* * * *
“Can I borrow your laptop, in case I need to read the flash drive?” Craig asked as he sipped his morning coffee.
Nikki sat in front of the television, dressed in her negligee and holding a bowel of breakfast cereal. “Sure, it’s on the table.”
He retrieved her small computer and locked it in his brief case.
“Craig!” Nikki yelled, pointing at the television screen. She grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume.
“. . . wanted in connection with the fatal shooting of an as yet unidentified man yesterday at a Manhattan restaurant,” a female voice reported as Yegor Demidoff’s covered body was wheeled out of Romano’s and loaded into a forensic vehicle. “Balard is also wanted for the murders of three prominent New York lawyers and a police officer. A gun believed to be the murder weapon, and registered to Balard, was recovered from the house of one of the victims, a Mr Philip Powell, early this morning. Police are appealing to the public to report any sighting of Balard, but warn not to approach him as he is considered to be armed and highly dangerous . . .”
When the bulletin ended, Nikki turned the sound down. “You should turn yourself in. Explain what happened. If this killer is after you, the police can help you.”
“They couldn’t protect Powell,” Craig said, sad to discover the third partner of his law firm was now dead.
“Tell them he stole your gun. Show them your apartment. They’ll believe you.”
“Even if they did, they wouldn’t let me leave the country, and right now, I have to go to find this Valentina woman in London.” He could have added, the strange woman who appeared each time his life was in danger had told him to give the MLI master list to Valentina, although not why. “When I get back, I’ll sort this out.”
“Suppose they’ve put you on a watch list?”
“Then it’ll be a short trip!”
Nikki knew his mind was made up. “I suppose you want me to drive you to the airport?”
“There’d be less chance of being recognized if you did.”
“I’m too good for you,” she said, shaking her head.
He smiled. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out.”
* * * *
Nikki’s car pulled up beside the airport terminal ninety minutes before Craig’s flight was due to depart. She gave him a long hug and a short kiss, tears welling in her eyes.
“I’ll be back in a few days.”
“You better be!” she said.
Craig climbed out of the car, waved as she drove off, then hurried into the terminal. He checked in, collected his seat allocation, then strolled through the terminal killing time until his plane boarded. At a news stand, stacks of newspapers fresh off the presses were on sale. He went to pick up the New York Times, and saw his face splashed across the front page. It was a grainy rendition of his driver’s license picture, when his hair was shorter. He turned sharply and walked away from the newsstand, feeling as if his own face now betrayed him as one of the country’s most wanted men.
Desperate to hide his face, he walked into the men’s room and locked himself in a cubicle. There was still fifty minutes until his plane boarded. He hid there for over half an hour, then with barely enough time to board the plane, he slipped the bolt back and headed towards passport control. No one paid him any attention as he crossed the terminal at a brisk pace, appearing to be a businessman late for a flight.
He joined a line, keeping his face down to avoid security cameras. When he handed his passport to the immigration officer, he tried unsuccessfully to look relaxed. The officer checked his picture, flicked through the pages, then scanned his passport into the computer. Craig could barely breathe as the immigration officer seemed to read a message on her screen, then she stamped the passport and handed it back. Unable to believe his luck, he hurried to the gate, wondering how the authorities had missed having his name added to a watch list.
Craig passed through the final security checks, and was the last to board the United Airlines 747. He took his seat, unable to relax until the flight crew locked the doors and the plane began to taxi. A few minutes later, he was airborne, on his way to London.
* * * *
Nogorev sat in a room in a boarding house in Jersey City, after having scrubbed off the filth from hours splashing through rat infested tunnels. He dialed an unlisted number at the New York Residency.
“Room 206,” a man answered, then Nogorev gave his authorization code. “What do you require, sir?”
“I asked for call tracking on a phone number yesterday,” Nogorev said, then read out Craig’s home telephone number.
The operator checked the electronic intelligence gathering activity Nogorev had requested before replying. “One call was made from that number.”
“Give me the details.”
“Yes sir.” The operator said, then read out Nikki’s phone number and home address.
* * * *
Bill Corman lounged in Harriman’s chair, talking on the phone with his feet on the desk. When Harriman entered the office, Corman motioned him to the visitor’s chair, as if it was his office. Harriman decided to stand.
“. . . Arrange support through the usual channels . . . Yes. I’ll want a car and a driver . . . twenty four hours . . . “
Woods came in carrying several reports. He handed one to Harriman. “The ballistics report confirms Balard’s gun fired the bullet that killed Powell and Officer Kernigan.”
Harriman looked at the report, not surprised. He had no doubt the gun found in front of Powell’s house was the murder weapon. “It’s an obvious plant, but why frame Balard? It makes no sense.”
Woods shrugged. “Maybe the killer wants us to arrest him? Or just throw us off the trail?”
“Or he wants Balard on the run.” He passed the ballistics report back to Woods. “Ridley shouldn’t have sent that press release out. It was stupid. We’re playing right into the perp’s hands,” Harriman said softly, so as not to be overheard criticizing the captain by other detectives.
“You might want to look at this,” Woods said, handing a lab report to Harriman. “Our forensic guys have been testing the gas canisters recovered from Powell’s house since one AM.”
Corman hung up. “Yes – BZ gas – nasty stuff! Chemical name, 3-quinculidinyl benzillate. It’s six thousand times stronger than morphine. One whiff and good night!”
Harriman looked from the unread lab report to Corman, irritated that this civilian should know the contents of the report before he did.
Woods lowered his voice so only Harriman and Corman could hear. “It’s the same gas Russian special forces used in the Moscow theatre siege back in 2002. They killed 39 terrorists and 129 hostages with it. It’s why our team, and Powell’s family, are all in hospital.”
“At least they’re alive,” Corman said, “Which is more than we can say for Powell.”
“How did the perp get the gas?” Harriman asked.
Corman gave Harriman a knowing look. “He’s Russian special forces.”
“You know this for a fact?” Harriman asked, surprised.
Corman nodded. “He’s almost certainly Spetsnaz. Crazy sons of bitches. Hard as nails. Not people you want to mess with. I’m surprised they can deliver BZ by canister. Shows they’ve weaponized it quite effectively.”
“Since when did you become an expert on Russian nerve gas?”
“I’m not, but I can read.”
“So how do we track this guy?” Harriman asked, still furious at the death of the two ESU officers at the warehouse and the protection officer at Powell’s house.
“We don’t,” Corman said. “He’s a wolf, chasing a rabbit. We follow the rabbit.”
“The rabbit?” Harriman said puzzled.
“Craig Balard. He flew to London this morning, bought a ticket last night with a credit card. He’s a dumb ass, leaving electronic footprints a blind man could follow. My people tracked him from the moment he set foot inside the airport, all the
way to the plane. The idiot actually hid in the men’s room for half an hour! If this assassin had been on his tail, he’d have had no escape route.”
“You let him go?” Woods asked incredulously.
Corman nodded. “We were worried he was going to get himself killed before he even got on the plane. That would have really screwed things up! When he reaches England, we’ll nursemaid him around old London town, not that he’ll have any idea we’re following him.”
“Why are you doing this?” Harriman asked.
“Because he’s more use to us out there, than he is in one of your cells.”
“To catch the killer?”
“No, to lead us to his contact.”
“His contact? What contact?” Harriman asked.
“We have good intel on the assassin, and who he represents. It’s the guy that was killed in the restaurant yesterday that has our interest. Him, we know nothing about. We need to find out who he represents, and what they’re up to.”
“Why?” Harriman asked. “What is going on?”
“All I can tell you is there are serious global implications, and Balard seems to have bumbled his way into the middle of it.” Corman stood up. “I understand you got a good look at the assassin, last night?”
Harriman nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to work with a sketch artist today.”
“No time for that. Our flight leaves in two hours. We’ll pick up the tickets at the airport.”
“What flight?”
“To London. To follow Balard.”
“I have no jurisdiction over there.”
“No, but you know the assassin by sight. That’s why you’re coming with me. Detective Woods will continue the investigation here.”
“I take it, if I refuse, Captain Ridley will just make it an order?”
“He already has. See you at the airport,” Corman said, then hurried towards the exit.
Harriman yawned, not having slept for over twenty four hours. He glanced at his crumpled suit, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I guess I better go home and change. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the plane.”
* * * *
Nikki arrived home late that night, tired and ready for bed. She flicked the light switch, but the room remained dark.
“Damn! Not again,” she said irritably, thinking the bulb had blown.
She set her brief case down, then felt her way in the dark toward a table lamp. When she pressed the lamp’s switch, nothing happened. She straightened, wondering if a fuse had shorted out. She decided to find the torch she kept in the closet when suddenly her ears picked up the soft patter of footsteps approaching.
Fear gripped her as she realized someone was in the apartment, then she noticed the curtains were closed. She always left them open when she went to work. The room should have been bathed in light from the city, not shrouded in darkness.
She threw herself forward, not toward the door – she knew she couldn’t reach it – but for her brief case. Nikki flicked open the latches as a powerful hand caught her left hand and twisted it back. She squealed as the sinews of her arm strained, and she reached frantically into the brief case with her right hand. A fist crashed onto her jaw like a sledge hammer. She stopped screaming, stunned by the blow, but still conscious. Her fingers wrapped around the small cylinder in her brief case, then she twisted wildly.
Her attacker was on top of her now. It was too dark to see his face, but she sensed his bulk over her and could tell from his grip he was very strong. She whipped her right hand up and sprayed mace in his face.
“Ugh!” He choked as the blast stuck his eyes.
Take that you bastard! she thought.
She struggled, expecting to tear free, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he caught her free hand and twisted it, forcing the mace to spray harmlessly away. He squeezed harder until she dropped the cylinder, then he picked her up, carried her into the bedroom where he threw her face down onto the bed. She didn’t know he’d endured far worse torture in training, and had learned to overcome chemical irritants more savage than her civilian pepper spray. He tied her hands behind her back, then pulled her feet up behind her thighs, before tying them off too.
“Let me go!” she screamed, now very afraid.
He held his knife to her throat and said, “Scream again, and I’ll cut your throat!”
Nikki fell silent, almost too scared to breath, then he left her alone in the dark with her fear. He replaced the fuse, washed his eyes, coughing up what he’d inhaled until all trace of the pepper spray had been removed. When he had fully recovered, he returned to where Nikki lay sobbing face down on the bed, terrified. He reached down and pulled her skirt up over her hips, revealing her underwear. She writhed in protest as he used his knife to cut her pants away, letting the fear of rape rise in her mind.
Nikki turned her face toward him, heart pounding. “Please ...” she begged, “Don’t hurt me!”
He turned the knife, letting her see it glint in the light from the lounge room, watching as terror consumed her. To him, it was simply psychological warfare, designed to break her will to resist. To her, it was a nightmare made real.
When she was shaking with fear, Nogorev said, “Where is Craig Balard?”
Chapter 4
Albert Bridgeworth, a London chartered accountant turned merchant banker, wore a well tailored dark business suit, expensive silk tie and white shirt. He was regarded by his peers as an impeccably well mannered man and one of the City’s most astute financial manipulators. When Craig called him a few hours after arriving in London and asked for an urgent meeting, Bridgeworth was sufficiently intrigued to find an opening in his busy schedule. When Craig arrived at Bridgeworth’s building, he was shown through to an office decorated with dark teak furniture, historical portraits and deeply padded leather chairs.
Bridgeworth greeted Craig with a polite handshake and motioned him to a seat. “Now, Mr Balard, what is this urgent matter you wanted to discuss?”
“I believe your life is in danger.”
Bridgeworth’s only response was to raise an eyebrow curiously. “Really? Why is that?”
“You’ve been making investments on behalf of a company called Marcell Laurence (UK) Limited. The funds were provided by the parent company in New York, managed by Goldstein, McCormack and Powell.” He decided not to mention the master list, or that he had access to all the MLI funds Bridgeworth managed. “I work for GM&P. All three of the partners were murdered in the last few days because of MLI. Because you represent MLI in the UK, I suspect you’re also in danger.”
“Hmm.” Bridgeworth tapped his desk absently, adding with classic understatement, “That is a pity.”
“I was wondering if you knew something, that might help me understand why my bosses are dead?”
Bridgeworth gave him a thoughtful look, weighing up the consequences of discussing his most valuable client with this stranger. “Can you prove you are who you say you are?”
Craig produced his passport and a business card. “Does this help?”
Bridgeworth glanced at the ID, then nodded slowly. “I know the client, and I do manage their UK investments, which are extensive, to say the least. All in cash, which is unusual. I’ve never met anyone associated with the company. All the funds came from New York, although occasionally instructions came directly from the client, always by telephone or email, never face to face.” He pointed to a small black box beside his telephone. “All calls go through this innocuous little device, which ensures anyone listening will not understand what is said. There are other security precautions as well, but you get the idea.”
Craig studied the scrambler beside Bridgeworth’s telephone. It was identical to the device he’d seen in Goldstein’s office, although he vaguely remember it had been missing the night he’d searched the senior partner’s office.
“I met Jerry Goldstein once, by accident. Decent fellow. We attended a conference in Zurich together. Afterwards, I received instructions never to meet or
speak with him again. I never did. I assume he got the same message, because he never tried to contact me again. The only contact we were allowed were communications regarding funds transfers, no personal contact. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.” Bridgeworth sighed sadly. “I guess it had to happen sooner or later.”
“You knew something was wrong?”
Bridgeworth gave him a deliberate look. “Everything was wrong. The size of the funds, the secrecy, the insistence we invest only in cash assets even if it meant lower profits. New York, as the world’s financial capital, was the central distribution point. London, as Europe’s financial capital, was the European distribution center.”
“We sent money to Tokyo, Sydney and Shanghai, as well,” Craig said.
Bridgeworth nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Do you know where the money came from?”
“No, but I’ve wondered that myself, many times. That one time I met Goldstein, he said a funny thing to me.” The old chartered accountant leaned back remembering a long past conversation over a few drinks with his American counterpart. “He said he thought the only reason the money had to stay in cash, was so they could get it all back one day, fast. No wasting time liquidating assets. I always wondered why speed would be more important than profit, considering we’ve been managing these funds for many years. And before us, there may have been others.”
“If they are closing out their investments worldwide, then you are in danger.”
Bridgeworth smiled humorlessly. “I’m sure of it. I’ve been requested to hand over my documents and digital records in the next few days. I’m awaiting my final instructions. Unfortunately, while my documentation can be erased, my memory is excellent.” He took out a slender cigar and lit it with a darkening mood. “Damned inconvenient! I was planning to retire next year. I have a small estate in Surrey. It’s quite beautiful country, green hills, flowing meadows, a beautiful garden. Englishmen love their gardens, you know…” His voice trailed off into quiet reflection. “I guess they’ll be coming for me soon.”
The Kremlin Phoenix Page 7