CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  Doug thought for a moment. “What if we get him outside? Look, here's what we do. We pay our bar bill and leave. Then we cross over the street and set off the guy's car alarm. He comes out to investigate and we collar him.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, we make him tell us what he's up to.”

  “And if he doesn't?”

  “Then we hurt him.”

  “And what will that achieve?”

  Doug paused for a moment. “Well, it'll make me feel better for one.”

  “Okay, you have a point there, I admit.”

  “So you'll do it?”

  Brian frowned, and then blew out his cheeks. “Oh what the hell. It is Saturday night after all - and you haven't got yourself into trouble for a whole week.”

  The Subaru looked to Doug like some kid’s oversized dinky toy, evoking an image of giant chubby fingers clasped around the ridiculously large rear spoiler and pushing it along to childish vocalisations of “vroom-vroom”. The white van had disappeared and the street was now empty, except for a handful of parked cars. A couple of wheelie-bins stood a few yards away on the pavement. Doug pushed them together and walked around to confirm their suitability as a hiding place. “Okay, are you ready?” he asked. “You crouch down here, and I'll give the car a little rock.”

  Brian took his position, with some trepidation. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “No,” said Doug placing his shoulder to the car's side and pushing hard. The car rocked on its suspension, but remained silent. Doug placed his hands on the edge of the roof and tried again, heaving several times in regular succession. Nothing. He took a few paces back and then ran at the car planting the sole of his shoe into the front passenger door. A satisfying dent appeared in the panel, but other than the dull thud of the impact, the street remained quiet.

  “Doug!” whispered Brian loudly, from behind the bins. “Maybe, it doesn't have an alarm. Let's just go home, can we?”

  “A car like this? It must have one,” said Doug, raising his voice in frustration. He looked around in desperation, and spotted a large rock on the pavement a few feet away.

  “Oh shit!” whispered Brian, as Doug picked up the rock and hurled it against the front window. The glass shattered, and at last the air was filled with the loud rhythmic honking of the Subaru's alarm system. In addition, just in case there had been any doubt as to where the sound was coming from, all four indicators began to flash in unison. Doug sprinted over to join Brian behind the bins, his heart racing with adrenaline.

  “When you said you were going to give it a little rock, I didn't expect such a literal interpretation,” said Brian, peering anxiously between the bins at the club entrance.

  The first face to appear momentarily at the door was that of the bouncer.

  “Oh fuck!” said Brian. “What if the yeti comes over with him?”

  They waited, eyes glued to the club, and quite oblivious to the gleaming black Range Rover approaching from the other end of the street with a clear view of their crouching ambush. After a few seconds, Zhirkov appeared from the door, striding hurriedly towards them. He then looked down the street and into the beam of a pair of headlights. Doug and Brian followed his gaze with horror and recognition, as a small wiry man with a ponytail climbed out of the Range Rover and pointed towards them. Another large man dismounted from the other side and the three of them started jogging towards the bins.

  “Run!” shouted Doug, as they both turned and fled in the opposite direction. After thirty yards, they heard a car door slam behind them followed by a screech of tyres. Doug glanced back over his shoulder to see the Range Rover accelerating towards them, the growl of its V12 growing louder against the Subaru's alarm.

  “There!” gasped Brian, pointing to a gap between the terraces fifty yards ahead. They heard a rubbery squelch as the car mounted the curb just a few yards behind, followed by the grating of metal on brick as they leapt over the low wall and into the alleyway. The passage was dark and no more than three feet wide. Overgrown garden shrubbery spilled over the graffiti covered walls on either side, whipping at their faces as they sprinted through the darkness. Finally they burst out onto an adjoining street where they stood panting, hands on knees, looking and listening for signs of their pursuers.

  They both jumped as the diesel roar of a double-decker bus broke around the corner and rumbled towards them. Spotting a stop just down the road, they ran over and hailed the driver.

  “I don't care where you're going, mate,” said Brian. “How much to the nearest tube station.”

  “One seventy,” mumbled the driver without looking at them.

  They took their seats at the back, and peered through the grimy rear window towards the alleyway.

  “Lightweights!” said Doug finally. “They couldn't even be arsed to chase us.”

  “Oh well then, why don't we just go back for another 'running of the bull-bars' Pamplona style!”

  “That was a bit close I admit,” said Doug, as the bus made a left.

  “Close! Any closer and we'd be pulling its front bumper out of your arse!” shouted Brian angrily.

  “Okay, so maybe it wasn't the best laid out pla... Oh shit!” he said, as the bus made another left.

  “What? Hang on, isn't this...?”

  “...the same road that we started on – yes! Here they are – quick - down!”

  Doug and Brian slumped down in their seats, peering candidly out of the side window at the three angry looking men, who were thankfully too preoccupied comparing the relative damage to their vehicles, to look at the bus.

  “That's the same guy that broke your face, right?” said Brian.

  “Sergei Markov - Yep!” confirmed Doug. “The same guy who was at Kal's Party the night before he died.”

  “And Cindy's ex-boss!” added Brian.

  “Oh shit! Of course! She told me he owned a club in North London. This must be it!”

  “So he knew Kal, who also worked on Dream-Zone, and he seems to be connected with the other Russian who hacked your laptop.”

  “Yeah - and that guy has just taken delivery of a stolen PC base unit, the very night after one possibly containing the only other known copy of the full Dream-Zone video, was stolen.”

  “Okay, that does seem like an improbable cascade of coincidences. So what are you going to do?”

  “I'm going to the police.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Nadia scrutinised the reflection in the mirrored door of her bathroom cabinet. A general sense of unease had overtaken her since the incident in the High Street, and the resulting lack of sleep was now showing in her eyes. She added a touch more liner and stepped back, turning her head from side to side to observe the effect under different light. Cool and confident was the look she was after. She could ill-afford to show weakness, especially today. The job was done, she was finally to be paid her due and, providing Sergei kept his word, that would be the end of it, forever. It was a simple business transaction after all. Her customer had a requirement, which she had fulfilled using her own unique combination of skill, charm and persuasion. The details of execution may have been a little unorthodox, but her rule, her one and only rule, that nobody should get hurt, had not been broken, at least not in any permanent way. Sure, Doug would sulk for a while, but after a week or two, he'd be back playing rugby, drinking, womanising and boasting to his friends about the hot sex he had once had with a Russian stripper-accountant named Cindy. Surely, to some degree, everyone was guilty of exploiting their physicality in pursuit of goals. What was so different about her use of sex-appeal to secure a transaction, compared to a tall, physically imposing man standing up in a business meeting and banging his fists on the conference table to make a point? It was no coincidence that, statistically, company CEOs were invariably taller and better looking than their subordinates. She smiled into the mirror. Cool and confident she was!

  Stepping into the teak-panelled closet she scanned the rack of designer hee
ls. Black, understated, and classic, was what she needed. This narrowed it down to three pairs, from which she chose the Prada stilettos. Grabbing her keys from the black granite bar separating kitchen and living area, she made for the door. Just as she was reaching for the latch, an incoming text alert sounded from within her bag. She rummaged around and withdrew her mobile. It was Doug again. Her finger hovered over the delete option, then at the last moment pressed Read instead:

  Cindy, am going 2 police

  re ur friend Markov. Have

  proof of hacking n theft.

  Just wanted 2 warn u coz

  I luv u. Dxxx

  She staggered back to the bar feeling suddenly weak and light-headed. Setting herself on one of the stools, she re-read the message. How could he possibly know about the key-logger? They had assured her it was undetectable by all security software. Even if by some fluke, Doug had found it, there was surely no way it could be traced back to Dmitri let alone to Sergei. As for the theft of that other PC from up north, that had to be a guess. The other guy in the email must have told Doug about the burglary, and now he was just putting two and two together. Still, it showed an intelligence and resourcefulness she would never have expected at the outset. Okay, cool and confident - damage control - the key question was whether she could be linked to any of this. If Doug had believed her to be involved, he surely would never have sent the text as warning. That was good - although why would she need warning if not involved. Maybe he was just anticipating Sergei's reaction, knowing that he had hit her at least once before. This was actually quite sweet, she thought. The poor loveable sap was still smitten. Her mind started to analyse the different scenarios. Even if Dmitri and the gang sent to steal the PC went down, Sergei would still squirm his way out of it - he always did. Even so, the sooner she collected her money and that long-promised video tape, the better. In fact, the money was secondary, it was the tape she really wanted. Sergei had held that over her for far too long. Cool and confident, she repeated to herself again. She glanced at her watch. It was 11:30am. Late enough she thought, pulling a bottle of Absolut Vodka from the fridge and pouring a half shot to calm her nerves. Now, she was ready.

  Nadia enjoyed driving into London on a Sunday morning, the roads mostly quiet away from the main shopping districts, and the Porsche purring along much more happily without the interminable stop-start of weekday traffic. She parked opposite the club, just short of a pile of shattered glass, sparkling in the morning sunlight on the curb ahead. Dave, the idiot, sexist, cockney bouncer opened the door and led her silently to the office at the back. It was a small dingy room, painted and carpeted in grey, with one large grey desk at the centre.

  “Good morning Sergei!” she said cheerfully, speaking in Russian.

  Markov looked up at her from behind the desk and she realised at once that something was wrong.

  “Is it?” he replied in English, getting up with a sickening smile on his face.

  “Guess who was in here last night,” he challenged, taking a step forward.

  Cindy backed away towards the door. “How would I know?”

  “How would you know?” he repeated in a rhetorical, almost musical tone, as he continued towards her.

  She retreated further, until she felt the immovable bulk of the bouncer against her back. “Sorry!” she said instinctively.

  “Are you?” asked Markov, the smile now transmuting into an ugly sneer. “Your two lover-boy from university come here - last night - in my club - spy on our Dmitri. How you suppose they know to come here?” He stopped, letting the thickly accented words hang in the air, while his narrow sunken eyes mined her face for a reaction.

  Cool and confident, she repeated silently in her head. She took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back and then stepped forward, shoving the Russian firmly in the chest with both hands. “How dare you try to blame me for the incompetence of your own people!” she shouted at him, as loudly as she could without shrieking. The effect was just as she had hoped, Markov recoiling into the desk, as much from surprise as from the imparted momentum. Like the playground bully, with his hired muscle at the ready, he had been expecting some sort of fearful, grovelling denial, but was completely wrong-footed by the sudden display of anger. She continued, crowding into his personal space, drawing herself to her full height and jutting out her chin defiantly. “I never have understood why you trusted that pompous little prick in the first place. He may be your cousin, but he's a fucking liability, cruising around in that big blue substitute for a penis and trying to impress pubescent girls with boasts of international computer espionage. If the students traced him back here, then it's down to his own stupidity.” As she said this, she prodded him in the chest and immediately felt a large pair of hands close around her upper arms from behind. “And you have until the count of three to get your fucking hands off me!” she shouted without turning. The grip loosened slightly, but remained firm. “One!” she said, still squarely facing Markov, who was now looking at her with something close to amused curiosity. “Two!” she continued, getting ready to drive one of the stilettos into the top of the bouncer's foot. A nervous smile crept slowly back over Markov's face, and he nodded over her shoulder. The hands came off and she finally allowed herself to turn and glare at the befuddled bouncer, now stepping back into the doorway to resume his post as gatekeeper.

  “You know something, Nadia? You and me are same,” Markov said, his smile growing wider and sicklier. “In fact, you remind me of my mother. She was strong stubborn woman too.” He snorted a little laugh.

  The thought of sharing even the slightest of resemblances with this creature or its mother invoked such an intense nausea that she had to physically swallow to prevent it surfacing, but now was not the time to express such disgust. Far better to exploit this sudden change of mood to her favour. She smiled back at him playfully, stroking his cheek gently with the palm of her hand. He leant forward, pushing his face toward hers. She teased it closer then, just as their lips were an inch apart, gave it a light slap and pushed him away provocatively. “Of course we are, Sergei. But you're forgetting the little matter of what you owe me.”

  “Why you always in hurry to get down to business?” he sulked, walking back around the desk and flopping into the chair. He reached for the bottom drawer where he kept the vodka and plastic cups. As he pulled it open, the upper drawer slid with it, revealing a momentary flash of blue-grey gunmetal before it was pushed hastily back in. She looked away, as if she hadn't noticed.

  “Why don't we celebrate with a drink after you've given me the money and the tape?” she suggested.

  Markov ignored her and poured two shots of vodka into the plastic cups.

  “Are you going to insult me, Nadia? Have you so quickly forgotten the customs of your people?”

  She forced a smile. “It's a little early, but I suppose one wouldn't hurt.”

  “Budem zdorovy!” shouted Markov, raising the cup to the air and tipping the contents down his throat in a single gulp.

  “Budem!” she replied, following suit.

  “It is such beautiful tape though. Bring back happy memory. Sometime I show to new girl as ... how you say ... inspiration. This – I tell girl – is what exotic dancing should be in purest form. As close to perfection as I ever see. You know I give anything to see you dance like that again.” He proffered the bottle towards her.

  She hesitated for a moment, then allowed him to refill her cup. “Last one!” she said firmly.

  He looked at her, disappointed. “Okay, last one!” he agreed. “But I want to make you proposition,” he added, slightly slurring the last word.

  “I won't marry you Sergei!” she said with a laugh, knowing this wasn't what he meant. She had guessed he might yet again try to change the terms of their agreement, just as it was time to pay up, but she couldn't help wondering what kind of proposition he had in mind. She glanced in the waste bin and noticed two empty cups. This wasn't his first drink of the morning. “I'm listening
,” she said.

  “Now I finally have Dream-Zone file and witness effect, I don't like Chinese offer no more! I need someone persuade Wong that competitive advantage to online gaming empire at least ten time more.”

  “And what makes you think that?” she asked.

  “I just know.”

  She looked deep into the dark holes of his eyes, and for one terrifying instant, could see that for once he wasn't lying.

  “Of course, if you prefer to take money now, and leave me to conclude multi-hundred-thousand-pound business on my own, then go.” As he said this, he glanced at the bouncer and Nadia noticed a micro-gesture flicker across the face. It lasted only a split second, but in that fleeting moment, she understood they had absolutely no intention of letting her leave this place with the money. She leant down and kissed him on the forehead while surreptitiously emptying the contents of her cup into the waste bin. She then raised it quickly to her lips and knocked her head back, swallowing the saliva in her mouth. He looked up in approval and drank his own shot. There was something about Markov's manner, which suggested to Nadia, a heightened degree of suggestibility. She had several times used the psychology of verbal suggestion with presupposition (what some called hypnosis), to manipulate the behaviour of others, but had never yet risked trying it on Markov.

  He waggled the bottle in front of her with a hopeful smile, as she had guessed he would. She repeated the fake drinking routine for three more rounds, then leant forward, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  “I appreciate the drink,” she said slowly, her voice firm and authoritative, but her smile still playful. “You know you've always been so fair and generous with me, Sergei. You remember how you've always paid me what we agreed, and given me whatever I wanted.” She spoke in a low, steady and soothing tone as she imagined his mother might once have done. She made a point of tapping him deliberately on the arm at the precise time she said the words generous, paid and given, hoping to reinforce these ideas in his mind and dispel whatever Machiavellian machinations might have been hatching in their place. To Nadia's delight and surprise, a slightly dazed look began to wash across Markov's features. She glanced across at Dave who appeared to be frowning slightly more than usual. She moved round the desk blocking the man's view of his boss, and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. She placed her hand on his shoulder.