‘Aim high Alex’ his mother had told him. He killed her too.
He lay back on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling as the almond-skinned girl revealed herself, dropping her burqa to the floor and stepping out of it. She was indeed beautiful. Such a pitiful waste. He needed to share her around his friends but something prevented him from pursuing this idea – morals?
Where had this notion come from? Morals? He’d lost those when he plunged the knife into his dear mother.
He was far from selfish with material things, just his love. That trait he saved for the very few women in his life. To date there had been two. His wife and his daughter.
The girl in front of him, standing awkwardly, trying to cover herself up whilst the drugs eased her shame was just another conquest from another country. Someone else to while away the minutes. A pin on a map.
“Put it back on. I want to remove it.”
She followed his instructions. The other girls had warned her not to disappoint him. “You are so beautiful – don’t tell me your name, I have no wish to get too close to you. Now come here and entertain me in ways your mother would have been ashamed of.”
She approached him as if she were on an indiscernible lead. Pavlov’s dog. He clapped his hands, she walked towards his bed. Addiction did that to a person. But not to Alex – his only addiction was notoriety.
She was sat with her legs astride him, staring at the ceiling, making all the right noises and knowing he wouldn’t last much longer. Her mother had actually taught her well. In her homeland, disappointing a man could have cost her life.
He marvelled at her body, the way it moved, toned as if she spent day after day in a gym. She didn’t, she was born that way and had starved herself regularly, as she felt, wrongly, that men only found thin girls attractive. Covering that form was like pulling a dustcover over a Bugatti and Alex knew this, for he had one, somewhere. It was blue he remembered that. He couldn’t recall the last time it had ever even been started.
Procured from the proceeds of his crimes, ordered whilst he was in prison and put somewhere safe. Because he could.
Just like he could have her. When. Wherever and how.
Chapter Fifteen
Twenty three miles south of the city of Auckland, in the historical home of the New Zealand Special Air Service, Scott McCall waited to see the ‘OC’.
His boss was also a long-term friend, however, he always called him boss, or in certain circles, sir.
He had run a parallel career with the officer in charge; McCall, a foot soldier and his boss, always an officer. Despite many tests their friendship endured and in Scott McCall the OC saw a true warrior. He knew McCall better than anyone. They had dug in once, no more than a foot deep scrape on the scorched surface of a remote plain in Afghanistan, and they had waited to be rescued from what McCall later described as the arsehole on the arsehole of the world.
‘You learn a great deal about yourself – and the men you fight with in situations such as those.’ Lieutenant Colonel Michael Steel had once said at a Rotary Club lunch.
Steel had the sort of spirit, attitude and importantly surname to ensure he was always going to make it. Mike to his friends, he was a leader and a gentleman. What he didn’t know about the gallant art of soldiering was simply not worth knowing. And he had the same in-depth understanding of the man that was walking across the parade square – heading his way, back straight, eyes front, bang on time.
Steel watched him as he entered his office on what had already been a long day, but he knew McCall would look as fresh as a daisy. If he had just completed the fabled log run he would turn around and do it again – and again. Carrying the lion’s share of the weight. And smile as he did so.
But the McCall that Steel looked at today was not the man he knew.
“Sit down, Scottie. What’s troubling you?” It was a rare event for the boss to call him by his real name. He was Mack on any given day. Everyone had a nickname. Even the boss. Some had sported them for so long that no one knew what they were actually called.
McCall hesitated – enough that his boss spotted the delay. He leant forward in the chair, hands on his knees.
“Sir.” He scratched at his neck – it was his ‘tell’. He swallowed hard then continued.
“Mike, I just need a break. Some time away. You said it might happen one day. On a day when everything seems alright, far from the spoils of war and all that. Well, it’s happened a while ago but I’ve fought the bastard black dog ever since.” He had delivered the request in a single extended sentence and every word was hurting him. Both men knew it.
The black dog McCall was referring to didn’t want to chase a ball.
“OK. No problem. How long do you need and where are you planning on going?” Steel looked at him, in the eyes, waiting, clicking the end of his silver Parker pen. Click. Click. “You know I need to ask this?”
“Two weeks at most, boss. England. There’s a girl…”
It rocked Steel. “A girl? Jesus, Mack, we were beginning to wonder if you were batting for the other side! Not that that’s an issue in the modern army.”
“It’s not, boss. You know my opinion. If you can stand shoulder to shoulder with me in a firefight, then I don’t give a fat rat’s shit what your gender, persuasion or creed is. But thank you for your vote of confidence.”
“England eh? Good man. You’ll enjoy it. I was based there for a while as you know. Good people. Grey skinned and they all live in back-to-back houses like in Coronation Street and their accents vary every second mile, but you’ll take to them, some of the most dependable people you will ever meet. You should try to go to Hereford, meet up with the regiment there. You are bound to know a few of the boys and they can put you up, save a few dollars.”
“Do you think I’m broke, boss?”
“No not at all, Mack. I was just trying to help.” He waited just long enough before asking, “You sure you are OK mate?”
McCall did not hesitate. “Cast iron, boss. One hundred percent. Just need some space. That girl in the car last year…” He stopped himself, realising that the impromptu mission to save Elena Petrova’s life had been just that, unplanned and secret. A year ago. He could still see her face, wondered if she survived. He had tried to find out but failed. Couldn’t even establish her name. That hurt professionally. No one eluded the regiment. And now he was using her as an excuse.
“What about her? That was last year wasn’t it? It’s OK, I know all about your unscheduled touchdown. I know everything. A certain fly boy is dating my daughter don’t forget.” He smiled a warm smile as he sipped on a still-hot cup of tea; dark brown, two sugars just as God and the army had intended.
“Putting it bluntly, it upset me. She had an effect upon me that I’ve never experienced before.”
“It was a while ago, Mack. So it’s her you are going to see?”
“I wish, boss! She was stunning. I often dream about her. No such luck. I met this one online. She seems nice. Lives in London.”
“Online, Mack? Are you sure she’s a girl?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Has she asked you for money – you know for an operation for her sick sister?”
“No, Mike, she hasn’t. Look can I have this fucking leave or not?”
Steel tapped the keyboard on his desk, looked up and down the screen, sucked air through his teeth, then signed off the application. There and then, he knew there was no point in delaying.
Handing it over the desk he said, “Signed, sealed and delivered. Make sure you come back though, sergeant, or I’ll be knee-deep – you have negative leave already. I’ll put it down as a welfare visit to some long lost auntie. Now bugger off and don’t forget to send me a postcard.”
Pointing to his mug, emblazoned with his own nickname he said, “And bring me some decent tea bags back from Blighty. If there is one thing the Poms do well…it’s tea.”
McCall stood, saluted and walked quickly out of the office, th
rough the secure gate, across the car park to his battered old Honda and then drove the short journey to his home. It was the first time he had ever lied to a man he respected hugely. He hoped it would be the last.
He had his girls to farewell. He knew they would understand.
Steel closed the desk drawer. Clicked the pen, shut down the computer. It was the first time Mack had ever lied to him. Christ, he hoped he was OK.
In the winter months, before his leave request was granted, McCall had used every conceivable method of tracing the girl from the Porsche and importantly the person – if indeed it was a person – called Jackdaw. The computer systems they had at his barracks were standalone, capable of great things and he had spent hours searching for her without leaving a footprint.
He had given a plausible reason for using the systems and the place being what it was, no one challenged him.
No reports of any activity in the Coromandel Peninsula on that exquisite day even existed, in a country that reported on most car crashes. He saw the air ambulance, saw the police. Nothing. She had simply vanished off the best radar in the country.
He had more luck with the name Jackdaw. At least he did when a subtle ping on his phone brought him to an article featured in the Bulgarian media and naming the man that stared out of the computer screen at him as Alex Stefanescu. He knew the Google alert would pay dividends in the end.
He had met some bad bastards in his time – killed a few of them too, one up close and very personal. But this man had the coldest stare he had ever witnessed. His eyes were comparable to black marble. Not shark-like. More like granite. He decided that he had mortuary slab eyes. And he disliked them and their owner. The problem was he knew he needed to work with him in the short term.
He now had his name, his location and a contact number. All he needed to do was find him and make him an offer he would find impossible to refuse.
He dialled the number, prefixed with two zeroes, a four and another zero. He was never nervous at work, but then he was never doing anything illegal – even shooting people in a war zone had its risks of prosecution and he knew the risks, this was different.
He was lowering the steel into the forge – his plan to create a sword as strong as possible and one he could use to finally sever the debts that had dragged his family into the pit of despair. The problem for McCall was this sword, unlike the dagger on his sandy-coloured beret was double-edged in its metaphorical sense.
The dial tone changed to a ringing tone. He considered hanging up.
‘Who Dares Wins’. It said so on the door that he walked through every day. He let it ring. And ring.
“Hello?” The voice was instantly recognisable as Eastern European. McCall was probably closer than he had ever been. Ever would be.
“Hello. Who is that?” An American accent.
The voice recognised an English speaker and changed accordingly.
“You don’t ring here and ask who this is my friend. Either you know who you want to speak to or you don’t.” The ambient noise in the background told McCall that he had reached a pub or club.
“So can I help you? If not, I am a busy man.”
McCall sensed this was a lieutenant not the general. His instinct had never betrayed him.
“I’d like to speak to Mr Jack Daw. Now is that possible please?”
The faceless voice laughed. “Man, you have some massive balls. No one rings this number and demands to speak to the boss – for that is his correct name. No one. Do you understand?” There was menace in the voice now. “And no one calls him Jackdaw anymore.”
McCall now had two more pieces of information. He was content that for now he was dealing with the right person and he knew that his boss that he was clearly afraid of, probably owned the club.
“I understand. Completely. I must apologise. You sound like you are in charge there my friend. I have a parcel to deliver see? Sent to the owner – a Mr Stefan some time ago. We have been trying to deliver it. We were told he might have come out of prison…and…from what you tell me Mr Jackdaw, well he doesn’t like being called that? Ain’t that interesting? So what should I call him?”
“And you are?” Cold. Calculated. Tinged with a caveat that said ‘I do not trust you.’
“Mike Brown from Federal Express. I’m the complaints manager.”
“My boss does not make complaints. My boss does not buy things online. And my boss will not wish to speak to you.”
“But the parcel?” McCall was clinging to anything now.
“Give it to someone else, the boss does not need anything. He has everything.”
McCall was banking on someone else listening.
“OK, then I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll return the parcel back to New Zealand where it was posted from over a year ago. Sorry to bother you my friend…”
The line went quiet but McCall knew there was still someone there. The tone had changed, the background noise was different. He could still hear human voices but things had changed. He waited. He had cast his bait out into the water, waiting for the float to slide under. For ten seconds he waited and then heard a new voice.
“Sir. I am sorry that my Pitbull Terrier was so unkind to you. Had you have been at my door he would have torn your legs off bit by bit! So perhaps you should consider yourself lucky eh?” The new voice laughed. It was also Eastern European, more polished, more assured.
McCall took the bait deliberately. “Hello, sir. Look, no problem at all. Glad you got your friend there on a tight lead!” Sounding more American by the second he continued. “We have a parcel that was sent from New Zealand to your address in Romania but it was returned and now sits in a pile of other unloved mail right here in my office in Memphis, Tennessee. See, thing is, I’m destroying them by the hour...”
The voice nodded to a laptop at his side. ‘Check his credentials’.
“I’m sorry, your name was?”
“Mike Brown sir, Customer Experience Manager.” He winced at the slight change in detail, hoping the voice did not detect it.
The lieutenant nodded. The data was correct.
“I have no wish to complain about anything. Send what you have to my post office box Mr Brown I have things to do.”
“And you are?”
“The recipient.”
McCall was losing the advantage. “But…I’m sorry, it needs signing for. Shall I just dispose of it? It’s been a long time now. It just interested me…you know, with your background.”
“How did you know I had been in prison?”
McCall knew he had him close to the hook so pursued things whilst he could.
“The media sir, a fine and powerful tool!” He laughed. “It said you were Romanian, and it matched the name on this package, trouble is we can’t read the full address.” He was drifting headlong into a southern drawl now, praying it was convincing, turning one-syllable words into two.
“My club is called Byzantin, Mr Brown, look it up on the internet if you are that bothered about one old parcel. I have to go.” He stalled, then added, slightly curious, “Tell me, can you see who it is from? And what it contains?”
“I can see it contains documents, sir. But the writing is all smudged, if I were to put money on it I’d say a girl and a right pretty one too!”
“You can tell that from a simple piece of handwriting? I am impressed. Mr Brown.”
“Parcels are my life sir. I know a man’s writing from a girl’s any day. I’ll be sure to send this one over tonight once I dig out that address from the internet. Been a pleasure speaking to you, Mr?”
“My name is Alex. Just put that and the name of my club and Romania. Trust me, it will get here, once the authorities have ripped it open and examined every inch of it.”
Hook. In.
“Well sir, they look like important documents to me. Says so on the package. Perhaps we could arrange for them to be delivered by hand, you know…for a small management fee?” McCall had no idea where this was heading,
it was so far off script he was in danger of forgetting his aim.
“And how much would this small fee be?”
“As I say, they look important and you seem to want them, so let’s say two fifty American.”
“That is very reasonable Mr Brown. Two hundred and fifty dollars it is.”
McCall’s voice hardened. “No sir. I meant a little more.”
Alex yelled down the phone. “I know what you meant! Do you have any idea who you are talking to? Who you are trying to negotiate with? Do you? Cowboy?”
“I ain’t no cowboy son. Like I told you earlier, Mr Alex. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It seems reasonable, you know, given how important they might be.” As ice cold as Alex.
Stefanescu knew where the conversation was heading. He was dealing with a man whose standards were as questionable as his own so he was hardly holding the moral high ground.
He was calm, too. Either a professional, or reckless and a fool.
“Mr Brown. Can I assume that you have opened this package?”
Now or never.
“Well yes sir, you can, and I have seen the value of its contents – they were like manna from heaven. But Mr Alex, I am an honourable man, and working for Fed Ex you have to understand that I am not paid particularly well, but one thing we always do is deliver the goods. So, do we have a deal?”
“How much again?” He was gesticulating to his bodyguard – a man he had found to be useful since his escape from Pazardzhik.
‘Do we know any more about this caller?’
The guard just shrugged. He seemed to be genuine.
“You know, I reckon two hundred and fifty American is a fair price for what is in that package. I reckon I could get more…” McCall knew it equated to a hundred more in his home country, and that meant financial freedom.
“Mr Brown that is a very specific amount. Why not ask for a million? From my experience only those in debt give an exact amount. It rules their lives you see. Unlike mine which is secure beyond your wildest dreams. I may be a common thief but I am a rich one.” He laughed a genuine laugh. “OK, here is my deal. Are you listening?”
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 16