Illegal Action

by Stella Rimington

  31

  How on earth does he afford this place? thought Liz, watching Dimitri taking a long swig from his glass of wine. They were in the library of the boutique hotel in Covent Garden where Dimitri was staying, an intimate Georgian town house where guests poured their own drinks.

  Observing him, Liz thought how much he reminded her of Brunovsky. He had the same gusto, a sort of boyish quality, an innocent enjoyment of everything, though Dimitri had none of the oligarch’s manic edge. Instead, there was something sensual and appreciative about his approach to life, as if he wanted to spread his large, long arms and embrace the world.

  “I was reading about our prime minister’s trip to Russia next month,” said Liz. “It said that after he’s been in Moscow he’s going to visit St. Petersburg. Apparently, his wife is keen to see the Hermitage. Did you know that?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I will be escorting her myself through the Fabergé exhibits in the Winter Palace.”

  “Will the prime minister be with her?”

  “No, he will not,” said Dimitri.

  “Too bad.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “Have you met many politicians?”

  “No,” said Liz truthfully. Bureaucrats were a different matter.

  “They are all the same,” he declared. “How lovely to meet you,” he said in a mincing voice, turning and making a little bow. “I am most impressed,” he went on, giving a fatuous smile. Liz laughed, and he said in his normal voice, “They believe in nothing, those people.”

  “And what do you believe in, Dimitri?” asked Liz.

  “I believe in Russia,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.

  “And art?” she asked. He seemed startled momentarily, then his face broke into a broad grin. “Art, of course. But what I mean is I belong to no political party; I have no religion. I am not a democrat or a Communist. I am Russian.”

  Liz smiled back, thinking about the glorious simplicity of this. What an escape it was from difficult issues. But what did it mean? Surely no one could seriously take that line in this day and age. Certainly no one with half a brain, and certainly not an art historian.

  Could she imagine herself saying “I believe in England”? Well, of course she might, in certain circumstances, but would it mean any more than a sort of nostalgic attachment to places she knew—the River Nadder in summer, when the meadows were full of wild flowers in the high grass; or St. James’s Park late in autumn, when the ducks huddled together against the November cold, and men started wearing overcoats on their way to work? Or would it mean a set of values—the civility that still hung on, somehow, in a distinctly uncivil age, even here in the bustle of London; the enthusiasm and loyalty that made Dave Armstrong work all hours on counter-terrorist operations even though he might earn five times as much in the City? Was that the sort of thing Dimitri was talking about? She suspected not. In fact she was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t actually talking about anything.

  “Where are you, Jane?” She looked up startled, to find Dimitri stirring from his chair. “You seem to me very far away. Let us go to supper.”

  Outside it was still light, and in Covent Garden a busker stood in the piazza, strumming a guitar. A teenage boy with a painted face juggled oranges in the air, and they stopped and watched before moving towards the Strand.

  “I thought since you are English and I am Russian, we could compromise,” said Dimitri as he opened the door to Joe Allen’s, a restaurant Liz knew as a theatre haunt that served American food—immense hamburgers and barbecued ribs, corn bread and Boston bean soup. Just the sort of thing she would normally avoid like the plague.

  They stepped down into a noisy, brick-lined cellar. At a long mahogany bar people stood drinking, waiting for their tables, and the restaurant itself was packed. But Dimitri spoke to the greeter, and they were shown at once to a table in a far corner. It was slightly quieter here, and Liz could just about make out what Dimitri said.

  “I recommend the barbecue,” he said when the waitress came to take their order.

  “Very American.”

  “Of course. Three days in California was like—how would you say it? A crash course.”

  “That’s right,” said Liz, thinking of her own week of intensive tuition with Sonia Warschawsky. She asked Dimitri if he had seen her.

  “I have,” he said. “She is very excited about the Pashko.”

  “You mean the Blue Field?”

  “Yes. She wanted to know who had bought it, because in the papers all it said was an anonymous buyer. I asked among some friends, and found that naturally enough, it had been bought by an oligarch.”

  “Someone you know?” Liz asked casually.

  Dimitri said, “I have met the man, but I do not know him well. He is more cultured than one might expect, so perhaps he will let people like Sonia come and see the picture.”

  Liz nodded blankly, slightly disconcerted that he knew Brunovsky. The last thing she wanted was for Dimitri to find out she was spending time in the Brunovsky household.

  “What about Blue Mountain?” she asked, moving the subject away from Brunovsky. “Could that turn up too, do you think?”

  Dimitri shrugged as their waitress put down a large platter of spare ribs. He grinned wolfishly at Liz, whose grilled tuna looked positively sedate by comparison.

  As he cut one of the ribs from the rack, Dimitri said, “I used to think talk of Blue Mountain was just another crazy conspiracy theory. But they found Blue Field, so who knows? It may turn up. I am told the country houses of Ireland are very beautiful, but many are decayed relics full of the webs of spiders, dusty corners with snakes and possibly lost pictures.”

  “There aren’t any snakes in Ireland,” Liz interjected. “St. Patrick charmed them all away.”

  Dimitri nodded appreciatively. “Ah. The power of religion. I like that story.”

  Dimitri recounted a story about his friend who bought art for the oligarchs and had almost paid $10 million for what turned out to be a phoney Rothko. “I told him to take advice, and fortunately for him he did. When he buys in my own period, I help him sometimes. For the purposes of authentication. He pays me,” he added. “A little.”

  Liz nodded. Perhaps this explained Dimitri’s lifestyle—the restaurants and expensive hotels.

  Suddenly she heard a chirping noise like a twittering bird. It was only when Dimitri reached for his jacket pocket that she realised it was his mobile phone. “Excuse me please,” he said, and answered it. As he listened his features tautened, the happy smile of the evening gradually replaced by a frown. He spoke tersely, in Russian, and when the call had ended and he put away his phone, he looked concerned.

  “Is everything all right?” asked Liz.

  “No,” he said bluntly. He gestured with annoyance. “It is that friend I spoke about. He is in London and requires my help.”

  “What? Now?” she said in surprise. She hadn’t been quite sure where the evening was heading, but she had not anticipated it ending like this.

  “I am terribly sorry. I would ask you to come along. But my friend, he has managed to get himself into a…” He paused, searching for the word.

  “A fix?”

  “Yes. A fix. It would upset him if I brought someone along he does not know. Damn!” he cursed, putting one hand to his forehead.

  “Don’t worry,” Liz said. “I understand.” She had done much the same thing herself on occasion, called away from dinner, even once from a concert, but never by a friend, only by her work.

  Outside on Exeter Street, Dimitri offered to walk Liz to her car. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Let’s find you a taxi. Your friend needs you.”

  As he opened the cab door, the Russian looked at her earnestly. “I hope I have not spoiled the evening for you. I have enjoyed it immensely.”

  “Likewise,” she said.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “That’s up to you, Dimitri,” she said lightly. “Let me know w
hen you’re coming to London.”

  His features momentarily lost their anxious cast and he smiled broadly again. “I will make it a priority,” he said and, leaning over, kissed Liz squarely on the mouth.

  What on earth was all that about? Liz thought as she walked to her car. Though she had enjoyed Dimitri’s company in Cambridge, somehow he didn’t translate to London. His little-boy enthusiasm did not quite ring true. It was almost as though he was acting, though she didn’t know why he should. Perhaps he just felt uneasy now he was on her home territory. Perhaps she was imagining it. But with her mind back in Cambridge, she remembered the odd incident in her hotel room. She had never satisfactorily explained that to herself. She suddenly thought of Charles and what he had said about risk. For the first time she felt uneasy.

  32

  After a day of clear sky, cloud had moved in, obscuring the moon and darkening the street. Just in from the corner of the mansion block, steps led down to a basement door where the building’s rubbish bins sat on a dank square of concrete, handy for their weekly collection on the kerbside.

  She had watched the street for several nights but there had been no sign of a surveillance team. Now she stood halfway down the steps, able to see either way along the narrow street, lit dimly by old-fashioned street lamps. When anyone came past, she moved silently down the steps and crouched, hidden, behind the bins until they’d passed, then emerged to resume her vigil.

  She wore a black hooded jacket, trainers and trousers with large pockets. From a distance, she could pass for a teenage boy, and she was being careful to ensure that no one saw her up close. What she’d planned with clinical calculation was intended to look random.

  She heard the brisk sound of footsteps as someone turned the corner a hundred yards up the street. Venturing a quick look, she saw the woman approaching, walking quickly. There was no one else in sight. This time she didn’t withdraw and hide, but crouched motionless against the iron railings of the stairs, certain her dark clothes would allow her to stay undiscovered until it was too late to matter.

  The footsteps grew closer, then closer still, their sound now vying with the thump thump of her own heartbeat as her adrenaline surged and her pulse quickened. She reached into her pocket as a faint elongated shadow appeared on the pavement, not three feet from where she crouched. The shadow passed and suddenly the woman was above her on the pavement, moving quickly, a handbag hanging from her left shoulder.

  She sprang out of her crouch and took two quick steps until she was right behind her. With one large sweeping movement, she threw an arm around the woman’s neck, jerking her so suddenly to a halt that her heels momentarily lifted right off the ground. A classic choke hold. The woman started to cry out, but then the pressure from the encircling arm had her fighting for air instead.

  In her left hand now she had the Stanley knife, its blade extended full out. “Don’t move,” she hissed in a low voice, pressing the point of the blade against the woman’s arm. “I won’t hurt you if you don’t move.”

  She kept her right arm taut around the woman’s throat, and with her left reached for the handbag. In one quick movement she cut through its strap, and the bag fell with a thud to the ground. “Relax,” she said. “I’ve got what I wanted.”

  But the woman stiffened in her grasp, twisting and hooking her left leg round her attacker’s ankle, throwing the threatening left arm momentarily against the railings. She just managed to regain her balance, surprised by the defensive move. The woman was a more difficult target than she’d expected. She must finish the job quickly. As she raised the Stanley knife to slit the woman’s throat, a voice shouted, “Hey! What are you doing? Stop! Stop!”

  Distracted, she looked over her shoulder and saw a group of people coming down the street. Pub leavers or partygoers, there were at least six of them, and they must have seen the struggle. The shouts grew louder, and she could hear running feet coming towards her.

  She must not get caught—that was the highest priority, higher than finishing this job. She twisted her hold on the woman’s throat and through sheer strength forced her to turn towards the steps going down to the rubbish bins. Suddenly releasing her grip, she shoved the woman hard and briefly watched as she stumbled, then fell facedown on the steps, landing with a crash against a metal dustbin.

  She reached down, grabbed the handbag and ran, sprinting in her trainers, away from the voices coming nearer, running all the way down the street and around the corner, then along two more streets to the safety of her parked car. She opened the car door and stood for a moment, listening intently. Nothing. If anyone had given chase, they had given up. She quickly took off her jacket, threw it and the handbag on to the back seat, then got in, started the car and drove carefully but at speed until she reached Albert Bridge Road. As she crossed the bridge a police car came past her from the opposite direction, its lights flashing.

  She would have more chances to take care of this woman, but she would only get caught once. She realised what a close call it had been.

  33

  A girl, you think. Are you sure of that, Miss?”

  Liz looked up from the cheap plastic chair, relieved that she was no longer seeing two of everything, though her head still throbbed and she felt very sick. “I said it was a female. I don’t know how old she was.”

  Liz had already been three hours in St. Thomas’s, which she supposed wasn’t actually too bad for Accident & Emergency this late at night. In the waiting room overhead fluorescent strips cast a bright, unforgiving light over the crowded room of waiting casualties. A couple sat right across from Liz—the man holding one arm and moaning in pain, while his girlfriend fiddled with her nails. In the corner a smelly old drunk in a dirty raincoat stretched over three chairs, snoring. A teenage boy, equally the worse for wear, had been sick on the floor and no one had come to clear it up.

  There had been nothing to do but wait patiently, skimming through the battered copies of Hello! magazine, willing her eyes to focus, until at last they’d called her name. The nurse had cleaned the long, painful scrape on her forehead, then taken her to Radiology for her shoulder, which was bruised and incredibly sore from hitting the concrete. When she came back, the two policemen had been waiting for her.

  “Did you get a look at her? Could you describe her?” asked the younger of the two. He was tall, with an earnest expression on his face and searching eyes.

  “Not really. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and the next thing I knew she’d grabbed me from behind. I think she was wearing something on her head.”

  “A balaclava probably. To hide her face,” said the older policeman. He had a puffy, beat-up face that looked as if he had seen it all.

  “Did she say anything?” asked the young policeman.

  “Not much. She said something like, ‘Don’t move and you won’t get hurt.’ Then once she’d got my bag she said, ‘I’ve got what I wanted.’” She thought those had been the words, but Liz remembered even more vividly the Stanley knife and her instinctive sense at the time that it wasn’t the bag the woman wanted. Not that Liz was going to tell these policemen that.

  Fortunately, the older cop seemed content to treat it as a simple mugging; he was keen to get out of there. His younger sidekick was less sure. “It seems odd,” he was saying now, “a mugging by a single female. They usually work in packs.”

  Liz said nothing, and the older cop spoke up. “Happens more and more these days. I arrested a girl last week in Tulse Hill who’d robbed an old man at knifepoint—believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted to meet her in a dark alley.”

  He laughed but the young cop frowned. Leave it alone, Liz pleaded silently. The last thing she wanted was any kind of investigation. It wouldn’t take them very long to find out that there wasn’t much to “Jane Falconer”—she dreaded having to ask Brian Ackers to ring Special Branch and have them call off the dogs.

  “Are you through with Miss Falconer, officers?” It was the nurse from the d
esk. “The doctor wants to see her now.”

  The young one hesitated, but the old pro nodded. “Yeah, we’re done all right.” He gave Liz a smile. “You look after yourself, young lady, and we’ll be in touch when we have any news.”

  “Thank you,” said Liz, more grateful than he knew.

  The doctor had a thin moustache and looked harassed as Liz came into his small, stuffy consulting room. He motioned her impatiently to a chair sitting at right angles to his unadorned desk, and told her that the X-ray showed nothing broken. He argued only briefly when Liz declined to stay in overnight for observation.

  “All right,” he relented, “I’ll get an ambulance to take you home. Have you got someone there to look after you?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying not to think of the cold, bare flat in Battersea she was going back to. “My mother,” she added. Which at least was potentially true, since Liz knew if she needed her, her mother would come up right away.

  “Stay in bed for a day or two,” he said, “and just let yourself recover in your own good time. If you’re sick, or your eyes go out of focus again, come back here straightaway. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself getting a bit weepy—you’ve had one hell of a shock. It’s just one of those things, I’m afraid. It could have been anyone they attacked—pure bad luck that you got picked.”

  As she waited for the ambulance Liz thought about this. Maybe it had been a random thing after all, she told herself. But no, she had an instinctive feeling that the attack had been professional—well planned and targeted specifically at her. But what did that mean? What would a professional attacker want from her? In her present half-concussed state, she wasn’t able to work it out. Even thinking about it made her head throb more. So she parked the thought at the back of her mind to return to later.

  As her transport arrived at last, Liz suddenly shivered; she saw again the knife two inches from her throat. That woman hadn’t been after her handbag; she’d been after Liz. And as a nurse helped her up into the ambulance, she suddenly heard in her head the twittering sound of Dimitri’s telephone.