He snatched up his desk phone and dialled. Presently he heard a click, the rattle of a handset being lifted, and a sleepy, rather irritated voice muttered, ‘Dillon.’
‘It’s Fairchild. I’ve received information about the whereabouts of the Dvoskin girl.’
‘Is it reliable?’
‘Completely. Have you got a pad and pencil? There’s not much of an address, but you’ll probably want to note the details down.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Detective Inspector Sligo lifted his tray from the counter and glanced around the canteen. Harsh, over-bright lighting glared off blue Formica table tops, exposed the drabness of the scuffed yellow tiles that covered the floor. The place was almost empty. It was still a bit early; maybe the team hadn’t come out of the briefing meeting. A rumour was going around that they’d located the women. If they had, and if they were going to move in, he needed the details. He caught sight of Len Baxter, one of the Special Firearms Officers. Blue shirted, six-six tall, shaven head, massive shoulders, he was sitting in a far corner, devouring a fry, his newspaper propped up against sauce bottles. The briefing must have ended.
Sligo ambled across. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Why should I? Pull up a chair.’ Baxter folded a slice of bread, dabbed it in the yolk of an egg, then leaned over his plate while he pushed it, dripping, into his mouth. He began to chew.
DI Sligo transferred his plate of eggs and bacon from tray to table, then sat down and gathered up his knife and fork. ‘Still on standby?’
Baxter swallowed, belched, then muttered, ‘Yeah. Have been for the last three nights. Wife’s a bit peeved about it, taken her bat home, so I thought I’d have a fry before I knocked off.’ He reached for his mug of tea.
Sligo asked, ‘What is it this time?’
‘Two Russian women, one’s the daughter of that businessman who was murdered in Athens. They’ve killed five men so far.’
‘Any sightings?’
‘No reports, but the chief had a tip-off around midnight. They’re holed up in a holiday let near the Pembrokeshire coast, a few miles from Haverfordwest; an old farmhouse called Clogwyn.’ Baxter forked up the remains of his egg and chewed while he mumbled, ‘Just got out of the briefing. After I’ve had this I’m going home to snatch some kip. We’re travelling to Wales tonight, looking the place over, getting into position, then going in. It’s a bit serious – more serious than two crazy tarts on the rampage – seems they’re a threat to national security. Vernon Greenwood’s leading the team. He’s driving down with Dillon.’
Sligo glanced up. ‘The Commissioner’s attending?’
‘Like I said, this one’s serious. Politicians are shitting themselves. We’ve been instructed to take body bags. We’re going in hard.’ Baxter tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s strictly between you and me, old son.’ He drained his mug of tea, belched, pushed his chair back, then picked up his paper. ‘Better get home to the missus.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She should still be in the sack. I might climb in and give her one before she remembers she hates me.’
Sligo watched the Special Firearms Officer make his way between the empty tables. When he’d disappeared through the swing doors, he rose and followed him out. He had to get to a public phone, make a call that couldn’t be traced. Orlov might decide to let the police do the job. Then again, he might put his men in first so they’d be sure of getting paid. Either way, the information should earn him a winter break for the wife and kids. Florida, perhaps. The kids were always banging on about going to Disneyland.
Samantha turned towards the adjoining bed and whispered into the darkness, ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t sound fine. You’ve been sobbing away there for almost an hour. What’s the matter? You were happier today; you seemed to enjoy being by the sea, and we had a couple of decent meals.’
‘I know. It was very pleasant. And thank you for being so nice to me. It’s just that –’ the sobbing erupted ‘– it’s just that I don’t think Alexander loves me anymore; I don’t think he’s ever really loved me.’
Samantha sat up and clicked on her bedside lamp. ‘What’s made you think that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Annushka contemplated telling her about the phone call, about his having broken his promise to come to her, but thought better of it. ‘It’s just that he was always telling me how much he loved me, that I was the single most important thing in his life, but he’s not bothered to find me and get me out of this mess. And I did love him so. He made all those stupid boys seem like . . . well, like stupid boys.’
Keeping her voice gentle, Samantha said, ‘He’s married, love, to a beautiful woman by all accounts; he has teenage sons, he holds one of the highest offices in the land. He’ll think twice before throwing that away. And not all boys are boorish and stupid. Some of them are sensitive and kind.’ She decided she’d better stop there. She was beginning to sound like an agony aunt. Protecting the girl was enough; motherly advice wasn’t part of her remit.
‘What am I going to do?’ Annushka moaned. She sniffed and snuffled, then began to cry again, a low keening sound, like a small child. ‘My father’s dead, Alexander doesn’t want me anymore. I’m sure I’m going to die. Sooner or later, someone’s going to kill me.’ She turned her back towards Samantha, pressed her face into the pillow and abandoned herself to tears.
Samantha threw her sheets aside, crossed a lambswool rug and sat on Annushka’s bed. She brushed the girl’s hair away from her face and stroked her cheek as she whispered, ‘He’s married, love. He’s old enough to be your father. He belongs to someone else. His real life is with them. You were no more than a pleasant diversion. Walk away from it and charge it down to experience; that’s the only thing you can do.’
‘You have absolutely no idea how vile I feel,’ Annushka sobbed angrily. ‘And he did love me. He told me, over and over, that he really, really did love me.’
Lying toad, Samantha mused, then, deciding the girl needed comforting, not confronting with the truth, said, ‘Let me make you a drink. There’s some hot chocolate in a cupboard and plenty of milk in the fridge. And I’ll put a splash of brandy in it. How about that?’
Annushka nodded and her sobbing subsided into sighs and sniffles.
Samantha heard a faint bleeping as she slid the gun from under her pillow. She reached for her shoulder bag, took out the encrypted phone and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She keyed it on.
A woman’s voice demanded, ‘Where are you?’
‘The safe house in Wales.’
‘Get out. Get out now. You have very little time.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Police: an Armed Response Unit. God knows how they found out where you are. Don’t talk. Just get out. And stay under cover; they may come with airborne surveillance.’
Samantha stepped back into the bedroom. ‘Get up and get dressed, put on something warm if you can find it.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Police are coming, and they’re heavily armed. If we don’t get out they could kill us both.’
Samantha dressed in the black jeans and walking shoes she’d worn the day before, but pulled on a grey woollen jumper instead of her blouse. She hurriedly flattened her hair beneath the wig cap then arranged the wig as best she could. Annushka was hopping around, trying to slide a leg into her tights. ‘You bring the bag with your money and papers. I’ll take the bags with the clothes. We’ve got to get out before they drive on to the track that leads to the farm, or we’ll be trapped.’
The night was still and clear. Stars glittered and a bloated moon bathed the countryside in a pale, cold light. They piled the bags on the back seat of the tiny Fiat, then climbed inside. Samantha keyed the ignition, the starter whirred, but the engine didn’t fire. She tried again, pumped the accelerator, coaxing the engine to start. It didn’t respond. On the third attempt the starter faltered, then groaned into silence.
/> Samantha climbed out of the car. ‘Get the bags. We’ll go up to that old cattle shed.’
They dragged the holdalls from the car and began to run up the grassy slope. ‘Shouldn’t we just get as far away as we can?’ Annushka panted.
‘They might bring a helicopter with heat-seeking cameras. Out in the open they’d find us just as easily in the dark as they would in daylight. We’ll hide in the old building, under what’s left of the roof. If there’s no sign of a helicopter when they arrive, we’ll slip away over the fields.’
‘Listen,’ Annushka hissed. They’d neared the rim of the hollow where the slope was steeper. ‘I think I can hear a car.’
They paused for a moment. Above the sound of their heavy breathing they caught the wavering murmur of a car moving slowly over uneven ground. Annushka felt a rush of joy and relief. One car: Alexander was coming for her after all. She dropped her bags and began to run back down the slope.
Samantha grabbed her arm and hauled her back. ‘Are you crazy?’
She struggled, tried to break free. ‘Alexander’s come. Everything’s going to be all right. He said he’d come for me.’
‘Said he’d come? When did he say he’d come?’
‘Yesterday. I phoned him on the special mobile I use just for talking to him.’
‘The one with diamonds on the case? It’s dead; the batteries are flat. You couldn’t have made—’
‘I found a charger in the Belgravia flat. When we stayed at the hotel I plugged it in.’
Samantha shook her. ‘You stupid little idiot. You could have got us murdered in our beds. It’s not Alexander, it’s a squad of armed police.’ She began to drag the girl back up the slope. ‘They’ll have been instructed to kill us; solve his and a lot of other people’s problems.’
‘It’s Alexander. I know it’s Alexander,’ Annushka wailed.
‘Pick up your bag and run,’ Samantha demanded. ‘Let’s get inside the cattle shed. We’ll watch from there. If it is Alexander, I’ll let you go to him. If it’s not, you stay with me and do as you’re told.’
They picked their way over fallen masonry, moved beneath the sagging roof and crouched amongst invading grass and weeds and abandoned farming things in one of the cattle stalls ranged along the far wall. Through the ragged gap in the stonework, they watched a car advance on to the patch of mown grass in front of the house. Doors opened, four men emerged, then, seconds later, a van appeared and slowed to a stop behind the car. More men climbed out, joined the others, then they crept towards the house. Two parted from the group, headed down the sides, then doubled back when they discovered there was no access at the rear.
‘They’re not wearing uniforms,’ Annushka whispered. ‘And the car’s just an ordinary car, not a police car.’
‘Whoever they are, they’re not friendly.’
Men positioned themselves on either side of entrance, dark shapes against moonlit grey stone. Another approached the door, gun in hand, while the others stood back. The unlocked door yielded at the man’s push. He paused, gestured, then they all followed him into the opening. Lights began to shine behind windows – in the kitchen, the tiny parlour, the bedroom – and they caught occasional glimpses of the men as they wandered around, searching the house.
‘It’s certainly not Alexander,’ Samantha whispered.
‘And they don’t look like the police.’
‘No, but I think the police have arrived. Look towards the end of the track.’
‘I can’t see any . . . Yes, men, lots of big men.’
‘They’ve probably left their transport near the road and approached down the track on foot.’
Light, spilling from windows and the open door, reached out towards the new arrivals. Menacing in black uniforms and black balaclavas, their chests made massive by bulletproof jackets, they assembled behind the car and van, sub-machine guns cradled in their arms. Silver braid gleamed on the cap of a man in conversation with one of their number. After a few seconds, the man with the braid withdrew and climbed some distance up the enclosing slope. Lost in darkness, he turned to observe the action.
The beam of a powerful lamp cast a circle of dazzling light around the door of the house and a voice, made harsh and metallic by a loudhailer, announced, ‘Police. This is the police. Come out with your hands above your heads.’
Lights went out in the kitchen and the hall, the door crashed shut, the bedrooms were plunged into darkness. There was a sound of breaking glass, then shots were fired from the house. A shouted command was followed by the deafening clatter of a dozen sub-machine guns. When the guns fell silent, the voice rang out again, ‘Police. This is the police. Come out with your hands above your heads. You have one minute.’
Annushka and Samantha gazed down at the house. Its windows were shattered, its door ravaged by bullets. After what seemed like an age, the splintered door opened and two men emerged, one tall, the other stocky; both dressed in sweaters and baggy trousers. Hands clasped behind their heads, they stood there, shrinking from the blinding light.
A voice from behind the van called out, ‘Watch it, he’s got a gun.’
The tall man protested, ‘No gun. We have no—’
They fell under a hail of bullets.
‘They didn’t have a gun,’ Annushka whispered, her voice outraged. ‘Even from up here, it was plain they didn’t have a gun. Why did—’
‘They’ve been instructed to kill,’ Samantha muttered. ‘The warning about a gun was a ploy, an excuse for the group to open fire. If we’d been in the house they’d have killed us.’
The men behind the car and van seemed to be conferring, then a voice through the loudhailer demanded, ‘Come out, we know there are two women in there. Come out, all of you, with your hands above your heads.’ Black-clad figures scurried across the grass and crouched against the farmhouse wall. Canisters were tossed through shattered windows. Seconds later, white smoke began to pour from the openings and drift in billowing clouds across the searchlight beam.
Samantha heard the swish of legs striding through long grass, the crunch of a shoe on a patch of paving. A tall, heavily built man, the braid on his cap gleaming in the moonlight, appeared in the opening. Annushka let out a frightened little gasp and clung to Samantha. The man clambered inside, sidled along until he was facing an intact stretch of wall then tugged down a zip. He bent his legs, knees outwards, and broke wind, the sound rising in pitch from a moist baritone rasp to a mosquito-like whine as he straightened up. Grunts and sighs of relief accompanied a copious splashing against the stones.
Mind racing, Samantha reviewed the situation. When the shoot-out at the farm was over and the police discovered there were no women, they’d come up here, searching. They might call for dogs, a helicopter with a heat-seeking camera. If they were caught, they’d be killed. They had to find a car, get away from the place while the police were busy laying siege. She slid her hand into her shoulder bag, drew out the gun, then rose to her feet and crept up behind the man.
He was tall. She had to reach up to press the muzzle of the gun against his bull-like neck. ‘Don’t speak, just put your hands behind your back.’
He let out a surprised grunt. The cascade stopped and he began to turn. She rammed the gun beneath his ear. ‘I told you to put your hands behind your back. This thing’s got a hair trigger and I’m as crazy as two cats in a sack. If you make any sudden moves, you’re dead. Now, slowly, put your hands behind your back.’
She groped in her bag and drew out a pair of handcuffs. When his hands appeared, she stabbed the muzzle of the gun under the hem of his bulletproof jacket, hooked gleaming metal over one huge wrist, squeezed the bracelet tight, then secured the other.
Gunfire and shouting were erupting from the farmhouse. The men, having seen the fate of their friends, had decided to fight on.
Samantha glanced over her shoulder. Annushka was still crouching in the shadows. ‘Speak Russian,’ she cautioned, then said, ‘Bring the bags. I have to watch our fri
end here, so you’ll have to carry all three.’ She grabbed the Commissioner’s arm, took a radio from his belt, his gun from its canvas holster, and tossed them amongst the grass and weeds before propelling him, flies still undone, through a doorway in the gable end of the building.
‘Do you know who I am, you wretched woman?’ he snarled. ‘Do you realize what’s going to happen to you? How dare you abuse me like this.’
She stabbed him hard with the gun. ‘I know who you are, Dillon. You’re the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. And I know what you are: you’re a corrupt lying bastard. You don’t uphold the law, you defile it. You don’t serve it, you use it to favour your friends. Start walking. We’re going to cross the fields to the place where the track meets the road. I presume that’s where you left your cars?’
‘What’s it to you where we left the cars?’
‘It means a lot to all of us, because we’re going to take a ride in yours, and if there isn’t a car to ride in, you’re dead.’
The sound of gunfire faded behind them as they half ran, half walked, over rough pasture. On their left, a moonlit hedge marked the sunken track that led to the farm; up ahead, no more than a dark line beneath a sky filled with stars, a low stone wall defined the distant country road.
Breathless with running, Annushka gasped, ‘Are you going to kill him? Please let me go away if you are. I don’t want to see. I simply couldn’t bear it.’
‘I’m not going to kill him, but after I’ve done what I’m going to do, he’ll probably wish I had.’
Dark Powers Page 18