Foresight

by EJ McBride

  'How many needles would it take, to make you give yourself over and over again, day in, and day out?'

  Gorshkov stood up and moved toward the door.

  'I wonder how many it would take.' He turned the handle, opening the door. 'You have thirty minutes to decide what you would like to do. If you give me the information I want, you go free tonight. If you continue to lie to me, we will find out how many needles it takes for you to sell your soul.'

  He left, closing the door on his way out, Clara remaining still on the rank bed, a tear rolling slowly down her face.

  Chapter 19

  'A beer please', Robin asked of the waiter, a surly looking man with a shaved head and the almost mandatory scribble of tattoos across his torso, arms and hands. The man stared at him in what Robin assumed was disbelief, a disbelief that he empathised with entirely, as he was at this moment in time sharing that exact same disbelief. What on earth was he doing in this bar, a scrawny white caucasian, dressed in a tuxedo, in a 'back-end of nowhere' Russian bar. The barman, either trying to avoid the trouble he knew he could so easily create, or just impressed with Robin's bravado, turned slowly, walked to the run of waist-high refrigerators behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of beer. Not dropping eye contact with Robin, he bit the cap off the top, spat it in Robin's direction, and placed the bottle gently in front of him.

  '10 dollars', said the man in a thick Russian accent.

  '10 dollars for a beer?!', asked Robin, not having to read the man's mind to realise he was being exploited.

  'Sorry, my mistake', said the bartender. '20 dollars.'

  Robin sighed, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled two 10s, throwing them down on the table before picking up the beer and walking to a small table in the corner, away from the majority of the bar's patrons. He figured his best course of action was to try and remove some of the attention he'd gathered, before scoping the place out a little and seeing if he could find a way into the back-rooms, or the upstairs or wherever Clara was being held. He looked around, taking the place in as best he could. The bar was fairly large, but not particularly well stocked, with hygiene and customer service being pretty low on the list of priorities. To Robin's left, near the door he came in through were a few more tables, all empty, and a jukebox that looked as though it hadn't played a song for the last couple of decades. To his right, alongside the longest section of the bar were more tables, a mish-mash of 'old' and 'really old', some indoor furniture and some that were clearly designed to be outside but had been brought in anyway, probably stolen from outside of a neighbouring bar in the dead of night. At one of the tables sat 3 Russian men, all wearing dark coloured sports tracksuits and a lot of gold jewellery, their skin riddled with tattoos and scars, dead eyes staring at Robin.

  'They think I'm crazy', he thought to himself as he read them individually.

  'Better than thinking I'm a cop I guess'. Robin took a sip from his beer, trying to avoid eye contact with the barman or any of the customers, all of whom seemed fascinated with the strange, tuxedo wearing man who'd called in a for a quiet drink, and he soon realised that the quiet approach wasn't going to work. He needed to be a bit more direct, and placing his drink gently on the table, he stood up and walked toward the back of the bar, past the 3 men at the table, and toward a door with a Russian sign that he hoped, prayed, was Russian for 'Restroom'.

  Robin found himself in a small, dark room with 4 more doors, including the one he'd just walked through. 2 of the doors weren't locked, and as he pushed the doors gently open, he found them to contain a toilet and a sink each, both room vying for the position of most disgusting toilet in the bar, both standing a good chance of winning. Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, trying not to breathe in the stench, Robin noticed a filthy, decent sized window directly above the toilet, and jimmied it open, the yellow light from the outside world now able to shine in through the gap. He pushed his head through, took a deep breath of the fresh night air and headed back into the corridor. Robin looked at the third door, a large metal door with a lock and space for a key, which he assumed would probably lead into the back area of the bar. He stared at the door for a moment, wondering what or who might be on the other side, whether he would be able to physically challenge whomever he might run into, and started to wonder whether there was another option, a better way of getting in. Perhaps he could pretend to leave the bar and climb in through an upstairs window on the outside, perhaps he should have tried that in the first place. Maybe he should climb through the window in the restroom, that way he'd not need to be seen back in the bar at all. As his mind began to race, he heard loud voices from back in the bar, along with footsteps moving in his general direction. Deciding that a chance encounter with one of the Russians here would be far worse than one out in the bar, he decided to chance his luck with the third door, and as he began to think about how he could quickly pick the lock, the door gave as he twisted the handle, not locked at all, and Robin quickly ducked inside. He swung the door shut behind him, twisting the lock handle, shutting himself in but stopping anyone who didn't have a key from being able to get through as well. The handle turned, and Robin realised that one of the Russians was on the other side, no doubt looking for him. He heard both of the restroom doors open, then the sound of a window being slammed shut, and a man walking back through into the bar, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  'Fucking pussy jump out of the window!', followed by a rapturous laugh as the small crowd back in the bar joked about the ridiculousness of the situation that they now assumed was over. Robin sighed with relief, and turned to look at where he was. The room was dark, he was unable to make out much at all, and fumbled for a moment until he found a light switch.

  Robin realised he was in the garage, a large metal shutter door at one end, and several boxes of alcohol stacked all the way to the ceiling. There were also huge boxes containing cartons of cigarettes, and several clothes racks with fur coats of various styles. In the middle of the room sat a Rolls Royce Phantom limousine, a stunning looking custom vehicle, stretched to give even more room in the back, with tinted windows and custom wheels. Directly in front of him were three small steps leading down into the garage itself, and directly in front of those steps, about 6ft further along, was a full flight of stairs, a single wooden door at the top. Robin quietly began to ascend the stairs, moving in a crouched position, treading carefully, trying to keep one eye in front of him, the other eye on the driver's seat of the car to his right, until he was far enough up to see that the front of the car at least was empty. Assuming that whoever was wealthy enough to own a car like that wouldn't be skulking around in the back seat, he braved his way to the top of the stairs, quietly twisting the door handle and moving through.

  Robin was in a corridor, an open door at the far end, and several doors along each side. The walls and floors were bare and dirty, and lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, no lampshades. Robin knew he was probably close, and the loud voices from the room at the far end forced him to move slowly and quietly, keeping as low to the ground as he could, even though he knew that his tuxedo would provide little camouflage should someone decide to come looking for him. He shimmied along the corridor, stopping at the first door on his right, propping his head up against it, trying as hard as he could to listen through, trying to decipher if anyone was inside. He couldn't hear anything, certainly not over the noise coming from the room at the far end of the corridor, and used his left index finger to plug his left ear, trying to focus. As he did so, a door about 5ft in front of him on the right swung open. Robin jolted, felt his heart jump up into his mouth, fighting every urge in his body to not fall over or scream or run, as a large Russian man entered the corridor, turned right and walked to the room at the end, completely oblivious that Robin was there. Robin gasped quietly for air, knowing how close he'd just come to being shot or stabbed or beaten to death, or possibly worse, when he spotted the shadow of someone in far room moving toward the corridor. Robin knew that someone
entering the corridor would see him in an instant, and knowing he had no other options, twisted the door handle to his right and fell in, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Chapter 20

  Clara lay on the bed, cold, tired and alone. She found it ironic that throughout a life where she found comfort in solitude, a life where she was desperate to avoid human contact, now all she wanted to do was be with someone. She'd found a weird sense of belonging, an almost 'family' element to the Agency, and Boal had betrayed her, hung her out to dry for reasons that she still couldn't completely understand.

  'It had to be personal', she thought, unable to pin any kind of political agenda on the situation. Perhaps Boal had decided she wasn't right for the Agency after all and decided that a killing by Russian gangsters would be easier, 'cleaner' for him.

  As she lay in her bed, she thought about her childhood. Camping out in the forest, or fishing with her father; Clara had become somewhat of a tom-boy after her brother died, and voluntarily tried to fill the void in her father's life after Nick's death. As she got older and her abilities made it harder to live with her grieving parents, the arguments became worse, the house becoming an unbearable boiling pot of emotions every day, but as she lay spread eagled, awaiting her cruel fate, Clara knew she would give almost anything to go back to those days. She'd walk for miles, travel for weeks if she had to, just to be able to see her parents again and tell them she was sorry, sorry for being so awkward, sorry that her daughter was always so angry, for a reason that they didn't know, and wouldn't understand or believe even if they did. She thought about some of the people she'd hurt in her life, the strangers, the random people in the street with money, or cars, or something that she needed or wanted. She'd always convinced herself that it was all about survival, that she'd been dealt a bad hand and that these people were luckier than her, they'd be able to earn it all back anyway. But she'd never truly stopped and thought about the psychological damage, the pain and hurt she'd caused. She cried, not for the first time recently, and wished that Robin was there to hold her and comfort her, also not for the first time recently.

  As quickly as the thought of him entered her mind, Robin bowled through the door, ungracefully dropping with a thud, closing the door quietly behind him, gazing around the room with an expression that suggested his entrance wasn't entirely deliberate. They made eye contact, Clara ignoring their unwritten rule about each other's privacy, reading his thoughts and hearing his message loud and clear; 'please stay quiet'. She complied, flashed him a pained smile, and sobbed quietly.

  Robin waited a moment, then rose to his feet, rushing over to Clara, stroking her hair and hugging her close.

  'It's OK', he assured her. 'I'm going to get you out of here'

  'Boal,,,', began Clara, Robin cutting her off mid sentence.

  'I know, he let us down', said Robin. 'But I've spoken with him and he's got men outside ready to get us out of here, there's just something I need to do first, then...'

  'Let us down?', Clara asked, puzzled. 'That son of a bitch set me up.'

  Robin, who'd been struggling around his pocket looking for his phone stopped, taken aback by the severity of Clara's statement.

  'Set you up?', he asked. 'The casino mission went wrong, but they've been tracking us. He's helping me get you out of here.'

  'He made the call Robin', said Clara. 'The casino knew about me because Boal called them. He told them I've been ripping them off for months, and when they find you in here trying to save me, they're going to think you're part of it as well.'

  'What the fuck are you talking about?', asked Robin, doubting everything Boal had told him. 'He's got a car outside with Agency guys in, ready to pick us up'

  'So what?', asked Clara. 'How do you know they're Agency guys? How do you know they give a fuck about saving us? How do you know they're even still there?'

  Robin stood up and moved to the window, the large metal bars on the outside making it hard to see outside. He peered through, tilting his head to get a better view. In the distance, at the far end of the street near an intersection, the same black car sat exactly where it had been before. He squinted, trying to catch a view of the men inside, and the mobile phone in his pocket vibrated as he scrambled to answer it quickly and quietly. It was Boal.

  'What?', whispered Robin.

  'You're in?', asked Boal.

  'You know I'm in, you're listening right?'

  'Right. Let me speak to Clara. Put the phone to her ear.'

  Robin moved quietly across the room and held the phone to Clara's ear.

  'Fuck you', said Clara. 'You set me up, why?'

  'This is going to be hard for you to understand', said Boal, 'but this has all been necessary, and I'm still on your side. Gorshkov is a brutal, vicious murderer, a monster, and we need you to get a confession from him. He ordered a hit on Helen Berghaus last year, and we want justice for her. That's what this mission has been about Clara, this is why you're there'

  'You're lying', snapped Clara. 'Why not just tell us that in the first place? Why put us in this situation?'

  'Because this situation was the only way you were going to get close enough to him. You think you just call up and make a fucking appointment to meet Andrei Gorshkov? This was necessary, but it's controlled. We won't let him hurt you, but we need this confession Clara.'

  The trio all paused, Robin and Clara looking at one another, Robin shrugging his shoulders.

  'I don't see that we have any other option', he said. Boal continued.

  'The phone that Robin's holding will capture the confession and we're recording it at our end Clara, all you need to do is get him to talk. Our guys will be in seconds later and you're both home and dry. And after a success like this, you can take your pick of Agency missions.'

  'With all due respect', snapped Clara, 'the Agency can go fuck itself after this' She waited a moment. 'We have your word?'

  'You have my word'

  Robin put the phone back to his ear. 'You'd better not be lying Boal', sneered Robin. 'You'll get your confession'

  Robin hung the phone up, slipping it back into his pocket. He leant down toward Clara, pushing her knotted her gently away from her eyes, tucking it delicately behind her ears, wiping her moist, bloodshot eyes with his thumbs. He smiled sweetly at her.

  'I know you can do this', he said. 'And I won't be far away, you'll be safe'

  He kissed her softly on the forehead, then on the lips, their moment rudely interrupted by the thud of footsteps in the corridor outside. Robin squeezed Clara's handcuffed hand, and slid under the bed out of view.

  Chapter 21

  Robin saw a pair of sneakers first, dirty and scruffy, well-worn, followed closely by a smart pair of dress shoes. He could see the bottom of trousers, nothing more to tell him who each pair of the very different shoes belonged to, although from his previous conversations with Boal he was pretty confident that the dress shoes belonged to Gorshkov. He didn't know much about Gorshkov, hadn't really been briefed on his modus operandi, but he knew he was the top man in a large Russian crime syndicate and figured that realistically, that told him all that he needed to know. After all, he didn't know much about Al Capone, but knew enough to know that he'd never want to mess with him. He was the kind of guy that, had you asked him 6 months ago, Robin would have told you he was never destined to meet, never destined to simply 'bump into' the head of a Russian crime syndicate. Sure, weird circumstance in everyday life might, potentially, just possibly, put you in the same place at the same time, but for most law-abiding citizens, trouble doesn't find them, they go looking for it. As he lay on the dirt and blood encrusted floor, the vile bed above him, two incredibly dangerous men mere inches away from him, Robin couldn't help but be a little astonished at quite how drastically life had changed for him of late. He thought about it for a quiet moment, before his mind raced back to the situation at hand, and he froze, listening intently to the words the Russians were speaking, and just as intently to the sound of hi
s own breathing. He watched as the familiar legs of one of the chairs in the room pulled up alongside the bed, the smarter dressed of the two men sitting down.

  'So, you are ready to tell me who you work for? Enough of the games and uh, the bullshit. You will start by telling me who this man is...'

  Gorshkov help up a black and white surveillance shot of a man Clara didn't recognise.

  'My security men went through tapes', he said. 'These men were there the days we got cheated, these are the men you work with. You think we weren't able to get images from the footage, but here you go. So you tell me, who is this man?'

  Clara's face welled up, unable to even fake a name.

  'I don't know', she said. 'They cheated you and your casino, whoever they are, but not me, I swear. I know you don't believe me, but the reason you don't see me on the footage is cos I wasn't there, and I...'

  'We don't see you on fucking footage because you thought you were clever and removed footage first', Gorshkov snapped. He stood up, tossing a pile of black and white images over Clara, turning his back and walking toward the door. He turned, tapping his associate on the shoulder.

  'It is shame', he said, 'pretty thing like you' He began walking out of the room. 'But you will make me a lot of money when I put you out to work'

  'Shit', thought Robin, realising that not only had Gorshkov gone, but their confession had gone with him. He spun round under the bed, looking at the feet of the other man, who had by this point moved to the head of the bed, pausing for a moment.

  'Hold still if you don't want this to hurt so much', he said, needle in his right hand. Clara shrieked, straining her entire body to her left, trying harder than she thought possible to move away, the restraints locking her firmly in place. Robin balled his hands into fists, screaming inside but utterly silent outside, aware that one false move would give the game up for both of them, powerless to help. He stared at the Adidas tracksuit bottoms of the man, thoughts racing through his mind about what he could do. Perhaps he could wrestle him to the ground, snatch the needle from him and jab it through his eye, or somehow break his neck. He needed to think fast, and whilst he couldn't see what was happening on the bed above him, whilst he couldn't read Clara's thoughts, he knew she was seconds away from disaster.