgi hasn’t got to them first.”
Thomas threw some money down on the counter — the way they do in films — and ran back to the hotel. Thank Christ he hadn’t driven off anywhere. He pushed the glass door, ignored the night porter and made straight for the stairs. He took them two at a time, rounding the final flight at the Fifth Floor, and slammed through the fire door. Left hand corridor, down towards the end. He knocked politely then thought better of it, banging with his fist. “It’s Thomas, open the bloody door.” He stepped back and sized it up; it looked tougher than he did.
“Alright, alright; you’ll wake Lukas,” Petrov scolded him. The door unbolted and then the latch turned — at least they’d done something right.
Thomas pushed his way in; Alexandra lifted her head from the sofa. “We couldn’t sleep so we watched television. Too much has happened; tell him, Petrov,” she looked daggers at her husband.
Petrov carefully closed the door then slicked back his hair with his fingers. “I over-reacted, made a mistake. Yorgi telephoned on my mobile and apologised. He wants to make amends, to drive over and collect us, but this Alexandra does not want.”
“Your house was burned down,” Thomas blurted it out in one breath. No warning, no preamble; no point.
Petrov pressed a hand to his forehead and staggered to a chair. “How?”
Alexandra didn’t say a word. She ran to a side room, where Thomas figured Lukas was sleeping.
He was glad she’d left the room; it made things easier. He stood over Petrov. “The fire was deliberate and Yorgi’s killed two people today.” And there was something about Petrov’s face; a knowing look in the eyes that told Thomas this wasn’t the first time. “Does Yorgi know where you are?” He felt his legs start to tremble. “We have to go, now.”
Petrov leapt to his feet. “Is impossible. My wife needs to sleep. Besides, I have told him nothing. He does not know where to find us.” He held up his mobile phone as if it was the evidence that would clear him.
The green light shone out to Thomas like a taunt. Oh Jesus: the mobile. As traceable as a number plate, with the right equipment. “When did he ring you?”
“About ten minutes after you left.”
Thomas’s mind raced through the maths. Ten minutes, plus fifteen minutes or so, equals thirty minutes max; plenty of time to be on the move. And if Yorgi could access information on the hoof . . . shit. “Get up,” he snarled. “We’re leaving.”
Petrov’s mobile rang; they both just stared at it. Thomas’s senses went into overdrive; his first instinct was to grab the knife on the room service tray. Futile in itself, but a sign of how scared he was. His breath came in shallow bursts. Think Thomas, think. He grabbed Petrov’s mobile and switched it off with a strangle hold. Reality kicked in: get out, go to ground and rely on Karl. He clicked his fingers at Petrov and pointed to the side room. Next, he turned the TV off and rang Karl.
“I’m organising a team, Tommo. In the meantime you’ll have to improvise.”
Improvise? Thomas felt the sweat trickle down his back. He gave Petrov another few seconds, mainly to avoid arguing with him. The bedroom door opened, and the family was ready to leave. They looked at him the same way they’d done at the house — as if he had all the answers. He tried to draw strength from that.
“Right,” he held up a hand, as if he might grasp a passing plan, “got it. Here’s how we do it. Petrov, you go alone. Alexandra, you take the boy. Yorgi is expecting three people together. Petrov — swap jackets with me; quickly.”
It was bollocks, but it was a start. It gave them something to cling to; the delusion that he knew what he was doing. He and Petrov emptied out personal belongings and made the switch. Now came the tricky part.
He unlocked the door. An inch open and all he could hear was his own breathing and the television from next door. He emerged slowly, signalling for them to follow. But at the turn in the corridor, he had a flash of inspiration. “Stay in the room until the bells start.”
Alexandra narrowed her eyes. “What bells?”
He blinked twice and ushered them away. “Just be ready.”
He ran to the fire alarm and punched it hard, harder than needed. The sting in his knuckles felt good though; it seemed to sharpen his senses. He heard the alarm echo along the corridor; guest doors opened at random and a few simply closed again straight away. Stupid bastards.
Petrov and Alexandra wasted no time in joining the throng on the stairway. Thomas timed it and fell in close behind. He tapped Petrov’s shoulder at the last landing so that he could pass him. Alexandra had already slowed up by the fire door, with the child in her arms. She looked lost.
He gently grabbed her elbow and steered her out into the street. The police were already in attendance — maybe Karl’s doing, he couldn’t be certain. He told Alexandra to stand by the police car. Petrov, if he’d kept to the plan, should be making himself invisible. Only Thomas — wearing Petrov’s jacket — walked around slowly as if dazed by the chaos around him. He took his mobile out casually and hit the speed-dial. Now, Karl.
“I’ll be on-site in ten minutes, max. I got some of the boys in blue to help out. Stay in the crowd, Tommo. Believe me, Yorgi is out there somewhere. Be safe.”
Thomas didn’t feel brave now, or clever; he just felt sick to his stomach. Like he was in one of those nature programmes where the gazelle stands around waiting for the lion to strike. This was insan
e. Easy, Thomas, just drift away from Alexandra; find a different policeman and ask some stupid questions. Anything to let Yorgi see that Petrov was smart enough to stay out of harm’s way.
The police officer brushed him off and took a call on his radio, so much for Plan A. He listened without being obvious — something about sending everyone back in again. A firefighter approached, with a face like thunder.
“Some twat set off the alarm. We’ve scoured the ground floor upwards, just waiting on the basement. I’ll give you a shout when the Incident Controller gives the okay to return.”
This was where the plan unravelled. Still no Karl, and Petrov out there in the crowd — no doubt keeping an eye on Alexandra even though Thomas had told him to stay clear. They were bound to go in together, which pretty much defeated the object. He couldn’t keep them out on their own, in the open; couldn’t get them away, as his car was around the block. In short, screwed from all angles. He could slug the copper to create a bit of a commotion? Think again; the guy didn’t look as if he took any prisoners — maybe trigger a car alarm on one of the Mercs, then? Yeah, and what good would that do?
The mobile rang; he grabbed at it as if it were a lifebelt.
Karl was breathless. “I’m at the back of the crowd; get them ready.”
“Ready?” Thomas hissed. “I split them up for safety — there are over two hundred people in the street.”
“Well, you better get a bloody move on. I couldn’t get a pick-up in time so I’m their ride out of here.”
The firefighter reappeared, had a few words with the police officer and raised a hand to sound the retreat. The residents morphed into grumbling cattle and moseyed on in.
Thomas picked out Alexandra easily. She had followed instructions and stuck by the police car. As he approached, she was in conversation with one of the cops. “Ah, here is my husband!”
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 18