by TM Logan
‘Please!’ Sarah gasped. ‘Please, I have to get my children. I have to pick them up. They’ll be expecting me to be there. Please, they’re waiting for me.’
She was on the back seat, the scarred man beside her. Calmly, he took her phone from her bag and held it out with a single word.
‘Unlock.’
She reached out a shaking hand and unlocked the phone with her thumbprint. The scarred man navigated quickly to text messages, selected ‘Dad Mob’ and scrolled down before selecting one from a previous week. He knows what he’s looking for, Sarah thought. He copied the text and pasted it into a new message.
Running late, can you pick kids up from after-school club and take back to mine? See you in a bit. Thanks. S x
‘Now they are not expecting you,’ he said, and pressed send.
A moment later the reply dropped in.
No problem, see you later. Dad x
The scarred man switched the phone off and opened its case, took the battery out, and slipped the three parts into the pocket of his coat. He then produced a black silk hood from his other pocket and in one quick movement he hooded her.
Sarah’s world went black. The inside of the bag smelt musty and sour, like someone else’s sweat. She went to take a deep breath but there wasn’t enough air. Not enough to fill her lungs. She suddenly felt light-headed and for one horrible moment she thought she was going to faint or suffocate. She lurched backwards as the car began to move.
Close by her ear, close enough to be a lover’s whisper, a voice said: ‘Lie down on your side.’
She did as she was told, the man’s hand heavy on her shoulder, trying to calm her breathing. Slowly. Calmly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She wondered what had happened to the last person who had been forced to wear this hood.
The BMW swung through a series of turns and she knew they were leaving the campus. She imagined the possibilities, her breath hot inside the bag. There still wasn’t enough air, but in this lying position she was able to shift her head on the seat, creating a tiny gap at her neck to allow more air through. She shivered involuntarily, a violent spasm that went through her whole body. The hand pushed down a little heavier on the top of her arm, pinning her in place on the BMW’s back seat.
Think. If this was about the man she’d hit with her car, what would they do to her in return? What about her dad? How long would it be before he raised the alarm when she didn’t come home later? Another thought pierced her like a blade: what if these men were going to take Grace and Harry, too? In her head, she said a silent prayer: Please let this be about me, not about my children. Please let them be safe with my dad. The thought of Grace and Harry and her dad sitting around the kitchen table made her eyes fill with tears. She swallowed hard and fought them back.
This is no time for crying. Not now. You don’t have that luxury. Think.
She tried to count in her head, and guess how quickly the car was travelling. Were they on a fast road, a dual carriageway? No. Lots of traffic. Lots of stops. Traffic lights and twists and turns which suggested they were heading further into the city, rather than away. But the journey seemed to be taking forever. She began counting as best she could, one to sixty, then starting again. Not too fast. Count the minutes. The act of counting kept her mind off other possibilities, helped her stay calm. One to sixty, then start again.
She reached what she thought was fourteen minutes, near enough.
The car stopped.
Then the hand was on her arm again and she was pulled sideways, edging along the car seat and stepping carefully down onto hard ground. The sounds of the road fainter now. For a second she just stood there, smelling diesel and rain and cold night air. Men talking in low voices, muffled through the hood. Car doors slamming. The grip on her upper arm loosened slightly. She was still hooded, but her hands were free and she had a sudden urge to rip the hood off and just make a run for it, look for a gap between these men and sprint through it, as fast as she could. She thanked the instinct that had made her wear flat shoes this morning. She could run in these shoes. She used to run for her school, and she had been good, too. 100 metres, 200 metres, 4 x 400 metres relay. She could do this. It might be her last chance – her only chance. Instinctively, she knew that if it came it would only be a second or two and she would have to be ready to react without hesitation.
More voices, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. The smell of cigarette smoke. The metallic chuck of the BMW’s doors being central-locked.
The hand came away from her arm.
Now.
She ran.
20
She pulled the hood from her head and threw it down, leaning away from a man who lunged for her as she ran past. His fingertips brushed her jacket but she was past him, sprinting now, eyes squinting in the brightness of two tall floodlights at each side of a courtyard, chain-link fence in front, open concrete, warehouses, more dark buildings behind them. Startled shouts behind her. Footsteps. There. A gap between two buildings. She veered towards it, sprinting, pumping her arms and drawing great breaths of cold night air deep into her lungs.
‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Help me!’
She ran into the corridor of darkness between two warehouses, headlong, trying to make out what was at the far end, more buildings and a hint of street light. Her lungs were already starting to burn. She would run to the street and flag down a car, find a café or a pub, get someone to call the police, just get around this corner and –
A strong hand shot out and grabbed her, grasping her arm in a steel-hard grip. Another man, one she didn’t recognise. Panic pulsed through her. She swung a slap at his face with her free hand, feeling it connect with an impact that stung her palm. She kicked him in the shin and then pistoned her knee up into his crotch with as much force as she could muster. She heard a grunt of pain, there was a momentary loosening of the grip, then the man flipped her around, put an arm around her waist from behind and lifted her off her feet. He began carrying her back to the BMW.
‘Help me!’ Sarah screamed again.
The man put his other hand over her mouth.
He carried her all the way back to the car like that. The scarred man and his two colleagues were there. The one with the ponytail looked shaken, and he stepped forward as if to strike her. She flinched back as his hand came up, but it was just the black hood again. He pulled it down over her head and her world went black once more. The cotton was wet where it had landed on the ground and the musty damp smell filled her nose.
She heard an exchange of what she recognised as Russian between two of the men and then they laughed. More Russian. The sound of a heavy punch landing on muscle, breath escaping and a body falling to the wet concrete. Groaning and coughing, a scraping noise as the struck man got back to his feet. A loud spit and a string of fast, angry Russian.
Then more laughter, the sound cruel to Sarah’s ears. She was suddenly terrified of what was going to happen next.
‘What?’ she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘What’s happening?’
The answer, when it came, was right next to her ear and she jerked away from the sound, a heavily accented Russian voice, deep and slow. The scarred man, the one who had spoken to her on campus.
‘I said: “Mikhail needs more time in gym and less at keyboard”.’
More laughter. More fast Russian from Ponytail, the one who had been punched – whose name seemed to be Mikhail – talking and trying to catch his breath at the same time.
Then the hand grasping her arm tightly was half-guiding, half-pulling her along. She stumbled on a step up, tripping and almost falling forward, her hands going out instinctively to break her fall but the grip on her arm keeping her upright. The slam of a door. Echoes of their walking feet. They were inside. Through a gap at the bottom of the hood she could see a rough concrete floor, a pair of feet either side of hers. Another doorway – the heavy metallic slam of a large metal bolt being shot home into its lock –
then thick carpet beneath their feet.
She was being pushed down into a straight-backed wooden chair.
Oh God. This is it.
The hood was snatched off her head and she sat, blinking, not wanting to move or turn around in case it provoked them further.
There was a soft click as the door shut behind her.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to her new surroundings and she saw that she was in a large windowless office, a huge desk in front of her with an empty leather chair. The far side of the room was dark, deep in shadow but there were spotlights angled towards her, one in each corner, that made her feel like she was about to be interrogated. A large closed door behind the desk.
Sarah took deep breaths, glad to be free of the hood. The room smelled of cigar smoke and aftershave and old leather. She waited. A minute. There was sweat on the palms of her hands but she willed herself to stay calm. Please let my children be safe. Two minutes. If they were going to hurt you, they would have done it by now. Wouldn’t they? As she was considering rising to find the man who had brought her here, the door opened in front of her.
A tall man came through the doorway, dressed in a dark suit and white open-necked shirt. Squinting into the light, Sarah struggled to make out his features. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with short black hair and a black beard, neatly trimmed. He sat down behind the desk, settling back into the leather chair, hands laced together in his lap. He stared for a moment, dark eyes seeming to consider her.
Sarah stared back, blinking fast, heart thundering in her chest. Praying that whatever was about to happen wouldn’t hurt too much.
Let’s just get it over with.
Finally, the man spoke.
‘Do you know who I am, Sarah?’ His voice was deep and soft, the trace of an accent.
She shook her head quickly.
‘No.’
‘You can call me Volkov. It is a name that some people use for me. Do you know why you are here?’
‘No.’
‘Let me show you.’
He stood up and returned to the door he had come in from a few moments before. He opened it, beckoned to someone, and said something in Russian. He beckoned again and a girl appeared, hesitant at first, peering around the door frame with wide eyes. She was small, about Grace’s age, her dark hair in pigtails.
Sarah recognised her instantly. The girl from Wellington Avenue.
21
Volkov beckoned to the girl again, said something to her in rapid Russian. He turned back to Sarah, his face softer.
‘Do you recognise this girl?’
Sarah nodded and leaned towards her.
‘Hello there. Are you all right?’
The girl gave her a shy smile and a little nod in return, but said nothing.
Sarah said: ‘Thank God she’s safe, I was so worried about her.’
‘You’ve seen her before, yes?’
‘I saw her, last week. Some men were . . . ’ She trailed off, looking from man to girl, and back again. ‘This is your daughter?’
‘Very good.’ He put his big hand on her shoulder. ‘Aleksandra, you have something to say to Dr Haywood?’
‘Thank you,’ the girl said in halting English, her eyes fixed on the desk between them. ‘For stopping the bad man.’
‘You are very welcome, Aleksandra. I’m just glad you’re OK.’
Volkov spoke to the girl in Russian again and she disappeared back into the side room. The door shut and Sarah was alone with him once more. The rush of relief she felt was almost overwhelming, as she realised for the first time since being taken from the campus that these men might not want to hurt her.
He gestured towards her and Sarah noticed the watch on his wrist, heavy and wide-faced, inlaid jewels glinting in the spotlights.
‘I’m sorry for this unpleasantness.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Soon we will take you back to your university. But first let me tell you why I’ve brought you here. Will you indulge me?’
Sarah nodded.
‘Good.’ He took a bottle and two small glasses from a desk drawer, filled each glass and set one on the desk in front of Sarah.
‘Drink,’ he said.
She took a small sip, the vodka burning the back of her throat.
He raised a toast to her, drank half of his, and settled back into his chair.
‘So, I had a son, once. Aleksandra’s brother.’ His face darkened. ‘He was taken four years ago, in Moscow. Kidnapped. This is one of the reasons why I am here now, in UK.’
Sarah waited for him to continue, noting his use of the past tense. But he stayed silent until she couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What happened to your son?’
‘There were men who thought they could change my mind by threatening me, who thought they could bend me to their will by threatening my son, my oldest child. I looked for him, day and night. Bled my enemies white searching half the city. But I was too proud to negotiate. Too proud to make a deal for his life.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘So one day they sent a finger. I continued searching. The next day another finger. Still I would not bow down to these men. The day after that, they sent his hand. That was all we had for the casket when we buried him. I never saw him again.’
‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry . . . ’
He touched a picture on his desk.
‘My wife Katerina died very soon after. She couldn’t . . . she was not able to deal with losing our boy. She stepped in front of an express train at Kazansky Station.’ He gestured towards Sarah. ‘You remind me of her. Very much.’
Sarah didn’t know how to respond to such personal revelations from a stranger, so she said nothing.
‘But their blood is on my hands,’ Volkov continued. ‘And it always will be, until the day I die.’
‘What was your son’s name?’
‘Konstantin. He was eight years old.’
Sarah tried to imagine the trauma of losing her child in such horrific circumstances. The black cloud on every parent’s horizon.
‘My little girl will be eight next month,’ she said softly.
‘So, what you must understand, Sarah, is that by saving my daughter you have saved my future. You have saved the last piece of my family.’
‘I just saw red, that was all.’
‘They could have taken your life . . . ’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Like that. You have no idea how close you came to it. You acted with courage, when others chose cowardice. And in doing this, you gave me a gift without price.’ He flipped the lid of a box on the desk, withdrawing a long cigar. ‘Sarah, I have been blessed with remarkable success in my working life. I have much property, private jets; I have more money than I can spend in a hundred lifetimes. But all of it is pointless, worthless, unless there is someone to pass it on to when I am gone.’
‘Your child.’
He used a cigar cutter to snip the end off the cigar with a sharp snap.
‘Exactly. And so a man who wants to take her away from me threatens everything. He threatens my whole world.’ He lit the cigar and drew on it heavily, clouds of smoke rising to the ceiling. ‘When you saved Aleksandra you gave me a gift that is so . . . so immense, that it is impossible to measure. And I have never been in debt, not one day in my life. Never owed anything to anyone. Until now. In Russia we say that debt is beautiful – but only after it has been repaid.’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ she protested.
He considered the tip of the cigar, glowing cherry red.
‘Do you know what a truly good deed is, Sarah?’
‘When you do a good turn.’ She shrugged. ‘When you help someone. You know.’
He shook his head emphatically.
‘No. A truly good deed is one that is totally unselfish, without any hope or expectation of a reward. By its nature, a truly good deed cannot be repaid.’ He rolled the cigar between thumb and forefinger, before pointing it at h
er. ‘But I am going to try. Because in my life I have learned that to be a great man, to be a leader, we cannot simply strike back against the evil done to us. We must also reward loyalty, bravery, brains, to truly elevate ourselves above the masses. My colleague Mikhail, for example: you met him already this evening, I think. At the age of fifteen Mikhail hacked my company’s computer network, planted viruses, made a mess. Not to steal, just to have fun. We caught him, of course, and he was punished. But I recognised his genius with the computer and asked him if he wanted to come work for me, to stop such attacks happening again. And he has provided loyal service ever since.’
‘I don’t want anything from you. I’m just glad your daughter is safe.’
‘You don’t seem to understand, Sarah. Listen to me: I am in your debt. Every good deed must be rewarded. And the reward should match the deed, so I’m going to give you something very special – a gift like no other.’ He took a deep drag on the cigar, smoke coiling from his nostrils. ‘Back home in Russia one of my other nicknames was volshebnik. Do you know what this means?’
‘My Russian is about as basic as it gets, I’m afraid.’
‘It means “The magician”. Because I could make things disappear – money, evidence, problems.’ He paused for a moment, his dark eyes boring into her. ‘Sometimes people, too.’
‘O-OK,’ Sarah said, hesitantly.
‘The men who took my son in Moscow – I made them disappear. All of them. The men who tried to take Aleksandra last week, they were members of an Albanian gang who want to carve a niche for themselves. They too will disappear soon. So here is my offer.’ He put the cigar in an ashtray and leaned forward, hands clasped together on the desk. ‘You give me one name. One person. And I will make them disappear. For you.’