The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  A young woman was literally thrown onto the deck with the henchman following, cursing loudly. She was dressed in ripped jeans and a t-shirt with a deaths-head skull emblazoned on the front. Her hair was blond and short. The side of her nose and left eyebrow were pierced by small metal rings.

  The henchman was now shouting at her angrily. Drum noticed Misha walking over towards them. The man went to strike the woman, only to have his arm held in an iron grip by the big Russian. The henchman looked up at the big man and backed off, muttering under his breath.

  Vlad grinned. “This is Svetlana. She calls herself Stevie. Why? Who knows? She is to work with you.”

  The young woman knelt on the deck. She had fire in her eyes. She reminded Drum of Harry.

  “What am I supposed to do with her?” said Drum, puzzled by this turn of events.

  “She is my best computer hacker. Very skilled. You need her help. Your man Raj is being deported, no?”

  Stevie looked at him. She obviously trusted no one. He shrugged. He figured she was better off coming with him that staying on the boat.

  “Good,” said Vlad. “I expect reports on your progress.”

  Drum removed the compress from the back of his head and realised he was holding a bag of semi-frozen peas. He dumped them on the seat.

  “One last thing,” said Vlad. “There is someone else at the bank who we are interested in tracing. An Auditor. Her name is Harriet Seymour-Jones. You know her, perhaps?”

  Drum was having trouble thinking. He didn’t understand why Vlad wanted Harry. Perhaps Victor had said something. “I’ve never heard of her,” he lied. “But I’ll find out …”

  “Good. Now fuck off computer boy and find me my gold.”

  He tried to stand. The world swam around him. He wanted to sleep. He heard Vlad speaking. Then strong arms hoisted him up and the world spiralled into darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Russian Hacker

  Drum woke with a drill in his head. He was lying in his bed. At least he thought it was his bed. It was hard to tell. The room was in semi-darkness. He tried to sit up and groaned as pain shot through his skull and down his neck.

  “Lay back,” said a woman’s voice.

  The voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t place it. He smelt the aroma of coffee and he forced himself to try to sit up again.

  “Stay down,” said the voice, more harshly. Then he remembered. The young woman on the boat.

  “Svetlana?”

  “Stevie. My name is Stevie.” He felt a small hand press against his chest – his bare chest.

  There was a movement on the end of the bed and then the blinds to his apartment opened a crack. Light from the Autumn sun flooded into the room and pierced his eyes. The drill inside his head spun-up to a high pitched whine like a dentist’s drill scouring his brain. He laid back and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “You need to rest,” said Stevie. “You probably have a concussion.”

  Her voice was low and husky with just a hint of an accent. She sounded much older than she looked when she was screaming in Russian on the boat.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “It’s nearly 11:00 am. It’s Saturday morning.”

  “Christ, I need to call Fern.” He struggled to sit back up.

  He felt her sit on the edge of the bed. “Here, take two of these.”

  He gingerly opened his eyes, squinting into the bright room. Stevie sat on the edge of the bed wearing what looked like one of his white shirts and very little else. The shirt extended down to the top of her bare pale thighs.

  “You can’t be that badly injured if you have time to ogle my legs,” she said, pressing two pills into his hand.

  “What are they?”

  “They’re painkillers – for the crack on the skull those idiots gave you. What else?” She pushed a glass of water into his other hand. “Drink and don’t be such a baby.”

  “Thanks.” He carefully touched the back of his head. He felt a large painful lump and winced.

  “They almost killed you,” she said. You must have pissed someone off. Guess they wanted you more alive than dead?”

  He handed back the glass. Now that he had time to focus, he realised that she was a beautiful young woman.

  “I had to borrow one of your shirts. Thanks to you, I left in a hurry.” She looked at him and smiled. “Don’t get any ideas. You’re in no fit state for that type of exertion.”

  “That coffee smells good,” he said.

  She jumped off the bed, the sudden jerking movement awakening the drill inside his head. She was right about the exertion. She padded over to the kitchen and poured him a coffee.

  “Hope you don’t mind, I had a shower. Those pigs kept me locked in that boat for a whole day.“

  He watched her carry the coffee back to him. He carefully sat up and gratefully took the mug as she resumed her vigil on the edge of the bed.

  “How did I get here?” he said.

  “Misha brought you.” She stared at his chest. “How did you get that?” She traced a finger gently down the scar that ran from his collarbone across his right breast to his sternum.

  “Jealous Afghan tribesman,” he replied.

  “Really. Why was he jealous?”

  “I was sleeping with his wife.”

  She looked at him, wide-eyed. “No!”

  He raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee.

  She laughed. “You’re such a joker.”

  She got up and went back into the kitchen. He watched her open his refrigerator and look in. The light from the door illuminated her lean body in silhouette against the luminescence of his starched, white shirt.

  “You don’t have any food in your fridge.” She closed the door and the apparition vanished.

  “I normally eat out,” he replied.

  She cast an eye around the kitchen. “Do you live here?”

  He thought it an odd question. “Where else would I live?”

  “Somewhere comfortable.”

  He looked around his apartment. “I guess I find it comfortable.”

  She shrugged and padded back to the end of the bed. “Why were you on the boat?” she asked.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  She looked at him as if trying to figure him out. “You work for Vlad, but I’ve not seen you around before.”

  “I don’t work for Vlad,” he protested.

  She gave him a knowing smile. “We all say that, but here we are doing his bidding. He says jump and we say how high.”

  She had a point. He remembered what Victor had said. We’re all working for Vlad…

  “So, why are you working for Vlad?” he asked.

  She looked down at her hands and twisted the duvet into a small knot.

  “I was studying for my Masters – computer sciences. A friend asked for my help with a small banking problem she was having …”

  “Only she wasn’t much of a friend,” he said.

  “No, right. The ex-pat Russian community is very small, and my so-called friend blabbed to another friend and the next thing I know I’m talking to Vlad. He has powerful contacts. Wanted me to do more and more. Hacking really. When I said no, he threatened to have my visa revoked.”

  “And the more work you did for him, the deeper the hole got.”

  She looked up. “I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”

  “Wait, how did you and Misha get into the office?”

  “Right. About that … I bypassed your security system. Hope you don’t mind. We were kinda in a bind.” She gave him a lopsided smile.

  There was the sound of a door closing in the lobby downstairs.

  “Who’s that?” said Stevie, crawling across the bed to Drum.

  Fern’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Drum, are you there? Your door was open.”

  “Who’s Drum?” whispered Stevie.

  “That would be me.” He put his coffee mug down. “Up here, Fern,” h
e shouted and then winced as his head throbbed.

  There was the dull metal sound of heavy footsteps on the spiral staircase that led up to his apartment. Fern appeared at the top of the landing. She was wearing a pair of faded denims and a red plaid shirt. She stopped when she saw Drum and Stevie in bed together.

  “Good grief, I am sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” She started to back down the stairs.

  Stevie moved closer to Drum. “Is that your girlfriend,” she whispered. “She’s very big.”

  “Wait, Fern. Don’t go.” He was trying to get out of the bed, but Stevie had wrapped herself around his arm.

  “You can’t get up,” said Stevie.”

  “No, really. I should have called,” said Fern, starting downstairs.

  Drum managed to get an unsteady foot on the floor. The rest of him seemed to be tangled in the duvet and Stevie.

  “Will you let me go …”

  “You really shouldn’t get up,” said Stevie, releasing her grip.

  Drum managed to get both feet on the floor and staggered over to the landing. “Fern, wait. We need to talk.”

  Fern stopped halfway down the stairs and looked up. She was about to say something then stopped, open-mouthed.

  “I tried to tell you,” said Stevie smiling. “We couldn’t find your PJs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Borough Market

  Drum woke with just a mild hangover. The lump on his head had subsided. He looked at his watch on the bedside table. It was Sunday morning. After Fern had stormed out of the apartment, he’d crashed and spent the rest of Saturday in bed. Stevie had pottered about the place making him tea and buying takeaways. She had been put out when he insisted she sleep downstairs on the couch. He needed to sort out a place for her to stay. He called his father.

  “Hi, William. It’s Ben. Can I buy you breakfast?”

  “Sure, son. What’s up?”

  “I need your help.”

  William suggested a rendezvous he hadn’t been to in a while. He showered and put on a pair of jeans and a pale-blue shirt. He grabbed his leather jacket and went down stairs. Stevie was still fast asleep on his couch. He left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

  William had suggested they meet in Borough Market which was a brisk fifteen minute walk from his current location. He made his way under Tower Bridge and onto the Southbank. Riverboats filled with tourists cruised along the Thames, sounding their horns as they motored by. He walked briskly towards London Bridge.

  He was soon looking down upon the sprawling commerce of Borough Market from the bridge above, a hotchpotch of stalls and restaurants that surrounded the splendour of Southwark Cathedral. It was still early, and the market had yet to fill with tourists. At lunchtime, during the week, they would be forming lines at the food stalls that offered everything from falafel to paella. William sat alone on a bench in the sanctuary of the cathedral grounds reading a newspaper.

  An iron gate, just off the bridge, gave him access to the cathedral below. He sauntered down the granite steps, scanning the grounds for signs of trouble. All he saw was a tramp sleeping on one of the benches. He took a seat next to his father.

  William was dressed in his now-familiar green waxed jacket and flat cap. He casually folded his newspaper.

  “Hello, son. Were you followed?”

  “I don’t think we’ve got to that stage yet.”

  “What stage is that?”

  “Me on the lam.”

  “Oh, right. It’s just that Alice said that the security services would probably want to keep an eye on you.” William looked at his son, a frown creasing his forehead. “You’re not in any trouble are you son?”

  “No more than usual. What did Alice say exactly?”

  “Said to tell you that …” William paused as he tried to recall the message. “The bloke from Thames House – you haven’t seen the last of him.”

  “McKay.”

  “Yes, that was the one. Do you know him?”

  “You could say that. It’s … complicated. We served together.”

  William waited for him to continue but when he didn’t, he sucked his lip and pressed on.

  “Your last tour of Afghanistan,” said William, softly. “You never did tell me what happened over there. Want to talk about it?”

  Dark memories came flooding back. The smell of cardamon in the rich, black tea brewed on their small campfire. That had been their undoing. They had rested. Got sloppy. It was the keen eyes of the Poacher that had saved them. He’d spotted them while on watch, advancing on their position. A troop of well-armed men had tracked them all the way from the LZ. It was if they had known their final objective. Not your regular insurgents was Poacher’s expert opinion. They were carrying the Russian made AN94. Spetsnaz for sure. Get the man in, avoid capture at all costs. McPherson and Cairns had paid the price of getting him out.

  Drum said nothing. They sat in silence for a while.

  “Why don’t we grab some breakfast,” said William, breaking the silence. “I could do with something to eat.”

  Drum looked at his watch. It was time for brunch. He thought this ironic. It was usually months between visits to his father, and now here he was meeting with the old man twice in as many weeks.

  Drum surveyed the market. “What takes your fancy?”

  “No, not inside the market. It’s closed on a Sunday. There’s the place near the Clink. D’you remember? I used to take you there as a boy.”

  He remembered the Clink, one of the oldest prisons in London, now a museum. William would take great delight in showing him the ghoulish exhibits and would threaten him with the Clink for various misdemeanours at home.

  They walked out of the cathedral grounds, away from the bustle of the market, and towards the river. They entered a narrow street with converted warehouses on either side; his life was suddenly full of them. After a short walk, they came to Clink Street and a small cafe squeezed in an unlikely space between two office conversions. He recognised the place and was surprised it was still there.

  They took a table within the confined space and sat beside each other on a rough bench against a wall. A burly man with a ruddy face, wearing a white apron, came out from behind the counter.

  “Morning, William. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Morning, Lionel. Two teas and two full English, please.”

  “Right you are.” Lionel was about to leave when he hesitated. “Blimey, is that young Benjamin?”

  Drum smiled but for the life of him couldn’t remember the man.

  “Yes, Lionel,” said William, beaming from ear to ear. “Little Benjy.”

  “Blimey, well I never. The little skinny kid in shorts with grazed knees? Used to come in ‘er and eat all of my pickled onions. Well, I never.”

  Drum carried on smiling awkwardly. He had a vague recollection of those onions.

  “The very same. Time flies, don’t it.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Well, let me get your order.”

  “That was Lionel,” said William.

  “So I gather.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Time flies.”

  “Don’t it just. Tell me what happened in New York.”

  “Picked up a new assignment – working for Delaney.”

  “You patched things up with her then?”

  “I think so. It’s difficult to tell with her. But everyone was pleased to see me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  He thought about it. He didn’t know. After the debacle of the last assignment, he had mixed feelings. Shit happens.

  “Don’t know, really.” He shrugged. “Got me a new partner. We’re working this new case together. The policewoman who helped with my Russian problem.”

  William sat up, suddenly interested. “Alice told me about her. The big girl.”

  “Her name’s Fern. Not the ‘big girl’.”

  “Right, right, Fern. Lovely woman,
Alice says. Liked her a lot.”

  He thought about calling Fern. Then he remembered Stevie.

  “Look, can I ask a favour? I have someone new starting. A young woman who needs a place to stay for a few weeks. I was wondering if she could rent your place …” He gave his father a wry smile. “Considering you and Alice are moving in together.”

  “Yeah, right. I meant to tell you about that,” said William looking down at his hands. “There was never the right time.”

  “I think it’s a great idea.”

  William gave his son a broad smile. “Yeah, Alice said you were pleased. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  “She’s a lovely woman. Just don’t upset her. I need her. Practically runs the office now.”

  “Is that right. Said she was good at typing.”

  “Yeah, right. A good typist.”

  Lionel walked over carrying a large tray with two mugs of tea and two large plates with enough food to feed a SAS troop.

  “Lionel, you’re a star,” said William.

  Lionel beamed and left them to their meal.

  Drum tucked into his breakfast. He made a note to come back and visit Lionel again.

  After eating, William and Drum sat back, drinking their tea. Both men had demolished the food on their plates.

  William put his mug down and turned to his son.

  “What I don’t understand is why the security services are giving you so much trouble. After all, don’t you work for them?”

  “I don’t know. I guess that someone wants me off this new case. Probably someone with government contacts.”

  “This bloke, McKay. Sounds like a wrong’n. Do you think he’s on the take.”

  Drum wondered about that. Whatever he thought about the competence of the man, he’d always considered him a loyal soldier.

  “More likely he’s just obeying orders. A blunt instrument, trying to slow me down.”

  Drum remembered why he was there.

  “About the flat …”

  “Of course, son. I’ll give Alice the key. She can drop it off tomorrow.” He looked wistfully over his cup. “Hopefully, I’ll have less of a problem renting my old place …”