“There are two weeks left until our wedding day. When he’s back we’ll have to rush all those little things.”
“I’m at your disposal. Just say what you want me to do.”
“That’s kind of you. You know that it’s not only about doing things. I just want him close now.”
“I understand completely.”
Malee began talking about the wedding preparations, the guests and the honeymoon trip to Jamaica. That cheered Elizabeth up. They spent the rest of the journey discussing and planning the wedding.
Elizabeth stopped the car in the little car park in front of the Eastern Herbs and Spices shop in London’s Chiswick district. Malee rented an office in the shop. She worked there as a healer practising ancient Tibetan medicine, the knowledge of which she had acquired from her mother, Pema.
“What would I do without you,” Elizabeth said, with warmth in her voice as she dropped Malee off at the shop.
Malee smiled, but almost immediately her expression became serious. “Look, Elizabeth, I want you to promise me something. Be careful when you meet strangers, all right?” She sounded worried.
Elizabeth looked at her in surprise. “Honey, I’m a big girl.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Old Engine House, somewhere in the UK
Colin, whose code name was East, assembled his rifle, attached a telescopic lens and a silencer, then slid in the cartridge clip and pulled back the bolt.
“Nine seconds. Not bad,” said Roger, who had been timing him.
“I want to check its precision,” Colin said, lifting the butt of the gun to his shoulder.
“You could use the barn over there to do that. You could easily put some sandbags and a target in there and give it a try,” said the perfecty, who had just entered the room. “From now on consider this as our main base. In fact, how are you guys finding it?”
“It’s fine. It’s secluded enough. The barn is big so we can keep our cars hidden,” said Roger.
“I agree, it’s a good base,” Colin affirmed.
“This place is an industrial estate ...”
The perfecty couldn’t continue because Roger quickly interrupted him. “In the bar I found a wooden sign reading ‘Old Engine House’.”
“That’s the name of the estate. We’re renting it posing as a lighting firm. Where we’re now is meant to be the office. The barn is a warehouse. That’s the cover story to use if you ever speak to anyone in the area,” the perfecty explained. He reached up to a brick shelf just above the fireplace and retrieved a tray on which was an object covered with a cloth. He put the tray on a table in the centre of the room. With the theatrical gesture of a magician, he removed the cloth to reveal two neatly arranged piles of pound notes. “This is your advance payment; two hundred thousand pounds each,” he said.
Colin’s face lit up with childlike glee. “Wow, that’s a nice amount. More than the entire reward for the Bulgarian.”
Roger smiled too, but with more restraint than Colin. “Now you’re talking,” he said.
“We’ve been entrusted. We have to justify this payment using all our means,” said the perfecty.
“All of us know that this operation is very, very important,” Colin said inquisitively.
The perfecty waved his hands in the air as if he were swatting an irksome fly, trying to deflect attention from Colin’s assumption. “Spend money responsibly. No showing off. We need to keep a low profile. After we’ve completed this mission there will be double remuneration,” he said.
“Double each!” Colin exclaimed.
The perfecty nodded.
“I’ll probably have to buy a big stone for my missus after this. That’s the only way she’ll forget about the amount of time I’m spending away,” joked Roger.
“Well, I hope you won’t leave me to have all the fun here alone. South and West will be here soon. If you’re a good boy they might make us both happy,” Colin smirked and smacked Roger on the back.
“There’ll be no time for amusement,” the perfecty interrupted. “Both of you must leave today. You’ve got to order cars. The car thieves will need some time to find the models I want.”
“I know a bar in London ... Some skilful guys will pop in there tonight for sure. I could pass the errand on to them,” Roger offered.
“OK, but don’t talk to them yourself. Leave Colin to do the talking. They should not see your face; neither should they suspect you ‘recommended’ them.”
“I’ll speak to them. But they’ll probably ask for some money in advance,” said Colin.
The perfecty smiled faintly as he contemplated the extent of Colin’s greed. He thought he could exploit Colin’s craving to his advantage. “I’ll give you the extra money,” he said. “The guys you hire must leave the cars at a good off-road parking place. I don’t want them being left close to here, but not too far away either. ”
“I have a parking spot in mind,” said Roger.
The perfecty turned to him. “East guides the thieves to the parking place. You drive the cars here one by one.”
“Ok, I’ll do it,” Roger said.
“I was thinking ... It’d be a good idea to use the same system when hiring a hitman said Colin.
“South will be our contact with the man we’ll hire. You …” the perfecty looked at Roger, “… might be needed to assist her, but only as backup.”
“I think the hitman must be inexperienced,” said Colin.
The perfecty stared at Colin and there was a sudden silence. Colin realized that he had opened his mouth too far and he began to squirm with intense fear.
“Would you be so kind as to leave the planning and decision-making to me?” the perfecty explained slowly and clearly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere in your affairs,” Colin apologized.
“Good. Yet there is a grain of truth in your words. The man we’ll hire has to be traceable. That’s why we don’t need an experienced hitman. An expert would cover his tracks well. Our ideal candidate would be an efficient criminal who is desperate for cash,” said the perfecty.
“That sounds about right to me,” said Roger.
“So we’re close to the strike. It means that the digging into our targets’ personal life has been completed,” said Colin.
“Yes,” the perfecty confirmed. “There’s been no complication. Soon we’re going to get down to real business.”
“I don’t understand why we don’t just get rid of him straightaway,” said Roger.
“He’s not as easy a prey as he may seem. We must weaken him first,” the perfecty explained. “We must smash his heart.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Algiers, Algeria
The headquarters of the Algerian National Central Interpol Bureau in Algiers was housed in a three-storey French colonial-style building. Stopping the black car at the entrance barrier, Halil lowered the window and casually greeted the on-duty police officer, who saluted and lifted the barrier.
Halil turned back to Irina and James, who were sitting in the rear seats, “Here we are, like one big family.”
Halil, a local police inspector, had met them at the airport. He had presented himself as their personal guide, appointed for this task by chief commissar Mohamed Cassim. Halil had informed them that the chief commissar wanted to meet with them first thing on arrival at headquarters.
The secretary showed them into a large office fitted out with shiny restored nineteenth-century French furniture. The chief commissar was sitting behind a massive writing desk. He was a slim middle-aged man with a sharp face dominated by a big crow-black moustache. He rose and came out from behind the desk to greet them and invited them to sit at a low, varnished dark-wood coffe table. The secretary served coffee and cold water before leaving them to talk in private.
The chief commissar began by talking about the weather and the sightseeing in Algiers. But when he had finished his coffee, he stretched the front of his tunic and said in a harder tone, “Tell me, why are you interes
ted in something that happened a year ago?”
“We’re investigating a similar murder in the UK,” said Irina.
“You think that the two cases may be related?” the chief commissar asked.
“Possibly. We hope our visit will help us verify this hypothesis.”
“You do not hold an official Interpol mandate.”
“The Bulgarian Interpol Bureau works with the English police. Mr Whiteway is their representative.”
James joined in the conversation. “I’m impressed by the good work of the local police force. Thanks to your people, we had a chance to link both cases. I believe we’ll learn other valuable things here. This will speed up our homeland investigation.”
“Hmm. If you think so,” the chief commissar said in a softened tone. He was silent for a while, tapping the table with the fingertips of his right hand. “We work hard here,” he continued eventually. “As a result the city is peaceful and quiet. I want to keep it that way while you’re here.”
“That is our intention, too,” Irina reassured him.
“You should not do police work here without consulting with me first. You can talk to Halil about your requirements.” The chief commissar got up, went to his desk and returned with two thin grey files. “The material you need is here, all translated into English,” he said, and handed the files over to them. “Inspector Halil will show you a place where you can read it. The case hasn’t been solved completely. I expect to be informed if you come across something.”
“Of course,” said Irina.
“I wish you a pleasant stay in Algiers.”
Halil took them to a room containing a table and chairs and left them. Irina and James immersed themselves in the files’ contents. There were several photos, autopsy data, a few witness statements and the investigating officer’s report. The name of the victim was Knut Vebber, thirty-three years old, a German national. He had visited Algeria several times to study the teaching and practices of the local Sufis. He had befriended the leader of one of the Sufi brotherhoods – sheikh Mussa Hussein. In his brief testimony, the sheikh confirmed that Knut had been his follower and friend. The last, fatal visit of the German had occurred in turbulent times. There had been street demonstrations and unrest in Algiers and other cities, partly due to the increasing political demands of Islamic hardliners. The report concluded that Knut Vebber fell victim to radical Islamists. A group of men ambushed him after he had left the Sufi teaching place. The attackers dragged him to a building nearby, tortured him and then killed him with a single shot to the head. A swastika had been carved on his chest. A police patrol surprised the group and gunshots were exchanged. The police shot one man; the rest fled. The man who had been gunned down was twenty-four years old. His relatives and acquaintances described him as a deeply religious person. The other attackers had never been found.
Irina pushed her chair back. “I’m becoming disappointed,” she said. “The likelihood that this was just xenophobic cruelty now looks much greater. It doesn’t overlap enough with our case.”
James looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure of that,” he said and turned his attention back to the papers.
Irina justified her opinion. “The swastika is the only resemblance, and also partly the fact that both men were murdered by a group of people. Those may well be coincidences.”
James showed her one of the photos. “Look carefully.”
Irina took the photo and looked at it closely. “The swastika … shirt torn on his chest …”
“His left sleeve is torn and rolled up.”
“Probably because he resisted.”
“There might have been another reason. The veins on Costov’s left arm were cut. Perhaps they were preparing Knut Vebber for the same treatment.”
“You think that the police interrupted the gang before they were able to fulfil their plan?” Irina seemed intrigued.
“Yes. The attackers simply didn’t have time to complete the murder ritual.”
“Your assumption makes a lot of sense.”
“That’s what scares me. Actually, I came here convinced that this would be a fruitless journey. Now I’m not sure what to think.”
Irina looked at him in surprise. “You wrote in your report that more victims of that cult are likely to be found.”
“What initially made me sceptical was the fact that Knut Vebber was shot in the head. The cult needed him killed in a ritual way. Now I see a possible explanation for that difference."
“Knut Vebber could have been killed by accident. Even the police could be responsible. What’s most probable is that somebody from the cult lost his nerve when the police interrupted the rite and shot him,” Irina interrupted.
“I would go for the last. It fits the psychological profile of those murderers. They bare strong hatred of their victims. The Costov case clearly showed that.”
“So we may have come across an old pagan cult operating inside official Islam. It may have spread to the UK, too. Maybe some of the symbols from Costov’s murder could backup such an assumption.”
“It would be difficult for such a cult to stay hidden within the Islamic environment, but not impossible. If our assumptions are correct it may exist.”
“This cult could be very well disguised, then.”
“It’s not uncommon for so-called crypto religions to coexist within major religious forms, but worshippers of Sumerian gods?” James sounded doubtful.
“There are questionable points here. What if the cult followed Knut Vebber in Algeria? They may have hired local people to help them. The Algerian police may have killed one of the mercenaries by chance.”
“A ritual murder cannot be fulfilled by laymen. Members of the cult must be involved,” James objected.
“OK. It’s also unlikely that the killers were foreigners. A group of foreigners would have attracted attention at that troubled time. The crime was perpetrated in a residential district. Everybody knew each other there, most probably.”
“Well, we’ve narrowed down the possibilities.”
“In fact, we’ve established a probable link between the two cases. It looks as though the same cult’s probably behind both murders,” Irina summarized.
“Interpol would have an official case if we were right,” said James. “Unfortunately, not much comes out of this to help resolve Costov’s murder.”
“We’ve just begun. We need to do more. I want to talk to sheikh Mussa Hussein. Judging by the report, he was the only person with whom Knut Vebber had some kind of friendship.”
“The chief commissar may not be happy to hear this.”
“He’ll have to live with it,” said Irina.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
USA
1920
Sanctum – the ship on which Batka had sailed to Karachi and back – dropped anchor in the Port of San Francisco a month later than scheduled. Semeon Laptin, as part of a small welcoming party, was already at the dock rented by Batka’s company. Batka did not allow members of his family to be present on such occasions, only business associates and old friends. The group waited in silence. Their faces showed signs of tension and worry. Strange rumours had circulated among Batka’s inner circle. Something had happened during this latest journey. Sanctum’s captain had kept the headquarters in San Francisco informed of the situation via radiograms.
Batka had personally decided to delay their return journey. The cargo from the mines and the bandit spoils had arrived intact and on time in the Port of Karachi, but without Batka, his son and a small group of personal guards – they had stayed in Pamir. The people who had accompanied the cargo had conveyed Batka’s order: “Load the ship and wait ready to sail.” According to them, Batka had stayed in the mountains ‘to meet some hermit who lived in a cave not far away from the mine’.
The story had begun when the elders of a few villages that supplied workers for the mine asked Batka to mediate between them and the sorcerer-hermit who interfered in their affairs and whom the
y feared. Batka agreed. He met with the hermit and gave conciliatory gifts from the villagers. From that day onwards, he started to visit the cave frequently together with his son. When the cargo caravan was ready, Batka ordered his people to leave without him.
In one radiogram, the captain mentioned that the long wait and the lack of news about what was going on in the mountains had undermined the morale of the people. Rumours were already circulating amongst the crew that Batka and his son had been bewitched.
Batka was the first to climb down the ladder lowered by Sanctum’s sailors. He had lost weight and his complexion was bronzed. Twenty men followed him – some of his Russian bandits, the others were ship officers and crew members. His son, Alexander, was not amongst them.
In one hand, Batka held a long staff, which was broader at one end, wrapped in a brown cloth. The broad end was partly uncovered, and Laptin saw that the wood was carved in the form of many snapping snakes. It reminded him of the mythological Gorgon Medusa.
Laptin was surprised how cold Batka was when he greeted the waiting people – he gave them a brief handshake and a few words, but seemed bored and distant. However, another thing startled him to such an extent that he had a nightmare about it the following night: the man who shook hands with Batka before Laptin did was the chief accountant of the shipping company. He knew Batka’s family well and he spontaneously asked him about Alexander. For a fraction of a second, Laptin saw Batka’s eyes change from blue to dark green. At the same time, something like freezing electricity emanated from Batka. Laptin felt it in his bones. My mind’s playing tricks, he thought. But when he glanced at the pallid chief accountant, he knew it had not been his imagination.
Batka moved from the startled man as if he had not heard his question and shook Laptin’s hand.
Later, he announced that his son had chosen to return to Russia and live there and that he had given him his blessing.
The young man’s decision to return to a land suffocated by Bolshevik terror was incomprehensible, and it made even less sense that Batka had allowed him to do so. But nobody dared bring this up. Without saying a word, Batka had made everybody around him understand that the subject was taboo.
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