by RJ Bailey
‘One thing worries me.’ Mitval took off the glasses.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘The gap.’
‘Gap?’
‘This twenty-month break you took. A long time in this business.’
‘Not really,’ I said as evenly as I could. ‘A few bits and pieces change. The job is what it has always been – protect the Principal.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘That is true. But I don’t know if you have seen photographs of Mrs Asparov.’
‘I have.’
‘Then you will know she is a very fit woman. Very fit.’ I examined his words for any hint of a double meaning, but there was none. ‘She does Bikram yoga twice a week and has a personal trainer in the gym –’ he pointed to the floor, indicating the subterranean world beneath our feet ‘– every day except Sunday. She runs half-marathons. Swims for an hour every afternoon.’
God, I thought, all that singing must really take it out of you. That and perhaps knowing that, as you tick through your twenties, wife number four might well be revving up on the start line.
‘And, without being rude in any way . . .’ Now the smile positively dazzled. ‘She is somewhat younger than you.’
Ouch. ‘I think I’m meant to look after her, not race her to the next lamppost. Or run half-marathons with her.’
The grin wattage lowered a little bit. ‘True. But believe me, she does take some keeping up with. She’s like a whirlwind. So, just to be on the safe side, we would like to check your fitness levels. Nothing too strenuous. The gym is empty right now.’
‘It’s not exactly standard procedure.’
‘Perhaps it should be. I bet half the thugs who work as bodyguards in London would not be able to manage a hundred metres without bursting a blood vessel. Bags of muscle, that’s all. Not you, of course. But, as I said, it has been a long lay-off. OK?’
Still not my idea of a day at the beach. ‘OK.’
Back to full power on the smile. ‘Excellent!’
If the space he had planned for Holland Park was anything like the one lurking beneath The Bishops Avenue, it was little wonder objections were raised to Asparov’s basement over there. The first floor down was the obligatory cinema plus an in-house recording studio for Katya Asparov to torture innocent songs to death. It was large enough to fit the London Symphony Orchestra in. Minus two held the swimming pool, sauna, steam room and gym. Below that was the garage level. The garage apparently routed cars via a large vehicle elevator to a car wash facility then up to ground level.
My New Best Friend showed me to a changing room that could have housed both sides at an FA Cup final. It felt lonely and echoey as I stripped off and put on a new sports bra, T-shirt, sweatshirt, leggings and Under Armour cross-trainers. I stretched a little and wondered why I had agreed to do this. But Ben wanted a full report, whether I got the job or not. I knew why – if they rejected me, he would want to be able to send a more suitable candidate along next time, tailored to what I had told him. He didn’t like to miss out on commission. Besides, maybe it was part of the new norm.
I poked my head through the door marked ‘Pool’. It wasn’t, as I had half-expected, Olympic-sized, but you could still have loaned it out to Sea World for dolphin shows. There was no smell of chlorine, so I suspected it was ozone or UV treated. Along the opposite wall from me was a large mosaic of Mr Asparov dressed as Neptune and Mrs Asparov not dressed at all, her modesty protected only by Neptune’s beard and trident. I wondered if her head was a single panel, one that could be prised off and replaced in a jiffy when the next Mrs Asparov came along.
There was a small plaque on the wall. I peered at it. ‘Conceived, Designed and Built by London Underground Ltd.’ Not, presumably, the guys who ran the tube, but one of the many companies creating a whole underworld for rich Londoners to frolic in. There was a web address, too, but I didn’t bother memorising it. The chances of me needing a ten-car garage were slight.
I stepped back into the dressing room and took the other door that led to the gym. Mitval was in the middle of the room, still wearing his navy-blue suit, but with a pair of trainers on his feet. It was hard to gauge the size of the installation to begin with, because two of the walls were mirrored, but it was large enough to have four of every type of fitness machine and still leave a large square of foam matting in the centre for floor exercises. Maybe, on top of everything else, Mrs Asparov was a gymnast, too.
‘There you are,’ he said. From his pocket he produced a wristband. ‘If you’ll put this on, the telematics feed through to the computer over there for analysis.’ There was indeed an Apple MacBook open on a small table, next to the water fountain. Above it, four black-and-white CCTV screens showed various views of the outside of the house. I put it on, walking over to take a cup of water as I did so.
‘Music?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. I had a feeling I knew exactly what was on the playlist in that gym. ‘Thank you.’
‘Shall we start on the treadmill?’
We did, with me running while he adjusted the speed slowly upward. As he did so he kept up a stream of information about the set-up at the house. There was an RST of six, all male. The garage below had nine cars, including two Porsches and two Ferraris. They were for the Asparovs’ use only. If I took the job I’d be expected to toggle between a Range Rover and a Mercedes S Class, which were kept in a conventional above-ground garage.
He asked me about which courses I had done: defensive driving, tactical driving, emergency evacuations from a scene, hostage negotiations, pistol certification – which I had done in Slovakia – ambush situations and extraction scenarios. As the speed crept up and the incline came into play, I kept the answers short. I was doing OK, but I knew that four weeks had not been long enough to put me back at my best. But my breath was coming easy and I settled into a long loping stride. After ten minutes he slowed the belt and lowered it. I was breathing hard but not ragged. I emptied the cup of water then wiped my forehead. There was just a small film of sweat.
‘Very good. What can you bench-press?’
I didn’t lie. ‘I used to be able to do my body weight and then some. That was a while ago, mind, and it’s not quite back up there yet. But it’s coming along.’
He grunted as if he didn’t quite believe me. ‘Let’s do the rower.’
He stood over me while I did five very fast minutes, actually enjoying the burn in my arms and thighs towards the end. The machines were top-of-the-line commercial gym quality and a pleasure to use. Even the rack of free weights looked reassuringly expensive.
‘And chin-ups.’ He indicated the rubber-coated parallel bars jutting out from the wall. I could reach them easily, and so had to cross my legs at the ankles and raise my knees to clear the ground before I began the pull-ups. At ten he was happy enough to tell me to take a break.
I helped myself to some more water, trying to hide the little shake in my right arm, and took in as much oxygen as I could.
‘Warmed up?’ Mitval asked.
I drew a second cup of water. ‘You could say that.’
As I turned I became aware that a third person had entered the room. I was annoyed at myself for not hearing him, but he moved on the balls of his feet with an easy, feline grace that belied his stocky build. He was shaven-headed and both the arms that poked out of his vest top were covered in lurid tattoos. A bag of muscle, as Mitval had put it.
‘OK, on to the next test. Imagine I am the Principal. You have to come and save me. For that, you have to get past our friend Bojan.’
Our friend Bojan gave a formal bow and then began to walk around the perimeter of the mat, staring at me side on like a matador might appraise a bull.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Checking my fitness is one thing but I’m not fighting.’
‘I just want to see how you handle yourself,’ said Mitval evenly, as if this were an everyday request.
‘No.’
Mitval gave an expansive, arm-
waving shrug. ‘Well, it’s immaterial. The door to the changing room is there. The lift out of here, just around the corner. But Bojan is also between you and them. He will stop you leaving.’
‘He can try.’
They both thought that was hilarious.
I took several paces towards him. ‘Bojan—’
I didn’t even see the blow coming. Didn’t sense his weight shift or the foot connect. I was simultaneously aware of two things, his right leg going back into position and a small nexus of pain in my right rib, just below my breast. I took a step back. The first thing one is inclined to do when one has been hurt is to grab the wound. Just like soldiers automatically duck when they come under fire. But grabbing the affected area is a bad move. One, it isn’t going to help alleviate the pain. Two, it leaves all your defences down.
‘Come on, I don’t want the job this badly. There’s always Primark,’ I said. That was the problem with army training. It incubates a way of coping with danger by the application of black humour. I could tell from his expression that this particular quip hadn’t travelled well.
Bojan stepped in, feinted with the same leg, then snapped it back and brought his left around in a swinging arc. I was fast enough to block this one, but the impact jarred my arm up to the shoulder. I shook it to keep it loose. Now I was on the balls of my feet as well. Whether this was part of the job interview or if they just wanted to play with or even humiliate me, it didn’t matter now. It was clear they weren’t about to let the afternoon’s entertainment slip away.
I am trained in unarmed combat, but not the balletic sort. No fancy drop kicks for me. In most cases, a PPO is fighting in confined spaces, in the back of a car, a hallway, even, as I recalled, an aeroplane. Kickboxing moves won’t work there, you need something up close. The army taught me to fight in a way not much changed from the days when Sykes and Fairbairn instructed the Commandos and Special Forces in English country houses appropriated for the duration. When I took my PPO course I was tutored by someone who had served in 14 Intelligence Company in Northern Ireland, also known as The Det or Int & Squint. Charged with infiltrating the IRA and the loyalist paramilitaries, they had developed a fast, dirty form of self-defence, perfect for a crowded pub or a back alley. Add to that Colonel d’Arcy and his espousal of Krav Maga, a Hungarian self-defence system favoured by the Israelis, and on paper I was pretty well equipped.
What I needed was to find some anger. I was pissed off with these boys, but not enough to fuel a fight. I found it in Matt, in the letter that had arrived from a solicitor’s office, saying that he wanted free access to his daughter. And suggesting if it wasn’t provided, then he would press charges for assault. Apparently there was photographic evidence of the ‘beating’ I had given him. One slap across the face does not, in my book, a beating make.
I felt a burst of indignation and, yes, hatred flare up inside. As it did so, I rode the wave of disgust that followed and moved in. I got one short, sharp punch in and suddenly I felt pain explode in several places at once. I retreated. Bojan was smiling. His feet were making the quick, shuffling movements of a boxer.
‘Bojan is Serbian,’ explained Mitval, as if he was narrating a wildlife documentary on BBC2. ‘A lot of Russian kidnappers use Serbian hard men. You might have to face a man like this for real.’
I stole a glance at Mitval. There was a sickly light in his eyes. He was obviously enjoying this. If I did by some miracle get past Bojan I would make sure he regretted this charade.
I didn’t say anything, just swallowed on a dry throat and did a quick check to make sure nothing was broken. No. Not yet. But he’d caught me on the wrist and my hand was full of pins and needles. I worked the fingers to restore life into them. I’d discovered one thing. He was fast. Frighteningly fast. And I wasn’t.
As if reading my mind he came at me in a blur of limbs. He was like a belligerent octopus. I ducked and twisted away and a shovel-like hand caught me a glancing blow on the head. A second one followed up, and the side of my face became fire.
Again I managed to pull back. He had the strength and he had the weight advantage. I had height and reach, but I would imagine he was a difficult man to hurt. I recognised some of the moves he had made from my training in Krav Maga, the ‘art of going home alive’, which was developed by Hungarian boxer and wrestler Emrich Lichtenfeld in the 1930s. If he was an adept student of that, or even worse, the more advanced and brutal KAPAP system, as used by various elite forces, I was probably fucked. I just wasn’t match fit.
He beckoned me forward, inviting me to come back at him.
I should have settled for counters rather than attacks. As I lunged in I saw the right arm coming towards me, the hand angled to hit me with the edge. It would be like a blow from the blunt side of a sabre. I grabbed the wrist, pulled him towards me and went back. He lost his balance and I planted a foot firmly in his stomach. As I hit the mat I felt the air blast from my lungs, but at the same time I flipped him over. Old school.
I whipped around in time to see him convert the throw into a perfect roll, landing on his feet and turning. Before I had managed to get up, his foot caught me under the chin, sending me sprawling back. I could taste the tang of iron. But it was no time to check my dental condition. I scrambled to my feet, awkwardly, and it took me three or four precious seconds to get my balance back. That was when I knew they were playing with me. He could have taken me in that small window, and there was nothing I could have done about it. Bojan was breathing hard, not from exertion but excitement. He wanted to prolong this pleasure.
I now had only Mitval between me and the exit, but that would do me little good. If I turned to run, even if I managed to palm aside Mitval, Bojan would be on me within two or three paces. And I really didn’t want to turn my back on him.
I was sweating and I reached down to take off my top. As I did so I grabbed the T-shirt underneath and in one movement took them both off. I only had my sports bra on now. The cool air on my sticky skin felt good.
Bojan couldn’t help but stare. The Colonel once told me that a woman taking her top off could paralyse a man for half of a second. But that was widely thought to involve flashing your tits. Getting the bra off was too much to ask, but I reckoned even the underwear might get me a third or a quarter of a second. Not much, so I knew I had to move immediately, with my clothes still wrapped around one arm. I moved in close, fended off the kick with the sweatshirt and T-shirt and got a forearm to his nose. A grunt, of what I hoped was pain.
Then I hammered a fist over his ear, just to set it ringing, and with my left poked a finger deep into his eye socket.
That gave me a proper, satisfying scream. The retaliatory blow set my own ears humming and I staggered, but I went into him, rather than away. My right kidney bore the brunt of a vicious hooked swing, but I kneed him hard in the balls, keeping my knee there for a long second and grinding patella against scrotum. One eye was glaring hate at me, the other was half-closed, red and weeping. I went between them for a docker’s kiss: a head butt on his already damaged nose.
Then I flipped his legs from under him and he went down. Already I could see him compartmentalising the pain, readying for another attack, so I stamped down on his ribs. He got my ankle on the second one, but by then I knew from the sweat beading on his forehead I had damaged something in his chest. I broke his grip, which was noticeably weak, and twisted away. I went back in and let my full weight drop onto his chest, landing on my knees, knocking the wind out of him, which came with a satisfying roar of pain. He clutched at me but again I broke free, rolling away from him and coming up in front of Mitval. He gave a slow round of applause.
‘Brava. I think the job is yours.’
I pulled myself up to my full, aching height. His eyes flicked down to my breasts. They didn’t have to flick far because I was towering over him. ‘Fuck off,’ I said, and rarely had those two words sounded so satisfying. I pulled my arm back and he flinched. But I let it drop. Point made.
In the changing room, I pulled on the T-shirt and sweatshirt with some difficulty. Overused muscles were stiffening. I pushed my regular clothes into the holdall without bothering to change into them and got into the lift. Nobody tried to stop me.
In the hallway, the butler watched me leave, his face impassive as he inclined his head in farewell. Didn’t get the door for me, though.
Once I was out in the street I called Ben. I didn’t engage in conversation. I just said: ‘One thing. No more fucking Russians.’ Then I hung up.
SIXTEEN
‘Man down! Man down!’
The scared voice screaming in my ear is so loud I don’t think the lad needed comms.
I ask him his location. How many of them. Two pax comes the answer. Only one of the pair hit.
Underneath the flag. Ground floor.
I raise my head over the bonnet of the Land Rover. It takes me a few moments to spot a tattered standard hanging limply from a flagpole that has been tied to a balustrade. It wasn’t more than 200 metres away. A few rounds ping into the rear box of the ‘Snatch’ Land Rover, to remind me what lies between me and the doorway, beyond which a wounded man might be bleeding out.
I hear the pops and smacks of small-arms fire and the odd whine of a ricochet from nearby streets. Somewhere around the next bend C Company was under hostile fire. Our shitty, shitty Land Rover had taken a couple of hefty DShK rounds through the engine. Then the driver had taken one of the 12.7mms through his Alpha helmet. I didn’t bother trying to give him any aid. Man down and staying down. We got out of the vehicle as the sides began to bulge and distort with every hit. Soon the metal box at the back would resemble a colander.
The Snatch is a disgrace. The Americans have vehicles that could withstand RPGs. The Snatch, which was designed for operations in Northern Ireland, could be taken with a tin opener.