The Circassian. "Wrong Side"

by Bob Bidecant

  *****

  It had been two months since Beth had passed away but Sinclair thought about her every night. He poked the fire again and threw a few more lumps on. The wind changed and the smoke blew back into his face. He waved his hands in front of his face coughing and then finished the glass of whiskey and poured another. He reflected about his day and thought about Beth. He sighed deeply and wiped his eyes, he missed Beth. He would swap all of his medals for one more kiss from her. He stared at the flames performing a strange dance in the fireplace unable to take his eyes off of them, the whiskey had relaxed him so much he sat motionless. The rain tapped harder at the window and he thought about his mother, the rain always did that to him. Sinclair was a man who had used his fists to settle many arguments. He had risen quickly in rank, the Army rewarding his violence and promoting his aggression. He could count the number of friends he had on one hand, his memories were of poverty and cruelty. A childhood of severe beatings from a drunken father who had hit him till his hands hurt as a child, the slaps turning to punches and kicks as Bill grew from a toddler to a teenager. Bill was a tough leader, sometimes brutal with the men who followed him. Although very violent when he was drunk he had never laid a hand on a woman or child. He passionately hated men that did. There were only two women in Bill Sinclair’s life, his wife Beth who he had fallen in love with at first sight. The second was his mother.

  She died one cold January day when he was fourteen. It was a day he never forgot. It started to rain on the day she died and continued for the whole week, but on the morning of her funeral it began to snow, the flakes landing silently on her coffin turning it white.

  His aunt wept loudly and whispered in his ear that his mum was with the angels. His father stood apart from everyone else, completely silent, showing no emotion. After the funeral his father spoke to no one and went directly to the pub leaving Bill and his aunt to thank the few friends and neighbours that had attended. Bill returned to his home alone and sat crying for a long time.

  His father returned several hours later so drunk he was hardly able to walk. He cuffed Bill around the head as he passed him. Bill ignored the old man who continued drunkenly cursing him for several minutes.

  Then he spoke the words that changed Bills life forever.

  ‘It’s your fault your poor mother’s gone, she nearly died giving birth to you and was sickly ever since then. Because of you she couldn’t have any more kids. You put her into an early grave.’ Bill felt a rage that had been building inside him for many years bubble to the surface. Hands trembling he didn’t understand what was happening, his fists closed so tightly that the nails dug into his palms until they hurt. His eyes, red and swollen from crying for the loss of his mother couldn’t focus. He felt himself stand up from the chair and walk slowly towards the man he hated. He punched out at the face wildly catching the drunk off guard and knocking him over a stool. Bill kicked him repeatedly as he tried to stand and then punched the face to knock him back down again, but his father was a tough man and pulled himself up from the floor, holding onto the kitchen table for several minutes.

  Bill tired and out of breath unclenched his fists slowly realising what he had done. He glared at the man who had hit him every day of his life. His father sat on the stool and looked at him.

  ‘Fuck me, I knew you had it in you boy,’ he said. ‘My work here is done.’

  Bill didn’t understand what he meant, but the look his father gave him was different, not the usual one of contempt. He was looking at Bill with respect. He took two dirty glasses from the shelf and poured a large shot of cheap whisky into both. Pushing one towards Bill he lifted his glass to him and started to chuckle.

  ‘That was a fucking good hiding son, I take some putting down I can tell you, here drink to your ma and don’t fucking spill it. One day you will thank me.’

  That evening lifting the whisky to his lips and trying not to cough as he drank it Bill discovered the power of violence and the respect from other men that came with it. A fact his father knew only too well. The next morning while his father still slept, he packed a bag and left. He joined the Royal Engineers and miners the same day.

  He never saw or heard from his father again.

  4.4

  ‘Hello Mr Sinclair, have you come to see Josh?’ the Matron smiled at Sinclair as she looked up from the reception desk. She spoke to a young nurse who disappeared along a corridor. Several minutes later Davey O’Kane returned with Josh.

  ‘Hello Davey, how is the little tyke doing? Has he been chasing all the young nurses around. He’s a horny little bugger.’ Davey laughed as the Matron coughed loudly at Sinclair crude remark.

  Sinclair and Josh walked for half an hour around the gardens set in the grounds of the hospital. Sinclair brought Josh an orange as he always did and they laughed at the same old joke about tits, Josh never tiring of it. They sat on the long wooden bench and watched the squirrels rummaging in the short grass and then running back up the trees when somebody walked by.

  Sinclair held up a small package.

  ‘There you go Josh, something for your birthday.’

  ‘It’s not my birthday today.’

  ‘It’s not, well fuck it, I’ll take it back then.’ He joked.

  Josh ripped open the brown paper and pulled out a large red book. He read the title out loud.

  ‘King Solomon’s Mines.’ There was a drawing of a Zulu shield and spear on the cover. His face became anxious.

  ‘Is it about Zulu’s Sergeant major?’

  ‘It’s an adventure story set in Africa. It will be good for you to read, Josh.’ Josh stared at the picture of the spear and shield. He suddenly remembered what he wanted to tell Sinclair.

  ‘Guess who I saw in the hospital yesterday Sergeant Major.’ Josh said suddenly. Sinclair thought for a second and then answered. ‘

  ‘Santa Claus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Old Nick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Her majesty the queen?’

  ‘No, not even close.’

  ‘I give up, who did you see.’

  ‘The man from the mission.’ Josh said casually.

  ‘What man from what mission?’ Asked Sinclair.

  ‘The man who was tied to the fence with us. The civilian with the long hair and beard. The man with the big dog took him away on his horse.’

  ‘Fuck off, what would he be doing in a bloody mental hospital in the East End of London. You must be getting the wrong medication.’ Sinclair laughed.

  ‘I’m not in a mental hospital, this is a sanatorium.’ Josh looked sad.

  ‘Sorry Josh, of course it is.’ Sinclair realised his joke had upset Josh. He continued.’ So you saw the man the Boer took on his horse?’

  ‘Yes, I was coming back from the toilets and I got confused and went the wrong way. I saw him in a room, on his own, not sharing like the rest of us, he must have money. He has got a lot of scars on his back.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘He was stood in his room being washed by the nurses, when I saw him, I waved at him but he didn’t see me, his face was just blank. Then they turned him around and I saw his back. He has scars on his chest but not as many as on his back. You should see them Sergeant Major it looked like someone played noughts and crosses on him. It was horrible.’

  ‘What? So he didn’t see you?’

  ‘I don’t know, he was standing up but looked like he was asleep. He just stared at me, but it was as if he didn’t see me. Then one of the nurses saw me. He shouted at me and kicked the door shut.’

  ‘The nurse was angry with you for looking at him?’ Sinclair was furious, he had been assured the staff here treated the patients well.

  ‘He told me to fuck off.’ Added Josh.

  ‘I will speak with Davey.’ Sinclair said.

  ‘No don’t do that please Sergeant Major. Maybe I will get in trouble for being there.’ Josh started trembli
ng.

  ‘Alright Josh, calm down. I won’t say anything, don’t worry boy,’ he picked up the book.

  ‘Promise me you will read it.’ Sinclair said firmly.

  Josh was nervous, the picture on the cover scared him. He didn’t want to open it.

  ‘I will read it later. Thank you.’ said Josh.

  Come on lets go for a walk.’ Sinclair cursed himself. Sometimes Josh seemed so normal it was so easy for him to forget that the boy was still very ill. They stood up and walked around the gardens.

  Standing against the main building wall smoking a cigarette, a tall thin man watched Sinclair and Josh with interest. A second man joined him and also lit a cigarette.

  ‘Which one?’ he asked looking around the grounds.

  ‘The short arse sitting on the bench with the big guy.’ Answered Gurin nodding his head in the direction of Sinclair and Josh. He then stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside the building. A bell rang from the tower above the hospital, visiting time was over.

  ‘Well that’s it until next time boy.’ Said Sinclair standing up stretching. His leg ached.

  ‘Bye Sergeant Major thanks for coming.’ Said Josh as he walked back towards the steps. Sinclair watched him as he took the stairs two at a time.

  ‘My God he is getting better.’ He thought to himself as he walked out of the grounds onto the main Bethnal Green High Street and turned left towards Whitechapel. He did not see the man who followed him from the hospital to his home and watched him turn the key in his front door. As he closed the door he noticed a note laying on the thin mat. He groaned as he picked it up. A throb developing in his lower back. he read the letter out aloud as he reached his back room and sat in his rocking chair.

  “Dear Bill, have been called back to the regiment. Ship out tomorrow, come and have a farewell drink. White Hart, Seven o’clock. Bottle of Scotch with your name on. Taylor.”

  ‘Well that’s a turn up, a free drink, Betty.’ He said to the faded photo of his wife.

  4.5

  Captain David Taylor was in the White Hart pub waiting for Sinclair. He stared at his empty glass, his mind picturing the coal black Zulu with a small spear in his hand and the complete absence of compassion in his eyes. The small crowd of cockneys that had gathered around, listening to him, sat in silence waiting for his next word. A clock ticking above the open fireplace was the only sound for several seconds then a loud crack from the wet wood on the fire sent an ember cascading across the uneven tiled floor, the sound eerily like a shot from a rifle. The young cockney jumped back in his seat and gasped in shock breaking the silence, he then looked around at the others embarrassed.

  ‘Another one Sir?’

  Taylor slowly lifted his gaze towards the young woman who had broken the silence. Standing in front of him, beer stains on her blouse and untidy hair pulled back behind her head.

  ‘What?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘Do you want another drink Sir; it’s what people do in here?’ She asked. Taylor pushed his empty glass across the wooden table and nodded.

  ‘How did he kill him Sir?’ asked the young cockney quietly. Taylor suddenly remembered he was in the middle of telling a story.

  ‘How, with his spear, he slit the stomach open from the belly button to the chest, then cut out the heart and bit it before it stopped beating.’ Whispered Taylor.

  The barmaid physically shuddered as she put the glass down on the wooden table nearly spilling it in her haste to release it and scurried back behind the counter as far away from Taylor as she could get. She hated service men telling of the horrors they encountered at war, and the east end was full of scroungers who could keep a story going all night as long as the free drinks kept coming. Normally she laughed them off but this one was different, he was obviously a gentleman, he had already stood two rounds of drinks for everybody and paid for them but his haunted expression scared her and she was glad she was not left alone with him.

  ‘Wait for me to lock up tonight, Tom. There will be a few free ales in it for you.’ She whispered to the chimney sweep. He smiled and nodded.

  The East End was scary enough when she locked up and walked home, the White Hart public house was not in the safest of areas. Brought up in the east end she was tough but stories like this made her jittery, there were enough crazy bastards in London, she didn’t need to hear about the ones halfway around the world. She looked at Taylor wishing he would go home. She turned to a tall thin man, sitting at the bar nursing a Vodka.

  ‘The young men always enjoy it when one of the war veterans gets a bit drunk and relive their horror stories.’ The thin man looked at Taylor for a moment.

  ‘He is war veteran?’ the thin man asked in a thick European accent. ‘He speak true or he speak cow shit?’

  ‘Cow shit? You mean Bull shit. No he’s telling the truth, you can tell by the eyes. Zulu’s are their favourite stories.’

  ‘Zulu? What is Zulu?’

  ‘Black African’s.’

  The crowd wanted more. They loved hearing the stories of the Zulu’s. There was something about facing hundreds of naked black savages with spears and knives that sent chills down their spine.

  ‘If I may ask you Sir?’ asked a young man hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’ replied Taylor.

  ‘If you were all tied to a fence with no hope of escape, how did you manage to survive Sir?’

  ‘We were saved by one man and his dog’ The small crowd laughed at the remark assuming Taylor was teasing them.

  ‘Must have been a blooming big dog to kill all them Zulus.’ Chirped up Tom, who had been sitting at the bar listening. ‘I’ve heard some cock and bull stories from you Army lads but this is without a doubt the best tale I’ve heard between Mile End and this side of the Chapel.’ The whole pub laughed including Taylor.

  ‘It was a blooming big dog.’ Mimicked Taylor in his best cockney accent.

  Suddenly a voice boomed out in a broad Glaswegian accent.

  ‘A cock and bull story you may believe, but to my regret it is as true as I stand here. When the Zulu’s left the mission the next day, they left five of us barely alive and tied fast to the mission fence. So cocky were they that only three Zulus stayed behind, two old men and one boy. We were only kept alive so the Zulu boys could learn to kill, so they could feel what it was like to see a man die in front of their own eyes by their own hand, to get them ready for battle’

  The entire crowd of cockneys all turned to look at the owner of the voice. A very large man entered the bar and stood next to Taylor, whose face lit up like a child at Christmas.

  ‘Hello Bill, so glad you could come.’ said Taylor with a smile, genuinely pleased to see the man.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen this is Sergeant Major Bill Sinclair, DSM Royal Engineers, retired. One of the finest soldiers I have had the pleasure of serving with and he can still beat any man with one hand tied behind his back.’ Sinclair roared with laughter and sat down next to Taylor.

  ‘Actually, it’s now Sergeant Bill Sinclair, H division Whitechapel district Police.’ The chimney sweep spoke up again, laughing,

  ‘Blimey Howarth that’s a first, you sitting at the same table as a constable without having hand cuffs on’

  Everybody laughed again including Howarth who jokingly replied,

  ‘Shut it Sooty or I’ll come over there and slap the black off you.’ They all laughed again and the barmaid let out a sigh of relief looking around the pub. The crowd was relaxed, an unusual habit for cockneys in the presence of the police

  ‘Blimey you don’t see that every day.’ She exclaimed.

  The bottle sat on the table as promised and Taylor and Sinclair drank and chatted for hours as the whiskey slowly emptied from the bottle. Taylor could have chosen a dozen people and a dozen better places to spend his last evening in England. He chose Sinclair and an East End pub.

  The conversation turned to Josh.

  ‘How is Josh Andrews doing?�
� asked Taylor.

  ‘As a matter of fact I went to visit him today and he looks one hundred times better, thank you for helping to get him to Bethnal Green Sir.’ He raised his glass.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Replied Taylor and he meant it.

  ‘There was one strange occurrence though I must admit it did slip my mind until you mentioned Josh.’ Sinclair sat up straight with a jolt. ‘He said he saw the civilian from the mission in Africa in there.’

  ‘Actually that’s possible, I was contacted by Mikael last week, he is in London. Remember the civilian who we nearly left for dead? You won’t believe this but evidently it is his brother. He came to London to try to find him.’

  ‘Well actually Sir, Josh said the man he saw was definitely the same man from the African mission.’

  ‘Bill that’s fantastic. We must get a message to Mikael. He will be overjoyed to find his brother. Finally we can repay our debt of gratitude albeit in a small way.’ He called to the barmaid.

  ‘Martha can you please bring me a pen and paper.’

  Martha was still talking to the same customer who was sitting at the bar.

  ‘I ain’t got no bleeding pen and paper.’ She shouted back.

  ‘What do you write with then? Asked Taylor.

  ‘A pencil and paper.’ She replied slamming it down on the table. Taylor wrote an address on the paper and a short note explaining that Jaak was in Bethnal Green hospital, he also added Sinclair’s address then handed it to Sinclair.

  ‘That a bit of luck he lives in the same street as me.’ Sinclair exclaimed drunkenly.

  ‘What,’ said Taylor laughing. ‘No, that’s your address, his is on the other side of the paper.’

  ‘Oh right. What a silly sod I am. I know where that is, blimey he is rubbing with some toffs,’ Sinclair exclaimed. ‘Leave it with me I will take care of it Sir.’

  He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. The two men continued to enjoy their evening.

  ‘Blimey,’ exclaimed Bill suddenly. ‘What are the odds of finding your own brother by chance?’

  ‘Yes Bill and even greater odds to find him and save his life.’

  ‘That brother of Mikael’s must be a bloody lucky man?’ Sinclair hiccupped.

  ‘The Gods must love him.’ Added a drunken Taylor.

  The man Taylor believed to be loved by the Gods was at that moment strapped to an iron bed in a dark stinking cell, hallucinating from the cocaine that had been injected into his veins.

  ‘Here is to Mikael and his brother Jaak, two lucky bastards.’ Said Taylor as he toasted their health with Bill.

  ‘Time Gentlemen please.’ Called Martha.

  Sinclair helped Taylor to his feet and held his arm as he swayed.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Bill, goodnight to you too Captain Taylor, and thank you for entertaining us with your story.’ Called the Chimney Sweep.

  Sinclair insisted on walking Taylor to his room. Then after wishing Taylor a safe trip and to keep his head down for the third time, he decided to go home. Unused to drinking such a large amount of whiskey he swayed along with one hand held out against the wall. His legs unsteady as he began to walk towards his own home.

  ‘Damn,’ he said out loud. ‘I have to get the message to Mikael.’ He turned left at the end of the street and began walking to the address Taylor had given him.

  ‘What do you want at this time of night?’ said the irate servant who came to the wrought iron gate and stared at Sinclair. He had a thick European accent and his jacket over his head like a scarf.

  ‘I have a message for Mr Mikael.’ Sinclair slurred.

  ‘You have the wrong house Sir there is no Mikael living here.’

  ‘Mr Mikael, from Africa.’

  ‘No black man here, sorry go away.’

  ‘He’s not black, he is a white man. Give him this note,’ Sinclair pushed his hand through the railings with the note. The servant snatched the note from Sinclair’s hand and motioned for him to go away. Sinclair leant towards the railings.

  ‘You are lucky there is three inches of steel between us little man, if you don’t deliver this message I will come back and build you into these fucking gates.’

  The servant became nervous, suddenly the gates didn’t seem so strong.

  ‘Don’t worry I give the message to Mikael.’ He turned and walked hurriedly back into the house having no idea who Mikael was. He threw the note in the rubbish bin and went back to bed.

  4.6

  ‘What did you make of the visitor?’ asked Gurin. ‘Did you find out where he lives?’

  ‘Jubilee Street Stepney,’ Putchin replied, ‘He is a policeman.’

  ‘Fuck, do you think the boy spoke to him about Jaak?’

  Gurin was nervous, only days of being at the hospital and they had already been seen by an inmate who was connected to a policeman. The nurse had been reprimanded for leaving the door open already, his broken arm would takes weeks to mend.

  ‘Gurin you are getting paranoid.’

  ‘Paranoid keeps me alive,’ snarled back Gurin, ‘Did the policeman speak to anybody else?’

  ‘He was in the White hart pub all night with another guy. I bought the barmaid a few drinks and she told me all about them. The other guy is an Army Captain named Taylor, he has a drink problem but he is shipping out to Afghanistan in the morning, they were having a farewell drink. The Captain went home.’

  ‘What about the policeman?’ asked Gurin.

  ‘I followed the policeman, he went here,’ he passed Lord Jacobson’s address to Gurin then he continued.

  ‘He rang the bell and I watched him give one of the staff the note, Taylor had written in the pub, the policeman delivered it and went home.’

  ‘Fuck, what a start. I’m surrounded by idiots.’ He hastily wrote a note and told Putchin to deliver it to Evdokimoff,

  ‘Wait for a reply and come straight back here.’ Gurin sat down and held his head, Evdokimoff would be furious if they got exposed before they had a chance to put his plan in motion. Putchin returned one hour later, walked up to Gurin and said.

  ‘Meet him at Eight tonight. Can I go home now?’ Gurin nodded and Putchin went home to sleep.

  Gurin stepped out of the hansom cab with his collar turned up and hat down obscuring his face. He took the steps two at a time and walked directly into the building. The door had opened as soon as the cab stopped. He removed his cloak and hat and gave them to a member of the staff. He pushed his hair back with both hands, took a deep breath knocked at the door and entered.

  ‘Come in Alexi, sit down and have a drink.’ Said Evdokimoff. ‘Explain everything.’

  The Count listened and nodded several times.

  ‘And you are sure this is the address the policeman delivered the note to?’ He asked.

  ‘Yes Sir.’ Gurin replied.

  ‘Excellent work, a great start.’ Gurin was shocked, he was sure the Count would be furious.

  ‘Sir?’ Gurin said.

  ‘The address the policeman delivered the note to, is the same address as one of the Jews on my list of suspects. A Jewish politician named Lord Jacobson. The game can begin. Now you must wait for me to arrange the next step. Thank you good night. Make sure you are not seen leaving.’

  ‘And the policeman Sir?’ Gurin asked.

  ‘Get rid of him, he is of no importance. Let’s try Jaak out tonight.’ Evdokimoff sat down and sipped his Cognac slowly. He knew now who had to witness the first assassination.

  4.7

  Gurin was nervous. The time had finally come to release Jaak with a weapon in his hands. He had no idea if he could control him. Although he had already put Jaak under hypnosis several times since Grant had taught him, he had never fully released Jaak from all his restraints. Gurin picked up the long thin stiletto knife and looked at it. Then he changed his mind. He had something better back in his room.

  Jaak had been given cocaine every day to keep him subdue
d, as the weeks passed had become addicted to it and became sullen and quiet when it wore off then turned restless and aggressive when the craving for more returned. Gurin had kept him topped up, happy that the drug was keeping him quiet, but he noticed the periods between Jaak craving more was decreasing at an alarming rate. He had no idea how much he should give so he just gave him more every time he wanted it. Jaak laid on the bed sweating, only his eyes moved when Gurin entered. They followed him around the room. Gurin injected Jaak in his arm and waited a few minutes. Jaak’s stretched his whole body out and sighed. That was the sign Gurin was waiting for, he sat behind Jaak’s head and quietly put him under hypnosis.

  ‘Stand up, hold your arms out and let the nurse dress you, Jaak,’ he said. ‘We are going for a ride.’

  The black hansom cab stopped at the end of the street and Gurin got out. Putchin stood up to get out, looked outside and then sat back down.

  ‘What are doing here, I said Jubilee Street. What did we stop here for?’ Asked Putchin.

  ‘Stay out of sight for two minutes, I have to pick up something.’ Gurin answered. Jaak sat quietly looking out of the window. He looked at the white sign attached to the wall. “Sidney Street”. He watched Gurin walk to number one and open the front door. Gurin made his way upstairs to the small bedroom he rented. He unlocked his case and dumped the clothes inside onto the bed until he found what he was looking for. Eighteen inches of steel wire with small wooden handles at each end. The thought of Jaak having a knife in his hands scared him. He left the clothes on the bed, locked his room door and ran down the stairs and out into the street.

  ‘Now we can go,’ he called to the driver. ‘Had to pick this up for Jaak.’ He said handing the Garrotte to Putchin. Putchin looked at him curiously. Gurin explained.

  ‘The thought of him with a knife scares me.’

  ‘Scares you! I have to go with him.’ Putchin scowled.

  They arrived in Jubilee Street at ten minutes to midnight. Gurin checked his watch, and waited. The driver opened the small flap in the material separating them and said quietly in English.

  ‘All clear, there is nobody about.’

  Gurin motioned for the other two men sitting opposite him to leave the cab. They both wore dark cloaks and hats to disguise their features but nobody saw them walk quietly the one hundred yards to number Twenty Eight.’

  Jaak stood silently as the man with him tapped at the door. He listened for several seconds but heard no movement inside. Putchin looked around again, there was nobody on the street. He did not notice the lace nets move slightly as the next door neighbour stood back in the shadows watching them. He tapped again and heard a door open inside the house and an unhappy Scottish voice. He had been asleep in the rocking chair. Only removing his jacket and boots.

  ‘Who the fuck is that at this time of night?’ Sinclair opened the front door, and squinted at the man standing there. He stood in his shirtsleeves

  ‘Is that you Mikael, I didn’t recognise you for a minute with them dark glasses. Well that was quick come on in boy. I didn’t expect you to come at this time of night.’ He turned and walked back into the rear room still talking, struggling to loosen the brass stud that held his removable shirt collar in place.

  Jaak followed him.

  ‘I have some good news for you, Captain Taylor told me you are trying to trace your brother. Well he is right here in London…’

  Jaak threw the garrotte over Sinclair’s head and punched his arms sideways across his chest. His teeth clenched with the supreme effort of containing the larger man before him. The steel wire cut into Sinclair’s neck and he automatically arched his back, his arms flailing in all directions, trying to grab hold of anything to help him swing his body around. He threw his upper body forward lifting Jaak completely from the ground and swung him against the wall. Jaak grunted but refused to let go of the wooden handles of the wire that dug into the side of Sinclair’s neck and blocked the flow of blood reaching his brain. Sinclair began to lose consciousness. Most men succumbed to the garrotte in less than ten seconds so effective was it, but Sinclair was no ordinary man, the muscles on his neck screamed against the pain. As his strength ebbed away Sinclair clawed vainly at his neck but the wire was too tight. His arms slowly dropped down by his side and his massive legs gave way. He collapsed to the floor in a kneeling position and Jaak put his knee in the small of his back and pulled the wire with all his strength one last time.

  Then he slowly released his grip, feeling Sinclair fall forwards towards the floor. He lowered his body and removed the wire. Putchin entered and looked at the body.

  ‘Well done Jaak that’s another fucking Russian done for.’ Jaak spat on the body and left.

  ‘How did it go last night?’ Evdokimoff asked. Unusually for him he was seated behind a large desk.

  ‘Perfect, Gurin replied. ‘He strangled him and then walked back to the carriage as if nothing had happened. We went back to the hospital, the nurses undressed him and once the restraints were back on I brought him out of the hypnosis and gave him a shot of cocaine.’

  ‘You did not show yourself?’

  ‘No I stayed inside the cab, I sent Putchin with him. Nobody saw me.’ Gurin stated.

  ‘And the Circassian? He had no hesitation carrying out your orders.’

  ‘According to Putchin he looked like he was enjoying it, he thought he was killing a Russian. Only one thing, he was bloody noisy.’ Evdokimoff sat back in his chair chewing a pen.

  ‘Maybe the Garrotte was not such a good idea, do you think you can handle him with a knife? It will be quicker and quieter.’

  ‘Yes, I think he is controllable now.’ Answered Gurin.

  ‘That’s it then, no more garrottes.’ The count could not believe how well his plan was going. This operation would not only find the bankers but also make him famous in Russia. He could not stop smiling. Gurin began to relax.

  ‘One more thing, Alexi, the officer Taylor has already left for Afghanistan so we can forget him, but what about the barmaid, she knows Putchin was asking questions about the policeman in the pub?’

  ‘Yes.’ Answered Gurin.

  ‘Then tie up your loose ends.’ Said the count.

  ‘And the boy who saw Jaak in the hospital? Do you want him silenced.’

  ‘No as long as he is inside the hospital we can contain him and I don’t want him scared off, keep your men away from him but monitor who else visits him now the policeman has gone.’ Evdokimoff explained.

  ‘Of course Sir.’ Gurin left and went home to sleep.

  4.8

  ‘Set an extra place until further notice for our guest Mr Mikael.’ Called Lord Jacobson as he entered the breakfast room.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said the male servant to the head butler.‘ I was given a message last night for him but the man was drunk and I hadn’t heard of him so I threw it away.’

  ‘You did what?’ said the butler. ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘In the rubbish bin Sir.’ He said defensively.

  ‘Well go and find it. Now.’ The butler hissed at him.

  Jacobson pulled his suit jacket sleeves up, folded his arms and sat back in his chair. None of his staff had ever seen him without a three piece suit and tie. Sparse white hair ran around the back of his head, up over his protruding ears and then joined the full naval beard he sported. The top of his head was completely bald. This hair had disappeared while it was still coal black thirty years before. His beard was parted under his chin and grew out and upwards until it met his thick moustache which then continued in the same direction away from his face. Steel grey eyes sat under two thick black eyebrows that refused to change colour and match the rest. A nose that resembled a hawks beak and thin lips completed the reason why two months before his sixtieth birthday, he looked ten years older. His parents were both Spanish Jews that had arrived in England two years before he was born. Leaving most of their fortune in Spain in their haste to leave. Luckily
they retained their contacts around the globe and continued trading from their new home in London.

  As the oldest son he took over his father’s diamond trading business after he died and expanded the business into Gold, exploiting the new finds in America and Africa. He had increased the value of the company by more than tenfold in three years when he handed the running of the business over to his younger brother and went into politics. He had been a member of parliament for twenty three years and knighted seven years earlier for his tireless efforts to enrich the lives of the poor that lived in the east end of London. Mikael was scared of him. Jacobson knew it and liked it that way.

  ‘How are you getting on with the search for your brother?’ Jacobson asked as Mikael cut into his kipper. He didn’t want to bother Jacobson about his family problems but Julia had insisted.

  ‘Nothing yet I am afraid,’ said Mikael placing his knife and fork down to speak. ‘I have been to the docks but there is no record of him leaving any ships that have arrived from Africa and none of the crew I managed to find remember seeing anybody of his description.’

  Mikael had only informed Jacobson that his brother was wanted in Cape town for a crime that he did not commit.

  ‘I found it.’ the servant was out of breath as he handed the butler the dirty piece of paper. The butler took a rag and cleaned it as best he could, straightening it out with his gloved hand. He read it and then entered the breakfast room.

  ‘Mr Mikael, a note was delivered for you last night. My apologies for the state of the paper.’ Mikael took the crumpled paper and straightened it out.

  ‘It’s from Captain Taylor, it says something about my brother but I can’t make it out. I have to go to this address and speak to Sinclair.’

  ‘Prepare the spare carriage for Mr Mikael.’ Jacobson ordered the butler.