Tell Me A Lie

by CJ Carver

  ‘You’ll let me go?’ She tried not to sound pitiful but with her nose smashed flat against her face, her voice was feeble and weak.

  ‘Of course. What do you think we are? Animals?’

  She looked at his ancient, arrogant features, clean-shaven, his expensive coat and shoes.

  She muffled, ‘What will you do to her?’

  ‘Nothing that you need to know about.’

  Milena listened to the distant hum of traffic and tried to think past the pain. Work out what to do.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Presnenskiy Val ulitsa,’ she said. ‘Block number eight. Apartment eleven.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be lying, would you?’

  She started to shake her head but the pain was too much and she said, ‘No.’

  ‘So when we send a car there, we’ll find Ekaterina Datsik.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘If we don’t find her, I will get my friends to cut off one of your fingers. They will continue cutting until you give me the right address and we have found her.’

  How could she survive this? Desperately she tried to make a plan.

  ‘Do it,’ he said.

  The first thug bent over her and when she saw the pruning shears she gasped, ‘OK, OK.’

  She didn’t see she had a choice. Gulping, weeping, trying to play for time, she said, ‘I’m not sure of the exact address. I’ve never been there . . .’

  Before she could move the thug had gripped her hand. He placed the blades on either side of her thumb. She was sweating and whimpering. ‘Please don’t, please –’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s an apartment block on ulitsa Peredelkino. It’s the third on the left if you come at it from Chobotovskaya alleya.’ She gasped out an apartment number and floor. She closed her eyes. May God forgive me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Dan managed to persuade Fyodor to ask a neighbour if he could use their phone. He had no idea whether Fyodor’s apartment would be bugged or not, but thought it worth taking the precaution. Instinct told him not to use his mobile. He didn’t want his call traced. Fyodor’s neighbour, a small woman in a blue dress, led him inside, her sagging middle-aged face as long and melancholy as a bloodhound’s. When Dan offered to pay her for the calls, she refused in a voice surprisingly deep for such a fragile-looking frame.

  The phone was in the hallway, a narrow space filled with books. Books were crammed on shelves, others on the floor and piled on top of one another in messy towers. He saw the names of the greats, Dostoyevsky, Pushkin, Tolstoy. Also some modern literature. He recognised Lyudmila Ulitskaya’s The Kukotksy Case and recalled it had won an award of some sort. How he knew this he didn’t know. The knowledge was just there, like he knew how a glass of milk would taste.

  He raised the receiver, listened to the buzz. Dialled 8. Waited for a second dialling tone then dialled his home number. It rang four times before it was answered.

  ‘Hellooo?’ a voice sang. It was Aimee.

  ‘Hi munchkin.’

  ‘Daddy!’ Her ecstatic squeal almost split his eardrum. ‘Where are you? Are you coming home? Granny and Grandpa are here, we’ve had chocolate brownies and some carrot cake but the brownies were the best because Mummy put white chocolate buttons on the top, we’ll save some for you if you like, they were yummy and . . .’

  As her prattle continued he felt relief trickle through every cell in his body. Aimee was OK. She was with her grandparents and everything was OK.

  ‘Sweet pea,’ he tried to interrupt. ‘I need to speak to Mummy.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Like for the weekend?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Mummy!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Daddy!’

  He heard sounds of cloth brushing and soft thumps as she carried the cordless phone to her mother.

  ‘Love you, munchkin.’

  ‘Love you tooooo!’

  Small pause. Then Jenny said, ‘Dan.’ With that one word he knew he’d made her happy. His heart squeezed and out of nowhere he felt a rush of emotion so powerful he could have dropped to his knees and wept. He loved his wife so much. Why had he moved out? The answer came in a rush, shocking him with the truth. Because he was punishing her.

  He rested his head against the wall. Closed his eyes. He said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘My love.’ Her voice was gentle, cradling him, forgiving him.

  ‘I’ll make it right when I get back. I promise. But right now, I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I need you to take extra-special care of yourself and Aimee until I get back.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her voice was warm.

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ He took a breath. She wasn’t going to like this but there was no way to avoid it. She had to know. ‘Something’s come up at work. That might involve you.’

  ‘Like what?’ Her voice sharpened.

  ‘I’m not sure. But it could be dangerous.’

  Silence.

  ‘I want you to –’ He swallowed his words as Fyodor burst into the hallway.

  ‘The police!’ His expression was wild. ‘They come!’

  ‘Hold on,’ he said urgently to Jenny.

  Fyodor dragged him out of the apartment to the stairwell window. A police car had turned into the street, along with an unmarked vehicle sporting government plates.

  ‘Maria.’ Fyodor spat out the word. ‘She has told them where to come. Traitor.’

  Dan spun round, wanting to race back to the phone but the old woman’s door was shut and didn’t open when he knocked. She didn’t want to get involved any further, not now Fyodor was in a panic and the police were in the street.

  Dan looked outside again to see the cars were cruising slowly, obviously unfamiliar with the place.

  ‘We have to move her,’ Dan said.

  ‘Yes.’

  They had to work fast. Inside the apartment Fyodor threw several items into a bag. Glanced at Dan. Moved to a cupboard and seized a pair of trousers and a khaki-coloured fleece, tossed them across. ‘You must change.’

  Belatedly Dan realised his clothes were blood-stained from holding Ekaterina. Swiftly he swapped garments. The trousers were tight, but he managed to haul them on, along with a baggy fleece. Fyodor grabbed a bunch of keys. ‘My car,’ he said. ‘It is down the street. I will bring it to the rear of the building.’

  Dan checked outside to see the cars had pulled up outside the apartment block. Two uniforms were climbing out of the first car. Two plain-clothes cops climbed out of the second.

  He carried Ekaterina to the rear of the building. Stood outside on the step with her in his arms. He could hear the whine of the elevator, and music playing somewhere. Then Fyodor was there with a weather-beaten Lada Samara sedan. Nought to sixty in fourteen seconds or so, and that was in a straight line, on a dry road. Fyodor left the engine running as he went to open the rear door. Dan hurried with Ekaterina to the car, trying not to slip on the ice. He’d barely taken four steps when he heard a shout.

  He didn’t look round. He simply put Ekaterina in the back and said to Fyodor, ‘I’ll drive.’

  Fyodor looked as though he might protest.

  ‘In my last job,’ Dan hastily told him, ‘I used to instruct racing car drivers.’

  Fyodor immediately scurried onto the back seat with his sister.

  Another shout.

  ‘Hurry!’ Fyodor told Dan.

  Dan slid into the driver’s seat. Slipped the car into second gear. Swift glance in the rear-view mirror to see one of the plain-clothes cops. He was running after them. He was on the phone.

  Dan pressured the accelerator, careful not to make the tyres spin in the slush and lose traction. He changed into third. Then fourth. They made steady progress down the back street. The plain-clothes cop had stopped running and was gazing after them. He was still on the phone.

  ‘Turn
right here!’ Fyodor told him. His voice was high with tension.

  Dan turned the corner, picking up speed, feathering the steering wheel, unconsciously getting a feel for the car, its weight and behaviour. Light steering but reasonably accurate. Soft suspension, body roll through the corners but a fairly decent grip.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Dan changed down a gear and rammed his foot on the accelerator. Drove flat out. He revved the engine high, keeping the speed up, hands light on the wheel, ready for anything. Streets and junctions flashed past.

  ‘Take the next left!’ Fyodor continued giving directions. ‘Over the bridge!’

  ‘No bridge,’ he said. Bridges were exposed areas. They could be trapped.

  ‘Straight ahead,’ Fyodor quickly amended. ‘Right at the crossroads.’

  As Dan drove, his concentration was focused on planning ahead, looking at where he wanted to go. You look at the corner of the building you’re skidding around, you drive into the corner of the building. So he fixed his gaze at the next corner, not at the road he was driving along, his concentration fixed, every sense taken up with correcting and assessing what was ahead; traffic lights, pedestrians, trams.

  He raced past a scattering of vehicles. He had to veer a little to pass a truck and the tyres broke traction. They began to skid straight into the path of an oncoming bus.

  ‘Chert!’ exclaimed Fyodor. Oh, shit!

  Resisting his instinctive reaction to lift off the accelerator Dan instead increased the pressure, easing out on the steering wheel at the same time. The Lada’s rear tyres pushed back on to the road just in time for Dan to nip round the front of the bus.

  ‘Spasibo, Gospodi,’ Fyodor breathed. Thank you, Lord. Dan saw him cross himself.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Dan asked.

  ‘South. To Yasenevo.’

  Dan was barrelling down a busy street full of shops when he heard the sirens. Quick glance in his rear-view mirror showed two cop cars at the end of the street. They had larger engines, better performance. They were catching up.

  He rode tight behind a Lada Niva, inches from its rear bumper, waiting for a truck driving from the opposite direction to pass. The second it was in his peripheral vision Dan popped out and zipped past the Niva, tearing down the street, overtaking at every opportunity, aware of nothing but his grip on the steering wheel, the road, the laboured scream of the engine and the snapshots in the rear-view mirror of the police cars overtaking traffic behind him.

  Dashing past a row of three cars, he hit some rubbish or debris, or simply a patch of ice, he had no way of knowing, but the car’s rear end suddenly stepped out. The car flew sideways but his hands were already turning to correct the skid, preventing the vehicle snapping into a full spin. Then he was off again, flat out, his focus and determination on the traffic lights ahead.

  ‘Fyodor.’ He waited until the man looked at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do you have anyone who can help you?’

  Fyodor’s face was pale. ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I drop you off, will they come and fetch you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dan flew down the next straight. When the slush parted he let the car race howling to the corner until he was nearly past it and then he lifted off the accelerator and shoved his foot hard on the brakes. The nose of the car dived under his heavy braking and he spun the steering wheel right, the rear swinging out, the whole body of the car rolling, shuddering and creaking as he pushed through the turn. As the car squealed past the apex of the bend he floored the gas and they flew out of the corner towards the next corner, and the next one after that.

  The police cars appeared briefly in the rear-view mirror but quickly faded into the background.

  ‘Fyodor. When I tell you, I want you to get out of the car with Ekaterina. I will drive on. Draw them away.’

  Fyodor didn’t protest.

  ‘You can’t stay in Moscow,’ Dan told him.

  ‘No.’ The man’s voice shook.

  ‘I want you to ring a number. Tell them what happened. They will help you.’ Dan gave him Bernard’s direct line. ‘Give them the code words Lynx and Mountain Lion and say they’re in Colorado looking for a fast river.’

  Fyodor stared at him.

  ‘Repeat the number,’ Dan said.

  Fyodor stumbled once, but remembered it the second time.

  ‘What are the animals?’

  ‘Lynx and mountain lion.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In Colorado.’

  Dan scrubbed down his speed for the traffic lights ahead, planning his right turn around an artic lorry and a bus.

  ‘Looking for?’

  ‘A fast river.’

  ‘Now the number, Fyodor.’

  He repeated it flawlessly.

  Dan slipped past a lorry. The street ahead was filled with delivery vans, shoppers, market stalls, awnings, trays of vegetables, platters of meat. Lots of bustle, lots of cover. Plenty of places for them to hide.

  ‘Here,’ said Dan. ‘Get ready.’

  He waited for a gap in the cars parked by the kerb and slewed the car into a space. Fyodor already had the door open and his feet on the kerb by the time Dan stopped. It took five seconds, no more, for Fyodor to lift his sister outside and slam the door shut.

  Dan didn’t waste time seeing where they went. He pulled straight out and pushed through the market, hand on the horn and weaving round delivery trolleys and shoppers until suddenly the road was clear. He floored the accelerator with no clue where he was going. He just knew he would drive and keep driving as fast and hard as he could, lead them away from Fyodor and Ekaterina for as long as he could, at least until he ran out of petrol. Which could be now or in twenty minutes, he had no idea; the fuel gauge didn’t work.

  He wasn’t going very fast, maybe fifty, down a narrow residential street, when he heard the distinctive clatter of rotor blades. Sweat sprang along his spine. A helicopter. He was surprised it had taken them this long to get one in the air. Now they could coordinate a road block. Shepherd him where they wanted before trapping him. Time to abandon the car and run on foot. He started looking for cover. A wooded park would do, or a warren of busy streets filled with shops and arcades.

  He tore around the next corner into another street. Broad with snow-covered trees dotting the pavements.

  His stomach hollowed.

  Two police cars and a police bus blocked the far end.

  He glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  Clear.

  He swiftly came off the gas, the car’s weight coming forwards to provide grip at the front end. He took a big bite of the steering wheel and turned in a single fluid motion, simultaneously pressing the clutch and pulling on the handbrake.

  The rear wheels locked, started to slide.

  As the back of the car came round, he let the wheel slip through his hands. Controlled, smooth.

  The car spun round.

  The second he was facing the other way, he released the handbrake, knocked the gearstick into first and brought out the clutch with enough revs to spin the wheels slightly.

  And rocketed back the way he’d come.

  He was looking at the end of the street, planning to turn right, when two more police cars careened into view, straight in front of him. Two vans followed.

  He was trapped.

  He saw men in black flak jackets and helmets pour out of the vans: each carried an assault weapon. OMON: Special Purpose Mobile Unit.

  Dan slammed on the brakes.

  The car was still moving as he went for his phone.

  He could have done this earlier but he’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that he might get away . . .

  His hands shook as he dialled.

  The OMON team fanned out fast, their weapons trained on him.

  He poured sweat, praying she’d answer. That she hadn’t left her phone at home. That she would hear it ringing.

  ‘Love,’ she said. Her voice was warm, filled with happiness. />
  Four police dropped to their knees, their weapons steady on him. Another half-dozen began to approach, cheeks against their weapon stocks, ready to fire.

  ‘Brimstone, Jenny.’ He was gasping in haste. ‘Brimstone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brimstone!’ He was almost screaming. ‘Do you remember what we said about Brimstone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice suddenly came alert.

  ‘Do it!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And my phone!’

  ‘I’ll do it now.’

  He ripped out his micro SIM card. Grabbed the car key and belted the card against the dash, cracking it. He then put the SIM card into his mouth and with absolute determination, swallowed it.

  The police continued to approach. They were shouting, gesticulating for him to get out of the car.

  Dan put up his hands, showing he didn’t have a weapon.

  One of the cops came close to the car, gesturing violently with his gun.

  Dan reached for the car door. He kept his other hand up and open for them all to see. He opened the door. Raised both hands once more. Kicked the door wide.

  The second he began to swivel to exit the car they were on him. Shouting and screaming, they dragged him bodily out of the car and pushed him to the ground. Ice and gravel scraped his face.

  He felt the cold steel of a weapon against his neck; another dug painfully into his kidneys. His legs were kicked apart, his hands forced behind his back. Handcuffs clamped around his wrists.

  One of the men kicked him in the ribs, obviously letting off steam. Another joined him but backed off when a man barked an order. A dry, rasping voice that had the men standing to attention.

  Dan struggled up to see an old man leaning on a cane. Aquiline features. Alert blue eyes. He came forward, studied Dan. In fluent English, he said, ‘Where did you learn to drive like that?’