“What’ll you do?”
“I’m a very rich man, Mr Balard. I’ll hire some security experts. We British are rather good at that sort of thing. There are plenty of ex-SAS chappies around offering top notch services. I don’t much fancy living behind a private army for the rest of my life, but one must do what one must.”
“Powell was protected, and they got him.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Bridgeworth’s eyes dropped to Craig. “So, why are you here Mr Balard?”
Craig swallowed. “It’s complicated.”
Bridgeworth’s eyes narrowed. “If . . . you need protection, you could stay with me.”
“That’s very generous of you, but I have to meet someone.”
Bridgeworth escorted Craig to the door. “I do appreciate you coming to see me, Mr Balard. You’ve at least given me a sporting chance. I served a stint in the British Army many years ago, when I was a rather dashing young fellow. My old service revolver is packed away somewhere. I think it’s time to dust it off.”
Craig and Bridgeworth shook hands. “Good luck.”
“Same to you, old boy.”
* * * *
Nikki heard a faint thud.
She tried to focus on the sound. It was important to focus, although she couldn’t remember why.
I’ve got to . . . hang on . . .
The thud sounded again, this time further away as she slipped towards an enveloping darkness. There was no longer any pain. That had passed hours ago. She was vaguely aware of the need to vomit, but lacked the control to force it. Thoughts of people and places flickered randomly through her mind, flooding her dream state with a lifetime of jumbled memories.
The persistent thud came again.
Nikki felt herself falling toward a sleep from which there was no recovery. More disjointed memories flashed through her mind forming a confusing kaleidoscope of experiences, although strangely, she was simply an observer. Through the fog, she heard the crash of a door shattering, but it wasn’t enough to stop her drift towards eternal sleep. Presently, discordant voices interrupted her peace as footsteps approached.
Craig? Where are you?
A stab of light cut through the soothing darkness around her, startling her. Voices surrounded her as strong hands began pressing rhythmically on her chest, forcing her to breathe. Something hard was pressed around her mouth, allowing oxygen to be pumped into her lungs.
Oh God, he’s come back! she thought, terrified, triggering a burst of adrenalin from her heart that thinned the fog. A hand straightened her arm and inserted a needle. The voices spoke rapidly, but calmly, as medics worked feverishly to revive her.
She felt herself being lifted onto a stretcher. Soon, she was moving fast as men carried her out through the front door they’d smashed open, to the elevator. She tried to open her eyes, but lacked the strength. She drifted away until cool air washed over her face, and she became vaguely aware that she was outside, being gently loaded into an ambulance. Doors slammed and a siren began wailing as the ambulance started racing towards the hospital.
The pain flooded back, blocking out her thoughts. Cracked ribs ached, stabbing her with each breath. She opened her swollen eyes, finding two men watching over her.
“She’s conscious!” Hal Woods exclaimed. He’d initially gone to her apartment to ask her what she knew about Craig’s trip to London, but found her door locked. He questioned her neighbors, who reported hearing screams during the night, so he’d called for help to break in her door, and for an ambulance.
“The injection’s taking effect,” the ambulance officer said.
Nogorev had beaten her, forcing her to realize how powerless she was against him. He’d threatened her with rape, and touched her in ways designed to frighten and intimidate her, to break her will and to extract the information he wanted. In the end, she’d told him everything he wanted to know. When he was finished, he’d injected her with drugs and left her to die alone.
Woods leaned toward her. “Can you speak?”
Nikki opened her mouth, trying to form a word, but failed.
“Will she make it?”
“I don’t know,” the ambulance officer replied.
She wanted them to warn Craig, but all she could produce were feeble, incoherent moans.
“She’s trying to speak!” Woods said, leaning closer to her, taking her hand gently. “I’m Detective Woods from the NYPD.”
She looked into Woods’ eyes, wanting to speak, but the words would not come.
“Does he know where Balard is?” Woods asked.
She was vaguely surprised he knew Craig’s name, that he understood. She tried to nod, but all she managed was to blink once. The drugs Nogorev had pumped into her were slowly overpowering the injection the ambulance officer had given her.
“Do something!” Woods yelled at the ambulance officer.
“We’re nearly there.”
“Tell the driver to go faster!” Woods said helplessly, studying her swollen, blood stained face.
Nikki heard his voice echo through her dream, his words now meaningless as she slipped away into a comforting darkness.
* * * *
Inspector Thomas McGuire of New Scotland Yard sat in an unmarked police car across the street from the Irish Rose, with a clear view of the entrance. The pub was a picture of sixteenth century wood paneled walls and Elizabethan windows. They’d followed Craig from the airport to a small hotel where he’d deposited his one bag, then to Bridgeworth’s offices, and finally to the pub, which he’d reached shortly after lunch. It was now almost midnight, and the pub was about to close. Plain clothes detectives had taken turns inside, watching Craig sipping cokes all afternoon. From the way he studied every person who entered, he was clearly looking for someone.
Inspector McGuire stroked his thick dark beard thoughtfully, then turned to Rick Harriman and Bill Corman, sitting in the back seat. “Our team will trail him in shifts. If he gets a cab we’ll follow in the car.”
Corman turned to Harriman. “Keep your eyes open for the killer.”
“You think he followed him here?” Harriman asked.
“If Balard has something he wants, yes.”
A male voice sounded over the radio, silencing their discussion. “The subject is exiting the premises.”
“There he is!” McGuire said.
Craig stepped out of the Irish Rose and headed down the street towards the underground. Across the road, a man who’d been leaning against a wall, watching the pub’s entrance for hours, began walking parallel with him. He watched Craig’s reflection in the shop windows, never looking once in his direction.
A London cab cruised slowly past the unmarked police car, then slowed as it passed Craig. The cabby stuck his head out and called out to Craig.
Harriman leaned forward. “Do cabs solicit customers off the street?”
“Not usually.” The Inspector said as he picked up the radio mike. “Central, this is McGuire. I want a registration check on a cab.” He read out the cab’s number as it began to move off. When it was just ahead of Craig, it stopped.
The radio controller said, “That vehicle was reported stolen earlier this evening.”
Two balaclava clad men leapt out of the rear of the cab. One hit Craig in the stomach, knocking him to his knees, while the other forced a hood over his head, then together they dragged him into the cab.
“Damn!” Inspector McGuire said, nodding to his driver. “Don’t lose them!”
The cab sped away, swerving into a side street as the police siren sounded behind them. By the time the police car reached the corner, the cab was turning into another street. The cab hurtled recklessly down narrow lanes, skidding wildly around corners, yet the driver never lost control. The constant turns made it difficult for the police car to close the distance, and several times, the cab briefly sped out of sight. After a series of sharp turns, when the cab was momentarily unseen, it doubled back, while the police raced on. Within minutes, the cab h
ad disappeared into the vast maze of London’s street.
When it was clear they’d lost the cab, the police car slowed, and McGuire turned off the siren. “Now what?” the Inspector asked.
“We wait until his body shows up in the Thames,” Harriman said sourly.
* * * *
Craig’s kidnappers dumped the cab shortly after escaping the police, then changed to an inconspicuous sedan for the long drive out of London to a remote farmhouse. When the car stopped, Craig was dragged from the car, hooded and hands bound behind his back. Gravel crunched under foot as two of the kidnappers walked him inside, where creaking wooden floors and the smell of a gas heater assaulted his sensors. He was guided to a chair, where his hood and restraints were removed.
Craig found himself in a country style kitchen, sitting at a plain wooden table. A wood framed window looked out over ploughed fields which could have been any rural area outside of London. Pavlya Fenenko, a swarthy man with a full beard and dark eyes held the hood and handcuffs in one hand, and a gun in the other, while several other men from the car stood watching. Sitting opposite him was a slim woman with short auburn hair, fair skin and green eyes. She wore a gun holstered under her shoulder, and from the way the others waited for her to speak, Craig realized she was in charge.
“I am Valentina Petrovna,” she said. “I trust you weren’t hurt?”
“Not much,” Craig said in a tone suggesting more force was used than necessary.
“You were being watched, and the location of this house must remain a secret.”
“Watched by who?”
Valentina glanced at Fenenko who shook his head. “He never saw them. They must have followed him from the airport.”
“Who followed me?” Craig demanded, genuinely surprised.
“The British Police,” Valentina said. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“I’m a lawyer, not a secret agent.”
“Did you bring the document?”
“Don’t you think you should tell me what’s going on?” Craig asked suspiciously.
“I work for Sledstevenny Komitet – SK – it means Investigations Committee. It’s like your FBI. I am a member of the Criminal Investigations Department, currently an investigator, although one day I will be a prosecutor.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
She smiled. “Does that surprise you?” She was a graduate of the centuries old St Petersburg State University Law School.
He shrugged and motioned towards her gun. “Strange job for a lawyer.”
“Not so strange. My unit specializes in crimes against the state, particularly crimes that damage Russia’s economy.”
“Russia? It that what this is? A criminal investigation?”
“It’s much more than that. It’s high treason.”
“Treason?” Craig said, genuinely surprised.
“Give me the document,” she said in a tone that showed she was in no mood for small talk.
“Show me what you’ve got to trade first.”
She nodded to the men standing behind Craig. Several pinned his arms while Fenenko searched his pockets, retrieving an envelope which he tossed onto the table. The men released Craig while Valentina opened the envelope and studied its contents.
“You don’t know what this means,” she said with relief.
“Sure I do. It means you cheated me, and you’re now the richest woman on the planet.”
“Not a cent is for me!” she snapped. “All of it will be returned to the millions of people it was stolen from.” She leaned toward him, eyes flashing with a deep hatred. “The Communist Party siphoned off the wealth of the old Soviet Union for decades, stealing from people living close to starvation, and hid the money in western banks. This is the crime my unit has been investigating for years now.”
“Why did they hide it, rather than spend it?”
“The only thing they want is power. This money was meant to help them get that power back.”
“Did Goldstein and the others know?”
“No, they were just pawns.”
Craig felt a twinge of sorrow for the three men he’d worked for. They’d been decent men, who’d been pulled into something they’d never understood. “So, what will you do with it?”
“Steal it all back, of course.” She held up the page containing the master list.
“That’s going to seriously piss someone off.”
“By the time they find out, it will be too late.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened to my father?”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” Valentina said, “but you may not like what you hear.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Valentina folded the master list and placed it back in the envelope. “Colonel Jack Balard survived the crash of his plane in Serbia and was taken prisoner. You knew that from the photo Yegor gave you.”
Craig nodded. “Did they execute him for dropping bombs on them?”
Valentina shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. A high ranking American Air Force officer flying a top secret stealth plane would never be killed. Never.”
Craig looked surprised. “What then?”
* * * *
May 17, 1999
Colonel Jack Balard lay on a cot in a stark concrete cell in the Centralni Zatvor, Belgrade’s Central Prison, submerged in darkness except for the flicker of candle light reaching him from beneath the cell’s metal door. It had been weeks since he’d seen electric light, so effective had NATO’s air campaign been to knock out Serbia’s electricity system. Since he’d been captured, he’d been beaten and interrogated many times. He’d managed to hold out, but his resistance was weakening.
He rubbed his nose absently. It was sore to the touch, and swollen. He hadn’t seen a mirror since he’d been shot down, but he knew his nose was broken, and from the sustained swelling on the side of his face, he suspected his cheek bone was fractured. The Serb doctors had provided him with basic medical attention, which was undone at the next interrogation. He knew the Serbs were desperate, faced with an air campaign that was reducing their country to rubble and a civil war that was slipping out of their control. Even so, Serb air defenses were proving much more difficult to defeat than was generally known back home.
Nevertheless, Jack had no doubt what the result would be. I’ve just got to hang on, he thought, until they surrender, then I’ll be going home,
The cell echoed with the clang of the metal door swinging open, then two Serb soldiers dragged him out. They forced him at gun point through dark corridors to a large square interrogation room, where they pushed him roughly into a wooden chair. An elaborate, multi fingered candelabra stood on the table in front of him, where two Serb intelligence officers sat looking through his file and their notes. The limited light from the candles left the edges of the room shrouded in darkness, obscuring the seats positioned along the walls. Sometimes observers would sit in the shadowy periphery, taking additional notes or requesting specific questions. Usually a doctor drifted in and out of the light, ensuring the beatings were never fatal.
The more senior officer did the talking. His English was remarkably good, suggesting he’d spent time living in an English speaking country. Jack still didn’t know his interrogator’s name. He’d been told in training that in these situations, interrogators tried to build relationships with their subjects, but this officer clearly hadn’t read that book. As usual, the soldiers stood behind him, ready to administer beatings if his answers were unsatisfactory.
“Give your name and rank,” the Serb interrogator said simply.
Are we going back to the beginning? Jack wondered. He hadn’t been asked that for days. “Jack Balard, Colonel, United States Air Force.”
“What type of aircraft were you flying when you were shot down?”
What the hell? he thought. They know all this.
The interrogator tilted his head. “Answer the question, Colonel.”
“I was
piloting a F117 Nighthawk.” It was no secret. They’d already shown him pieces of the wreckage. The air force had not destroyed it, initially because they were unaware of its location, later because the Serbs placed dozens of women and children on and around the wreckage, preventing an airstrike.
“You were operating out of Aviano Air Base, in northern Italy, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What flight paths are assigned to the stealth bombers when they attack Serbia?”
They’d asked that question many times also. He knew they wanted to site their anti-air missiles beneath the flight paths, to increase the chance of more shootdowns. Slowly, he shook his head. “Don’t know. They change all the time.” It was a partial lie. Transit routes were varied, but the Dayton Accords had dangerously limited the options open to Allied Air Forces, forcing them to fly predictable courses.
“Liar!” The intelligence officer shouted suddenly, motioning to a soldier who jabbed Jack in the stomach with the end of a wooden bat, knocking him to the floor. Another soldier dragged him back onto the chair, where he sat hunched over, struggling to breathe.
“What do you know of the radar absorbent material used in the construction of the F117?”
He shook his head slowly. “Nothing. I’m a pilot, not a scientist.”
“You will answer my questions!” The interrogator yelled again. “Or you will be shot!”
Suck it, Jack thought.
“If you are a pilot,” the interrogator continued, “Explain the flight characteristics of the F117.”
Jack scowled “She’s a pig. Roughest damn plane I ever flew.”
“Why is that?”
“Radar can’t detect flying pigs,” he said, allowing himself a crooked smile.
The interrogator nodded and a soldier punched him in the face.
Not the nose again!
Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement from the far side of the room as two officers emerged from the shadows. Jack tried to identify the uniforms, certain they weren’t Serb or NATO. He peered at them a moment longer, before the shock of recognition hit him.
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