sThe Quiet Wart

by The Quiet War (ARC) (epub)

  ‘The four young men that were here, are they part of some fascist club?’ Clive asked.

  ‘I think so. They have an old farmhouse by the Lachforest, near Ranshofen, where they seem to live. We were told by friends to stay well away from it.’

  Clive took directions to the house and they stayed with the family until they had packed some bags and left the small cottage, bound for Klagenfurt.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Terry asked Clive on the way back to their hotel.

  ‘I think we should pay their club a visit tomorrow,’ Clive said.

  Author's Note

  Despite fighting against the Nazis in the Second World War, with the loss of over twenty million lives, Russia and Ukraine are still believed to hold the largest numbers of neo-Nazis in Europe.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thursday, 4th February. London, England.

  Liz stared at the screen on her laptop. Having narrowed her search down to six boys that were in the right year in Praew’s school, one name stood out from the page and scared her; Nikolai Koryalov. She had reviewed brief notes on Vladimir Koryalov that she’d made when she suggested him as a target for their first investigation and noted that he had two children: a fifteen-year-old boy, Nikolai; and a twelve-year-old girl, Ekaterina. She kicked herself for not checking where they went to school.

  Nikolai’s Facebook page was easy to find, and like most teenagers who used Facebook, regardless of the age policy, he hadn’t protected it in any way, wanting the world to see how great he was. He was a good-looking boy, with dark brown hair, cut in a modern style, and his tall slim body was well-dressed in expensive designer street wear. The comments on his profile were in a mix of languages: some Russian, some English and some French. When she opened the photo albums, Liz was surprised by the extravagant lifestyle on show for such a young boy: there were photos of him in St Tropez on a superyacht, drinking champagne, accompanied by bikini-clad women that were clearly much older than him; then more in Courchevel, in a lavish ski chalet, again drinking champagne, with a bevy of older women; then he was driving a Ferrari… in London. One thing that was common in each photo, other than the constant presence of women in their early twenties, was that there were no adults present.

  Although Liz had also grown up in a very wealthy family, her childhood had been very different from the one on display here. A quiet and educated English father and a traditional Korean mother had seen to it that the benefits she gained from the family wealth had been strictly focussed on education and manners. She couldn’t imagine how much trouble she’d have been in if she’d been seen behaving like Nikolai Koryalov.

  Continuing to scan the photos, she found an album from the UK. Nikolai was in a nightclub with two other boys of roughly the same age. The table in front of them was filled with bottles of vodka and mixers, as the three teenagers grinned into the camera. Liz pushed the mouse over their faces: Vadim Dementyev and Arkady Belov. She clicked on Vadim’s profile first. Although he claimed to have previously attended Praew’s school, the same way Nikolai had, it was clear he was a pupil there. Arkady’s profile was the same: a previous pupil of Praew’s school.

  Could these three be Praew’s bullies? They certainly fitted the profile: Russian; rich; and they looked to be out of control.

  She turned her attention to Vladimir Koryalov, a previously unknown colonel in the in the SBP, the Russian Presidential Security Service, who had suddenly appeared in London with billions to spend. The exact origins of his money were the subject of much speculation, but the strongest rumour was that it was actually the President’s money, and Koryalov was merely a trusted guardian, investing it for the President, ready for his future life outside Russia.

  After studying an online image of him, she flicked back to his son’s Facebook page and searched the photos. She had to search hundreds before she found one with Vladimir Koryalov in it, giving her proof that Nikolai was indeed his son. She expanded the image on her screen. They were in a restaurant and Nikolai was holding a bottle of Petrus towards the camera. In the background, his father was deep in conversation with another man, but Liz didn’t recognise him.

  *

  That afternoon, she arrived early to collect Praew and stood in a position that gave her a good view of all of the exits from the school. At 3:45 on the dot, the bell rang and hordes of children suddenly started to pour out of the exits, wrapped in coats, with schoolbags slung over their small shoulders.

  There were so many children, Liz was struggling to assess them all, then through the door on the far right, Nikolai Koryalov emerged, followed by Vadim Demetyev and Arkady Belov. The three of them had either already changed out of their school uniform, or didn’t wear it in the first place. They were walking slowly across the playground, pushing each other around. It was obvious that other children went out of their way to avoid them, stepping aside until they’d passed by.

  On the other side of the building, Praew came out of the door carrying her bag in front of her body. Liz could see that she was scanning the playground, but she wouldn’t be able to see the boys among all the other children, she was just too short.

  As Praew walked carefully across the tarmac, Liz calculated that she was on a direct collision course with the three Russian boys. Rather than step forward, she pulled back and hid from view behind the gatepost. If they did run into each other, it would give her the proof she needed; the proof that she’d identified the right boys.

  As she grew nearer to them, Praew caught sight of the group of boys and slowed her pace. I’m right. It’s them. Then Belov suddenly saw Praew and pointed her out to the other boys. They immediately started making their way towards her, but, when she saw them, Praew began to run in the direction of the gate. Just as she arrived at the gate, the boys arrived behind her.

  ‘Hello, sucky fucky time. Thai whore,’ Dementyev shouted.

  ‘Ready for my big Russian dick?’ Belov added.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Liz stepped forward from behind the post and grabbed Praew. ‘Now leave her alone or I’ll have you expelled,’ she said.

  Koryalov moved forward to within two feet of Liz. ‘Look boys, the Thai whore has a Thai whore mother. You want some big Russian cock in the sideways cunt of yours, whore?’ he said, grabbing his crotch and pushing it towards Liz.

  Her pulse was racing as she moved Praew behind her. The other mothers collecting their children avoided eye contact, pulling their children away quickly. ‘First, little boy, you wouldn’t know what to do with it; and second, I doubt it’s as big as you think it is.’ She held her stare, fighting the fear pulsating through her body.

  Koryalov blushed. He obviously hadn’t been expecting Liz to stand up to him. ‘You want to try it, bitch?’ he said, looking to his friends for affirmation.

  ‘Yeah, stick it to her, man,’ Belov said.

  ‘When you get rid of your acne and don’t smell like a fight in the Brut factory, you can talk to me politely, until then, stay well clear. And if you even so much as utter a word to my daughter again, I’ll cut your minute Russian dick off your spotty Russian body. Do you understand?’ Liz took a step towards him.

  Koryalov instinctively stepped back. ‘You don’t know who you’re messing with, cunt!’ he said.

  Liz smiled. ‘Really? You can tell Colonel Koryalov that we know where his money comes from. Now get in your car and fuck off!’ Liz pointed to the blue Bentley limousine that had pulled up by the kerb.

  Koryalov didn’t take his eyes from Liz as he walked to the car and climbed in, followed by his two friends.

  ‘Bitch cunt!’ he shouted out of the window as the car pulled away.

  Liz lifted her hand and wiggled her little finger at him, indicating that he had a small penis. The gathering of children that were watching laughed and repeated the gesture.

  After the car pulled away, Praew stepped around and held on to Liz tightly. ‘Thanks, but it really wasn’t necessary,’ she said, craning her neck backwards, looking up at Liz
’s face.

  Stroking her hair gently, Liz looked down at Praew inquisitively. ‘When I was at school some people bullied me and called me names like “chinky”. They used to pull their eyes with their fingers and make them thinner. It used to really upset me. I was desperate for my parents to do something, but they just said it was something I had to deal with myself and I had to stand up to them.’

  ‘I’m sorry. If I was there I’d have beaten them up for you,’ Praew said, pulling Liz tighter.

  ‘If they bother you again, you need to tell me,’ Liz replied.

  ‘They won’t,’ Praew said confidently.

  The comment puzzled Liz and she looked down frowning.

  ‘I already fixed them,’ Praew smiled, showing her teeth.

  ‘What? How?’ Liz asked.

  ‘I did what Dad would do. William filmed them taunting me and pushing me around and we posted it on YouTube and tagged it to their Facebook pages. By now everybody in school and all their Facebook friends will have seen it, and soon they’ll have no friends.’

  Stunned by what she’d said, Liz considered Praew’s words for a while, then a smile broke out on her face. ‘That’s brilliant!’ she kissed Praew on the forehead.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Friday, 5th February. Braunau-am-Inn, Austria.

  The icy wind bit into Sean’s face as he waited for Terry to pull the car around to the front of the hotel. A fresh layer of snow covered the ground and wedged itself against walls and doorways in deep drifts. Despite being chilled to the bone, Sean was beginning to feel a renewed sense of optimism that they weren’t chasing shadows and that here was indeed a good story somewhere in the information they’d uncovered. But what it was, he was still unsure.

  Ranshofen was a small town adjoining Braunau, with a large forest taking up its southern border. Progress was slow in the deep snow, but they were soon passing the huge aluminium-smelting works that the father from the previous evening had told them to look out for. They were deep into the dense woods when Clive pointed to his right. ‘That’s it. Pull past. We’ll walk down,’ he said.

  Luckily there were no other cars on the road in the fresh snow and Terry pulled the car off the street, into a nearby layby. The house they were looking for was supposed to be at the end of a long dirt road, hidden in the forest.

  Rather than walk up the road, they made their way slowly through the forest, keeping the dirt track in sight. About 200 metres in, Sean saw what they were looking for: an old decrepit farmhouse, set in a clearing in the woods, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. Terry quickly indicated that they should stay low and be quiet, as they crept nearer to get a better view.

  When they got closer to the fence, they could see people moving around inside the farmhouse through the filthy windows. The gate to the house was also high, with barbed wire on top and locked with a thick chain. A large red sign attached to the wire read “Betreten verboten”, which Sean assumed meant ‘no trespassing’. The image, which accompanied the sign, of a man hanging from a noose, was more disturbing though.

  As Sean stepped forward, he felt the ground give way slightly and a large stick broke under his weight. The crack of sound shattered the previous silence and Sean, Terry and Clive froze, holding their breath, hoping that it hadn’t been heard inside the farmhouse.

  Only seconds later their hopes were broken and two Dobermans came running from a kennel on the front veranda, barking loudly.

  ‘Was ist los? Blöder Hund.’ A man that Sean recognised as the first to approach him in the square a few days before, shouted out, stumbling through the door. Even though it was only 9 a.m., he was drinking from a schnapps bottle.

  The dogs were salivating and jumping against the wire fence, only thirty metres from where Clive, Sean and Terry lay in the snow, hiding behind the foliage.

  When the youth produced a key from his pocket and started to walk towards the gate, Terry got to his knees. ‘He’s letting them out. Let’s go.’

  Reacting immediately, Clive and Sean sprang up and started to run in through the woods towards the car, with Terry following behind them. The deep snow was slowing them down though and Sean fell twice within twenty metres.

  ‘Halt!’ a voice shouted out behind them.

  The car was only 100 or so metres away, when the gate opened and the dogs were released.

  ‘They’re going to catch us,’ Sean shouted.

  ‘Keep going. Dobermans are thin; they’re not snow dogs. They’ll struggle with this stuff as much as we will,’ Terry said, pulling Clive up from the snow.

  When Sean looked back, he realised that Terry was right: the dogs were sinking into the snowdrifts and making heavy work of it, but they were still gaining ground. Summoning up every bit of strength he could to speed up, Sean tumbled again and rolled into the deep snow, instantly righting himself and carrying on.

  The car was only thirty metres away, but Sean could hear the snarling of the dogs just behind them. They weren’t going to make it.

  ‘Keep going!’ Terry shouted, as he turned to face the dogs.

  Acting instinctively, Sean turned around as the first of the dogs jumped up at Terry, then the second bit into his leg; tearing through his jeans.

  ‘Go!’ Terry shouted, as he fought the first dog, letting the other bite his leg without hindrance.

  ‘Get the car,’ Sean shouted to Clive, as he sprinted back and grabbed the second dog by the neck, pulling it from Terry’s leg. Thick red blood squirted into the snow as the teeth came free.

  ‘Pull its front legs apart,’ Terry shouted, still grappling with the first dog.

  The second dog jumped up at Sean, knocking him onto his back. He fumbled with his arms at full stretch on the dog’s neck, stopping it from biting his face, but the snow was making it impossible to get any kind of grip, as the dog lunged downward again; this time its lower teeth scraping Sean’s cheek. He knocked its head upwards with his forearm, protecting his face.

  Undaunted by the hard smack to the head, it lunged again, saliva dripping from its teeth. Sean swung his leg up, striking it hard in the testicles with his foot. A painful yelp replaced the aggressive growl and Sean took the opportunity to grab its two front paws. His hands were slipping from the cold wet fur, but then, summoning all his strength, he managed to get a firm grip and pulled them apart.

  The bone breaking sound as the dog’s rib cage parted was vile and the injured animal fell to the ground, whimpering, helpless in the deep snow.

  Turning to Terry, Sean jumped up again. He was trying desperately to grab the dog’s legs, but his blood-soaked hands were just slipping helplessly from its fur. His face was almost fully covered by its salivating mouth, as it increased the pressure, biting deep into his flesh and blood was gushing from his leg. He glanced over his shoulder to see the approaching skinheads, no more than fifty metres away.

  Repeating the move he had made on the previous dog, Sean kicked it hard in the testicles, causing it to immediately release its grip and turn to face him. As it did, he heard the same sickly bone break and whimper… Terry had finally pulled its legs apart.

  The snow around Terry was blood red, and he continued bleeding heavily from cuts to his head, neck and leg. Taking his weight, by looping his arm around him, Sean started to drag him towards the car, where Clive had the doors open and the engine running. Finding strength that he didn’t think he had, Sean managed to get Terry into the car, just as the first of the group of skinheads arrived.

  As the bald-headed youth charged forward, Sean swung his fist wildly in his direction, connecting with his jaw. He didn’t feel the impact; his hand was numbed by the cold, but it had the desired effect as the youth fell backwards into the snow, allowing Sean enough time to get into the car and lock the door.

  Two more skinheads battered into the side of the car, banging on the window, but it was too late, Clive spun the wheels and pulled the car away, leaving them yelling and kicking out at the small vehicle.

  ‘He n
eeds a hospital. He’s losing blood fast,’ Sean said.

  ‘We can’t take him to Braunau. You heard what they said last night,’ Clive replied.

  ‘What about over the bridge into Germany: Simbach-am-Inn?’

  Acknowledging Sean’s suggestion, Clive forced his foot to the floor, speeding the car along the road in the snow.

  In the rear of the car, all three wounds were bleeding heavily and Sean tried to stop each in turn, trying to keep Terry still, as the car skidded from side to side on the slippery surface. ‘How’s he doing?’ Clive asked, as he swerved around another corner.

  ‘Losing consciousness,’ Sean said.

  ‘Don’t let him sleep,’ Clive said.

  Following Clive’s warning, Sean tried to talk to Terry, who in turn was trying to speak, but bubbles were coming from the wound to his neck and no sound came out.

  As the car screeched across the bridge over the River Inn, Terry’s head dropped to the side. Sean slapped him on the arm, trying to wake him, but he couldn’t; Terry wasn’t responding and he quickly felt for pulse, but couldn’t find one.

  A sign with a red cross on it, saying ‘Krankenhaus’ made Clive swerve to the right off the main road. Two minutes later, he pulled into the emergency entrance of a hospital and jumped from the car.

  Two staff members ran from the door and helped Terry onto an A&E bed, before wheeling him inside and straight through to the emergency theatre, followed closely by Sean and Clive. When they arrived at the theatre, they were abruptly halted and told to wait outside.

  ‘Damn!’ Clive said, as he took a seat in the corridor and felt his prosthetic hand. Further down, Sean fingered the cuts on his face and paced up and down the sterile hallway.

  ‘You should get a tetanus jab for those,’ Clive said, pointing to Sean’s face.