Secret Intentions

by Caitlyn Nicholas

  She smiled to herself at the thought of the yacht. It was a beauty. Once she’d given it the all-clear, it’d be transported to the marina at Apuldram and she’d start the fit-out. Already her storage shed was groaning with leather seats, beds, bathroom fittings, an entire tiny kitchen, just waiting for the craftsmen to install them.

  She fished her passport out of her handbag as she approached passport control. Ahead of the crowd, there was no queue and she smiled at the official who greeted her with a cheery, “Hyvää päivää.”

  His smile did not last long. He scanned her passport, frowned once at the screen in front of him then spoke rapidly into the two-way radio attached to his shoulder. The stream of Finnish sounded like gobbledygook, and Zani fidgeted nervously.

  “Is there a problem? The passport is in date. It’s a European Union one. I don’t need a visa. Do I? I was here about eighteen months ago and I didn’t need one then. Has something changed?”

  “Wait please,” said the official, refusing to make eye contact.

  Two broad-shouldered men in dark suits appeared at the desk. They were both over six feet tall with blonde crew cuts and chiseled features. They looked like very bad extras from a James Bond movie, and Zani couldn’t help but christen them Mischka and Grischka after the knife throwing assassins from Octopussy.

  “Please, go with them. There’s a minor matter. It’s nothing to worry about,” said the official in lilting English.

  Nothing to worry about?

  “Thank you,” said Zani automatically then wished she hadn’t, thinking it akin to thanking her executioner. She held out her hand for her passport, but he ignored her and gave it to one of the men.

  She didn’t like not having her passport. Didn’t like it all. Tendrils of panic uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, and for a moment she debated making a scene. Other passengers from the plane were arriving in dribs and drabs, and several watched the unfolding drama with interest. Taking a calming breath she decided against it. It wouldn’t do any good. Best if she went with the men and sorted everything out civilly. If need be she could call Christer, the CEO of Baltic Yachts; he’d vouch for her. She’d shoved her mobile in her back pocket and slid a hand back to reassure herself that it was still there.

  Mischka and Grischka escorted Zani deep into the airport, one on either side, hemming her in. She expected they’d end up in an interview room, but instead they wove their way through blank corridors and past closed doors until she was completely lost.

  “Where are we going?” she ventured, glancing worriedly up at Mischka. Neither of them acknowledged her. Unused to being treated in such a way, she purposefully slowed her pace. Grischka grunted aggressively at her. So she stopped.

  “I’m not going another step until you tell me where we’re going.”

  “Move,” said Mischka, pointing down the corridor. Zani was sure that wherever it led, she didn’t want to be there.

  “No.”

  The men exchanged a look and Grischka slipped an arm across Zani’s back, propelling her along. Her choice was clear. She could either walk or be dragged. She stumbled forward, resisting as much as she dared.

  “I’m a British citizen. I demand to know where we are going.” Her voice sounded high pitched and breathless, but she didn’t care. “I wish my embassy to be informed of my whereabouts immediately.”

  Neither man even hesitated.

  They pushed open a heavy, dark blue door with “Ampua Ulos” written on it in white—fire exit—and walked out onto the tarmac of the airport. Parked a short distance away was a Lear Jet, its door open and its motor whining. The temperature hovered somewhere around minus eleven degrees, and Zani could feel the heat of her body being sucked away through the jumper that had been perfectly adequate for London’s balmy ten degrees when she left. She had an enormous padded jacket—in fact it was almost the sole occupant of the suitcase she’d bought with her, which, no doubt, was forlornly going around and around in the baggage hall.

  “Where are we going? I’m not getting on that.” Zani raised her voice. This was ridiculous. Who got abducted at the airport in broad daylight in Finland? She had visions of being whisked away to some Middle Eastern country and sold into a harem. Chained up, wearing diaphanous clothes and being seduced by some sheik, crawling with STDs. There was one thing she was sure about: she wasn’t getting on that plane.

  Grischka urged her forward, and with all her strength she planted her feet and leaned back against him.

  “Help,” she shrieked, looking wildly about for another person. There wasn’t a soul around. “Help me,” she screamed as loudly as she could. Mischka and Grischka dragged her toward the plane. “No. No. Help.”

  She collapsed onto the ground. If they dragged her as far as the plane’s steps she’d be able to grab onto one. She promised herself she’d never let go. They, however, had other plans. Mischka wrenched her hands behind her back and, twisting her wrists painfully, picked her up by them. Grischka must have held her feet, but Zani didn’t notice. All she could focus on was the pain that lanced through her shoulders. It felt like they were tearing her arms off. She tried to struggle, but it was useless. They’d completely immobilised her. She held herself rigid, trying to ease the pain, and watched the tarmac pass beneath her.

  After heaving her up the steps, they unceremoniously dumped her onto the carpeted floor of the small plane.

  “Get up.”

  It took her a moment to get the circulation back into her arms. She stood slowly, surreptitiously scanning the plane for an escape. There wasn’t much option. One man stood in front of her, one behind, trapping her. She had less chance of getting past them than the fat man on the Finnair flight. Still, she eyed the exit door; freedom was only a few metres away. Mischka grunted again, pointing to a plush leather armchair.

  “Sit.”

  She moved toward the chair and, seeing him drop his guard a little, she dived at him, hoping to somehow claw to the exit. She may as well have thrown herself at a brick wall. She hit a solid expanse of chest. He didn’t even step back. He grabbed her bruised wrists, twisting them and making her shriek in pain. Using the downward momentum he forced her into the seat, and Zani’s fight or flight instincts kicked in.

  She bit, screamed, kicked and fought as hard as she could. Some conscious part of her brain switched off. She felt no pain and it was almost as if she stood outside herself, watching as she fought for her life. Instinctively she tried for her captor’s groin, kicking, punching, grabbing, anything. But Mischka held her off easily, keeping the area in question well out of danger. He rattled something to Grishka.

  The sting of a needle entering her arm snapped her back to reality. She froze and slumped back in the seat.

  “What?” she gasped. “No.” She felt the drug seep through her system, like a warm flush. She groaned as if steel bands squeezed her chest. She couldn’t get air in, and her heart pounded painfully. I’m dying. The world blurred and faded to black.

  Zani jerked awake with a gasp and sat up, scrabbling backwards until a soft padded headboard stopped her. Her head swam nauseatingly, as if she’d been drinking Babycham and brandy, and her mouth felt drier than the Tigris River downstream from a Turkish dam. She looked around wildly. The room was unfamiliar, large and predominantly pink. Moaning in terror, she tried to make herself as small as possible, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

  Nothing happened.

  Her nose itched, and she scratched it.

  Desperate thirst started to override abject fear.

  Two armchairs covered in a lovely pink and white chintz sat next to a low table. A single lamp lit the room with a cozy glow.

  A flagon of water sat on a small table beside the bed with a dainty glass next to it. Uncurling, she reached over, ignored the glass and gulped directly from the jug. She kept going until it was empty.

  Then she cautiously climbed off the bed. Her legs wobbled a little, but the water had helped and her he
ad felt better. She was fully dressed, no diaphanous robes to be seen, and her suitcase and handbag sat neatly next to the bed. Thick curtains covered the windows.

  She checked her handbag. Everything was there. Her purse, her iPod, even her passport. She retrieved it and tucked it into a pocket. It wouldn’t be leaving her person again. Not if she could help it, she amended. Her wrist ached as she unzipped her suitcase. Glancing down, she saw purple bruises encircling them both like bracelets. Running her hand up her left arm, she found the sore lump where the needle had entered. It hadn’t all been a nightmare.

  She very badly needed to get away from wherever the hell here was.

  With a jolt of hope she pulled out her mobile and turned it on. It was simple. She’d just ring someone and let them know what had happened. Nibbling a fingernail, she impatiently waited for the phone to switch on, then keyed in her code. She kept glancing at the door, terrified someone would realize she was communicating with the outside world and come bursting in.

  The little phone beeped twice and then flashed up “No Network Coverage”. She bit down hard on her nail, breaking it, and fought back tears, refusing to let herself panic. There would be another way out. It was just a question of finding it. Tucking the phone back in her pocket, she explored the room.

  It was sumptuous. Her feet sank into lush cream carpet and the curtains were deep pink velvet. She opened one a crack and gasped in horror. Snow covered the ground as far as the eye could see.

  Her room was on the second floor, and in the dim twilight she looked down onto a featureless garden. There wasn’t a gap in the unrelenting white. In the distance she could make out a line of grey, leafless trees but other than that, nothing. No light or any other sign of habitation penetrated the gathering gloom.

  Now she knew she was somewhere very cold, which put paid to the Middle East white slave trade theory and her STD-riddled Sheik. She didn’t miss him. At this time of the year, cold and snow could mean anywhere from the Arctic circle to Switzerland. Then she remembered Switzerland had mountains, lots of them. She peered out the window again. No mountains. Not the Middle East and not Switzerland. Slowly the possibilities were narrowed down.

  Leaving the curtains open she abandoned the window and sat with a sigh on one of the pink and white armchairs and eyed the room’s two doors. The next task would be to open one of them, a task that filled her with a fundamental reluctance. She’d begun to feel safe in the room. There’d been nothing there to scare her and following the terror of her abduction she didn’t want to disturb the status quo. For an insane moment she contemplated burying herself in the bed and pulling the covers over her head.

  There was, however, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Firmly putting all qualms aside, she hurried across the room and tried the handle of the door opposite the bed. She expected it to be locked, but it turned easily and swung open silently. Outside was a corridor. Just a corridor. A bit chillier than the bedroom and lit with glowing wall sconces.

  Zani let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

  She tiptoed along, stopping to check for any noises. But the only thing she could hear was her own breathing and the blood pounding in her ears. Each door along the corridor was closed and silent, and she was too scared to open any of them.

  As she came toward the end of the corridor she realised it turned. Busy wondering what she might find around the corner, she didn’t look where she went and with a muffled curse she knocked a small table. The ornament on the table fell off its stand with a clatter and rolled with a dull thud onto the thick carpet.

  She froze, but no sound was forthcoming. No footsteps, no voices. So she bent and picked up the ornament and for just a moment forgot her predicament. She knew a Fabergé egg when she saw one. Deep blue, with a gold, almost paisley pattern, studded with hundreds of tiny pearls. She’d never seen anything so beautiful. With a trembling hand she balanced it back on its stand. No point annoying her captors further by destroying their priceless eggs.

  Around the corner at the end of the corridor, there was a short landing and stairs which disappeared out of sight. Tired of creeping around and wanting to get the whole thing over with, she took a deep breath, ran her hands through her hair, stood up straight and forced her shoulders to relax. Like the lady of the house, she swept to the top of the stairs and descended, as if she had every right in the world to be there.

  At the bottom step she hesitated, listening for a clue as to which direction she should take. No point ending up in a broom cupboard after all. Distantly she could hear heels clicking on a tiled floor, and closer the low murmur of a voice. It came from a room to the left. She tiptoed over. A thin shaft of light was visible under the door. Attack was always better than defence, or at least Zani thought it was. Maybe that was wrong? Defence was better? She cursed herself for missing the documentary on Lao Tzu and his ancient Chinese novel, The Art of War. He’d have known.

  Still, defence would have meant barricading herself in the bedroom, and that would have been infinitely less interesting than attack.

  Before she could debate it any further, Zani closed her eyes in a silent prayer and flung open the door. It hit the wall with a crash and bounced back at her. She caught the handle and pushed it open more slowly. There, one hand clutched to his chest and the other clamped around the phone he held to his ear, was Vladimir Klebnikoff. He looked quite surprised.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped. Contracts be buggered, Zani had had quite enough of this difficult client.

  Hastily putting the phone down, Klebnikoff stood and hurried out from behind his ornate desk.

  “Lady Best, I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you. I hope you haven’t misinterpreted my little surprise.” Smiling, he took her hand and patted it absently. His skin felt warm and baby soft, and Zani fought the urge to pull away. She opened her mouth to snap at him again, to tell him precisely what she thought of him and to explain exactly how livid she was about the way she’d been treated. But something in the man’s beady expression stopped her. Despite his warm, avuncular smile, malevolence lurked in his eyes.

  “Your surprise?” she said archly, playing along.

  “Indeed, I thought you would like a little holiday. To work on the designs for the boat. Your brother thought you’d be thrilled.”

  “Well, my brother was wrong,” she said sharply.

  “Oh my dear, I am just mortified…” He managed to look genuinely upset, “I don’t suppose you have any idea where you’re brother is? I am seeking him quite urgently,” continued Klebnikoff, peering at her searchingly and not letting go of her hand.

  “No. I haven’t seen Paul for several days,” replied Zani, frowning in confusion. She didn’t add that Corbin had his private investigator fruitlessly scouring the globe for any sign of Paul. He’d disappeared without trace.

  “Well, that’s a pity. You see I was hoping you’d stay until I’d found him. You and he could have a little reunion here. Family is so important don’t you think?”

  “Of course. But I regret that I cannot stay. I must be getting back to London as soon as I can. My father is very unwell. I really shouldn’t have left him.” Klebnikoff could hope all he wanted, but there was not a chance in hell that Zani would be hanging about in the middle of God-knew-where until her brother deigned to show his face. The thought of her father brought back the gnawing anxiety, and she reassured herself he was in safe hands at the hospital with Marion keeping a close eye on him and Corbin keeping an even closer eye on them both.

  “Oh, my dear. Your dedication is admirable. You are free to leave whenever you wish.” He smiled broadly and gestured back toward the stairs. “The front door is on your left.”

  “Thank you,” said Zani graciously. He let go of her hand, and she hurried out of the room to the front door. Wrenching it open, she sucked in a horrified breath.

  Before her lay nothing but thick snow. The only clear area was a roadway that led off into the distance.
There were no vehicles, houses or people to be seen.

  “Where am I?” she demanded as Klebnikoff appeared behind her.

  “Russia, my dear, about twenty kilometres outside St. Petersburg. As I said, you may leave at any time. Though I should warn you that it is a long walk, and it gets down to about minus sixteen degrees Celsius at this time of year. That’s three degrees in the old scale. And, as you have no visa, if you survived the journey, it’s likely you’ll be arrested as an illegal immigrant the moment you come in contact with the authorities. Now why don’t you close that door and come inside for a nice cup of tea?”

  Zani made no move, staring down the grey road as if rescue would suddenly appear. James Bond perhaps, whizzing down from a hovering helicopter to whisk her to safety.

  “I believe your Prime Minister isn’t on the best terms with our President…” he added.

  Zani saw she had no option. That, regardless of the luxury, she was a prisoner. Captive in a gilded cage. Klebnikoff was right, political relations between Britain and Russia were more strained than usual due to a disagreement over the perilous state of Russia’s nuclear submarines. An illegal British citizen would be naïve to expect much in the way of diplomatic largess. If, as Klebnikoff had so gently pointed out, she survived the walk.

  “You are holding me here against my will.” She gritted her teeth against a shiver, which had more to do with her utter desolation than the freezing cold.

  “Oh, come now. Must you be so unreasonable?” Yes. I must. Unwilling to do what he wanted, but sure she had little option, Zani hesitated. Then she sighed and stepped back, closing the door. Freezing to death wasn’t going to achieve anything. Best if she behaved as Klebnikoff wanted, figured out what the psychopathic little man wanted and tried to escape another way.

  “I suggest you go back to your room, my dear. I have a surprise waiting there for you. I’ll send up the housekeeper with some tea.”

  “Thank you,” said Zani stiffly.

  “Proper Russian tea,” he added with a kind twinkle in his eyes.