A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  Charlie had insisted that he wasn’t to blame for what he’d done. He had no choice. And she had sacrificed her life for him in a last doomed, desperate bid to give Berlin options: a chance to escape and take Nikki with her. If Yorkie hadn’t given them away, it might just have worked.

  Berlin found herself looking again at the syringe in Maryna’s clenched hand. The barrel was full. It could be decanted. Reduced to smaller, safe doses.

  Who was she trying to kid? She had no bloody choice, either. She raised her foot and stomped down hard. Through the sole of her boot she felt the syringe shatter. The sensation jarred every cell in her body.

  Nikki looked up at her.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

  One good turn deserved another.

  79

  Berlin ran into the basement car park and pressed the key fob. At the far end of a line of upmarket vehicles, a Range Rover’s headlights flashed. There was the reassuring soft clunk of locks releasing.

  Getting out of the basement was easy. The same fob activated the security grille. The steering wheel, brakes, accelerator and gearshift were all familiar mechanisms. It was a car; she could drive. Here endeth the easy part.

  Nikki sat beside her. Yorkie was on the back seat. They were both sitting up, quite perky, ready to enjoy the ride.

  The glowing green digits on the dash read minus nine. Berlin cranked up the heater and reminded herself to stay on the wrong side of the road.

  Her sense of direction was reasonable. From the apartment window she had seen the Kremlin. She drove towards it. The heavy vehicle required only a surprisingly light touch to steer. She welcomed the feeling that she had some control, even if it proved to be temporary.

  The black sky was turning gun-metal grey. Dawn.

  Utkin pulled over and parked opposite the entrance to the apartment building. There was no sign of the Range Rover in the street, but no doubt it was in the underground garage.

  He slid the weapon inside his coat, got out and gazed up. He hoped the lift was working. This interview would not be conducted in the receptionist’s cubicle.

  The door to Colonel Gerasimova’s apartment remained resolutely closed. Utkin knocked again. He bent close. He could hear something faint. It sounded like moaning.

  He took a step back and kicked just below the lock. There was the sound of wood splintering. He took two steps back, drew his gun and charged at the door, shoulder first.

  The place looked as if a whirlwind had passed through it. ‘What the hell?’ said Utkin.

  Yuri lay on the floor, clutching his head and groaning.

  Utkin strode through the apartment. When he got to the bedroom door he stopped dead. The scene in there was horrific; he felt as if he were passing through the circles of hell, each more forbidding than the last.

  The cellophane wrapper peeked out from under the bed, mocking him. He walked in, snatched it up and strode out of the apartment, leaving the door wide open.

  He could hear Yuri calling after him, weakly, ‘Sasha . . . Sasha.’

  He hadn’t called him that for years.

  The lift seemed to take forever to reach the basement. Utkin took the weapon out from under his coat and held it ready. The doors opened.

  Berlin had no vehicle and she would need one to beat a hasty retreat from the carnage she had left in the flat.

  Utkin stepped out and made his way quietly along one wall. There were at least a dozen black Range Rovers, but none was the one he sought.

  He ran back to the lift.

  He would wring the truth out of that bastard Yuri.

  But by the time he got back to the apartment, Yuri had gone.

  The Range Rover flew along. Nikki had climbed into the back seat with Yorkie. Berlin dropped one of the phones into the hands-free dock. The phone chirruped. A smiley face appeared on the screen. It was a risk, but she absolutely had to have a phone if she and Nikki were to get out of this godforsaken country alive.

  The windows were tinted and the muddy slush she had smeared over the number plates would have frozen to a crust by now. That would help.

  But the luxury vehicle would have every technical and anti-theft advantage; they could easily be a pulsating dot on someone’s screen. She couldn’t afford to try disabling the electronic gizmos, for fear of triggering an anti-mobilisation device. Besides, she wouldn’t know where to start.

  The only thing in her favour was the fact it was New Year’s Day. When Yuri regained consciousness, it could take him a while to get a search up and running, particularly if he was concussed. She should have given him another whack, to make sure.

  80

  Delroy lay awake, staring at the clock radio. He had been watching the numerals flip over for hours. He had run the job himself: the instructions had come through him, he had made all the arrangements and, in accordance with the client’s requirements he had prepared the brief for Berlin.

  Nothing had to be signed off by a partner. No questions had been asked. A file number had been allocated and a budget established. His delegation, the amount of money he could sign off on, had been increased to cover Berlin’s expenses.

  They had jokingly said that it was so he wouldn’t have to bother his bosses during the holidays.

  There were no-one’s fingerprints on this assignment besides his own. It was his fuck-up. He was responsible for everything. He had let Berlin down in the worst possible way.

  Everyone was convinced Berlin was dead. Delroy had a feeling that for some parties this had come as a relief. It left the field clear. No loose ends. Berlin was the very definition of a loose end.

  Delroy turned over, holding back his tears. He didn’t want to disturb Linda. They had stayed up for New Year, hoping they could sleep late. The baby would probably have different ideas. He was almost dozing off when his mobile rang.

  Berlin only knew two phone numbers by heart. She flicked to speaker. Her call was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Delroy Jacobs,’ came a soft voice.

  Tears welled up and clouded Berlin’s vision, which wasn’t helpful when she was steering half a ton of four-wheel drive through a strange city on icy roads.

  ‘Del,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Berlin,’ said Del. His voice came through the speaker loud and clear. He was so surprised to hear from her he had obviously forgotten to whisper in order not to wake up Linda and the baby.

  Berlin laughed.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Del. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I could use a drink,’ said Berlin. ‘But apart from that, I’m fine.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Del.

  She could hear him choking up. She loved him to bits.

  ‘Del, I’ve got to get out of Russia,’ she said.

  ‘What’s all that noise?’ asked Del. ‘Are you in a car?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m driving it,’ said Berlin. ‘There are some people on my tail. I have to get to the closest EU country.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Del. ‘That’s crazy. Go to the embassy.’

  ‘That’s the last place I’m going,’ said Berlin. ‘Just find me a route and text it to me. Start from the Kremlin. It’s the only place I know that I can find.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but . . .’

  ‘Del?’ she said. ‘I have to turn the phone off soon. I’ll turn it back on one last time after ten minutes. Did you capture this number?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Del. ‘Look, hang on. What the hell’s happening? Who’s after you?’

  ‘Everyone,’ she said.

  Berlin switched the phone off and took it out of the dock. The SIM was still active, but she couldn’t afford to destroy it.

  She kept driving towards the pool of light reflected off the clouds, to the heart of the city she had to escape.

  81

  Utkin opened the sandalwood pencil box and dropped the cellophane wrapper in with the others. He shut the lid, then picked it up and threw it at the wall.

  The box lay
on a threadbare rug, forlorn, discarded.

  Utkin shuffled across the room and picked it up.

  He shuffled back again. Back and forth, his felt slippers slid across the linoleum.

  He was at a dead end.

  When his phone rang, he didn’t recognise the long number. Then he remembered the message at the office. He’d returned the call from his mobile, which he never blocked. There was no point. He wasn’t hiding.

  ‘Utkin,’ he said.

  ‘Zdravstvujtye, Major,’ came the response.

  Utkin was surprised.

  Berlin kept the motor running so they didn’t freeze to death. Nikki seemed oblivious to the cold. To most things. She glanced at him. He was gazing at the floodlit onion domes of St Basil’s, the tips of which appeared to float above the lofty red wall that surrounded the Kremlin.

  ‘So,’ said Berlin. ‘Here we are.’

  She was talking to herself, really, but she noticed a slight shift in his expression. There was no reason to think he didn’t understand every word. He just chose not to respond. Or, at least, not in any way that you could recognise unless you knew him very well.

  Perhaps Charlie, over-protective, had encouraged him to remain in a state of suspended animation. His apparent lack of reaction to her absence might indicate relief. It was an awful thought, given what Charlie had done for him.

  A cramp in Berlin’s leg travelled through her and rattled her bowels. The sudden pain made her gasp. She might have made a poor choice when she crushed Maryna’s syringe, although God knows what Maryna had cooked up.

  It could have been krokodil.

  Maybe she had simply acted out of fear. Self-preservation. She turned on the mobile to save herself from further introspection. A text message arrived with directions: highway numbers, a map, even a list of what appeared to be petrol stations.

  Del had done a good job. The border with Belarus was the closest to Moscow, but it wasn’t in the EU. It had to be Latvia. There was a border crossing at Terehova, just over seven hours from Moscow. The road appeared to run pretty much straight there. It was a numbered motorway, so she wouldn’t need to understand any Cyrillic letters.

  The tank was three quarters full, but no doubt the Range Rover was a gas guzzler. They would have to stop once, but at least she could turn the phone off now.

  She remembered sitting in her father’s Morris Minor. It was before she and her mother moved out into the house in Leyton, leaving Lenny in the flat above the shop in Bethnal Green.

  He always drove. Peggy would cling to her seat, which really annoyed him. Berlin and Zayde would be in the back.

  Lenny, a fan of American gangster films, would look over his shoulder at her, grin and say, in a bad Bronx accent, ‘Hold tight, kid. We’re gonna break for the border.’

  Her loving grandfather, who it now turned out was a gangster, would shout, ‘Vpered! Forwards!’

  Peggy would tut-tut.

  ‘Hold tight, Nikki,’ said Berlin. ‘Vpered.’

  82

  The doctor had given Yuri tablets for the pain. He had taken a handful, but his head still throbbed. He sat in the back seat, clutching it, as they cruised past the European Mall.

  He was sick, but the nausea that gripped him did not stem from the pain in his head: he had lost everything. He tried not to think about Maryna. ‘Pull over,’ he barked.

  The car veered abruptly and stopped. Yuri cried out at the jolt.

  The two men in the front turned to look at him, concerned. ‘What shall we do?’ said one.

  Yuri couldn’t bear to look at them. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Find that girl, the fucking junkie. It won’t be hard. I broke her nose. Don’t come back empty-handed.’

  When they had gone, he allowed himself to weep.

  When he was done, Yuri blew his nose and lit a cigarette. The bitch had taken the Range Rover. But unluckily for her it had a state-of-the-art anti-theft satellite tracking system.

  He called the firm who had done the installation and managed the tracking. He had the password and full user privileges, so was able to quickly respond to all the security checks. He listened as they implemented the activation process and real-time data collection.

  When they had finished, he hung up and flipped open the computer that was lying on the seat beside him. All the information would be routed directly to him. Hirst Corporation offered the most advanced facility of its kind.

  If the English woman was stupid or desperate enough to keep using the vehicle, Yuri wouldn’t be far behind. And what other options did she have?

  Eventually he would catch up with them. No-one else would have access to this information. Utkin wouldn’t dare issue a general alert for the car. He had too much to lose.

  Yuri would find her and the cretin and make an end to it. He would do it himself, to honour Maryna’s memory.

  He would finally be the man she had always wanted: one who would kill for her.

  Utkin struggled to read the open map, which he couldn’t really see without his glasses. Clear sight was wasted on the young. He didn’t need a route, anyway. There was just the one road to follow.

  The sandalwood pencil box lay on the passenger seat beside the map. His gun rested on his hip. Heavy, but comforting. Old faithful. Just like him.

  Loyalty was a much-derided notion these days.

  The M9 exit loomed ahead and he crossed lanes in readiness. They had at least an hour’s start on him. The Range Rover was fast, but it was hungry. Even with a full tank, they would have to stop for gas or risk running out.

  The car juddered as he accelerated. He spoke soothingly to it, muttering endearments. Together they had come far. Together they would go that little bit further. Six hundred and twenty kilometres.

  The Ford was very economical. He had a plastic container of petrol in the boot for emergencies. He could piss in a bottle.

  Nothing would stop him now. His quarry was within his grasp. He had everything he needed to end this whole ghastly murderous spree.

  He would finish it, whatever it took.

  83

  Berlin had negotiated the Moscow ring road and found the highway, the M9. It was divided by a concrete median barrier, which was a blessing. There was enough traffic to keep the tarmac clear of ice and snow, but it wasn’t hectic, probably because of the holidays.

  It gave her some time to think. If she was right, this whole sordid business challenged even her ingrained cynicism. Treason for profit. The currency of national security: loyalty, accountability, shared values, had been replaced by cash.

  There were any number of things that could go badly wrong now; even to call what she was embarking on ‘a shot in the dark’ was being generous. People were unpredictable. They didn’t always make the choices you expected. They never made the choices you wanted.

  The first thing that went wrong was the highway. It ran out. After about a hundred kilometres she found herself driving down a narrow dual carriageway. She switched on the phone briefly and checked Del’s instructions; it was definitely the right road.

  The hard shoulder on either side was obscured by walls of snow, broken only where lorries had skidded off the road and jackknifed. The drifts around the rigs indicated nobody was going to try to get them out until spring.

  The tarmac itself was lunar, pocked with craters large enough to get lost in; ribbons of frozen brown sludge formed ridges that challenged even the all-terrain tyres of the Range Rover. The steering wheel slipped through her clammy hands as the car juddered and jolted.

  Massive transports thundered towards them, blinding her with dazzling arrays of headlights. Those behind her overtook with a roar, careless of oncoming traffic.

  She had no time to think about anything except keeping herself and Nikki alive.

  Yuri had alerted all five traffic police units stationed along the M9. The first three had responded: there was no sign of the vehicle.

  Yuri knew the lazy bastards wouldn’t be venturing out to check. They would be si
tting with their feet up on the heater, or drinking in a disreputable highway trucking establishment.

  Beyond Moscow he had no authority. He was relying on goodwill or, more likely, the overweening ambition of some peasant who wanted a transfer into the big city.

  He kept his eyes on the road. The conditions were shocking, even for a local. Speed was down to eighty kilometres an hour at the most. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the road for long enough to check the computer screen, but the Range Rover had been on the move for nearly three and a half hours.

  She would have to stop soon.

  Berlin found herself driving through a gleaming white tunnel of swaying, snow-laden trees. The glare of the headlights bounced off the swirling blizzard. There was nothing to mark her lane. It was absolutely terrifying.

  She wasn’t even sure if she was still on the road. Her tongue was thick with fear and nausea. Nikki and Yorkie slept on. A dome of light appeared in the distance. She glanced at the fuel gauge. Pit stop.

  She pulled in beside a pump, turned off the motor and rested her head on the steering wheel.

  Nikki and Yorkie roused themselves.

  When she climbed out of the car, so did they. The little dog went off to make its yellow mark in the snow. Nikki looked at Berlin.

  ‘Go to the loo,’ she said. She pointed at the glowing icon above a door in the main building and unhooked the pump.

  The garage was similar to those found on English motorways, except there weren’t any crisps. Berlin paid for the petrol and bought a handful of chocolate bars and a cup of tea. She wasn’t about to risk the coffee.

  While she was sipping the hot, sour liquid she saw Nikki walk past the enormous plate-glass window with Yorkie tucked under his arm. He seemed to be watching something. Berlin approached the window, following the direction of his gaze.

  The lights on the two police vehicles were pulsing, the red and blue alternately tinting the snow.

  One was blocking the exit, the other the entrance.