Oil & Corruption

by Gareth Flood

  Kirkov took a heavy slug to the side of the face that sent him sprawling sideways over a couch. The pain served to bring him back to his senses and the sharp realisation that he had to immediately get out of the office if he was to stay alive.

  He knew that there were already summons from the President to come upstairs straight away and explain himself, before probably being handed over to the police.

  At the same time, more worryingly, Aleksey Kekushev, the supreme head of Russian Intelligence would be calling Demetchev back into the fold and immediately despatching his greatest servant to get Kirkov and bring him back in chains to the security service interrogation rooms, thereby eschewing the traditional justice system entirely.

  Demetchev would be like a hound of hell loosed on a cocktail mission of patriotism and revenge.

  Both of these threats however, were the last thing on Kirkov’s mind.

  What spurred him to push through the pain to get to his feet and out of the building as soon as he could, was the overhanging phantom of the clandestine organisation he was a member of.

  They would hold him personally responsible for the failure of their greatest plan.

  In the past, Kirkov himself had been an enforcer of punishment for failure in the organisation. He knew that if he did not get out of the building unseen in the next ten minutes - he was as good as dead.

  Pushing off the floor and staggering to his feet, he kicked one of his aides out of the way to get to the outer door of the office. The melee continued behind him as he grasped the bronze door handle, twisted it and wrenched the door open to dive out.

  He was stopped dead in his tracks. On the other side of the door was a man in a black suit with neatly trimmed hair and rimless glasses. He looked like a young McKinsey consultant except that he had a gun with a silencer attached to it pointed at Kirkov’s face.

  ‘Wait-’ was all Kirkov could say before his brains exited the back of his head and covered some of the combatants behind him. Some of the men involved in the brawl just had time to look up as the black suited man took one step forward and rapidly fired a bullet into each of their heads. Then the door swung shut under its own weight and it was as though the black suited man had never existed.

  56

  Dordogne, France

  The old diesel train swayed with the motion of slowing down and eventually shuddered to a halt.

  Jonathan Marshall stepped off the carriage, to survey the small railway station that served the provincial town of Bordeilles.

  After looking at a map by the station door, he set off down the main road on foot, as though taking a Sunday stroll. The main road soon ended and he was quickly walking through minor country roads that fed up to farms and vineyards nestled behind the roadside foliage.

  A young boy of about fifteen years of age was coming the other way and Jonathan asked him about a number. The boy smiled at his halting French and pointed behind him and to the right while replying an answer. Jonathan thanked him as they passed each other. After another five minutes of walking, he found what he was looking for - a small wooden letterbox hanging on an angle that had the number fifteen painted on it in black.

  Going up the driveway, Jonathan found himself following a winding track, rutted by cars, which led up to a farmhouse on the rise. He could see as he walked higher that fields of grapes stretched out from behind the farmhouse for many acres. In the distance on the far end of the fields of grapes, a tractor was churning up a cloud of dust as it ploughed a brown section of land.

  Rising the wooden steps to the front porch, Jonathan knocked politely on the white door. After a minute he knocked again more loudly. He gently turned the door and found it to be unlocked. It intruded on his English sensibilities too much to enter a house uninvited.

  Skipping back down the front stairs, he moved around the side of the house. As he rounded the last corner to come into view of the back veranda, he stopped short as his breath was taken away.

  She was sitting on a white wicker chair with her long legs stretched out and feet resting on a white stool. A straw hat covered most of her jet-black hair and shielded her face from the sun as she sat reading a book in the golden light.

  The afternoon was just beginning to fade and turn the colours around into richer tones of oranges and greens. The light reflected off the white blouse and her long white skirt to give off a slight aura effect as she reposed, overlooking the vineyard scene that was slowly turning to dusk.

  After taking in the image for a few moments he quietly stepped closer and leaned against the wall.

  ‘You know,’ he said casually, ‘you want to be careful where you go - you never know when you might bump into someone from work that you fancy.’

  Julie looked up with a startled expression that quickly changed to joy. She let out a shriek as she leapt from the chair and tore the straw hat off her head to release a wave of onyx hair. He moved forward onto the veranda as she came bounding towards him and into his arms. Their bodies met and kept spinning in a circle as they held each other close. Both were laughing and looked on the verge of tears. It was as if their re-union signified they end of all the trouble and danger they had been through.

  Eventually the top halves of their bodies parted but each still kept their arms locked around the torso of the other. Their faces were close and smiling, as they looked deep into each other’s eyes.

  ‘I saw the papers.’ Julie said, eventually breaking the moment. ‘No mention of you as the hero who brought down this global plot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ he replied with a laugh. ‘I can’t think of anything worse than being harassed by the papers. I’d much rather be free to go where I want.’ he paused and locked eyes with her. ‘With who I want.’