Now, as he started to give his glowering boss the information he had requested - starting with the neglectful response of the night duty team - he tried to stop his eyes drifting to the message clearly visible over his boss’s right shoulder. Painted in metre-high red letters, it read;
'LAST CHANCE. LEAVE NOW.'
The hapless guards - both Siberians, to Lantzeff’s shame - tried to defend themselves. But when Lantzeff pointed out to their still-livid employer that even the most cursory check of the house’s security systems should have uncovered the discrepancy in the Alarm Feedback Readings, they lapsed into silence. Lantzeff wondered if they’d suddenly woken up to the fact that rather than trying to defend the indefensible, their time would be better spent working out how they might escape what would - on past experience - most likely follow. Though on the evidence of last night, he thought, they were probably incapable of managing even that.
As he waited for Podruznig to announce his decision - he was ranting now about how was it, given the fortune he had spent on security, one man could bypass the sophisticated systems that were in place, to threaten him and his family, to say nothing of how much it would cost to re-furbish the kitchen. Lantzeff made a mental note to speak to the ex-KGB 'Security Consultant' through whom he recruited. Another failure such as this and he may wake up one day to find himself in the hot seat, and that would never do. If there was one thing he had learned over the past five years, it was that, in the Russian’s view of the world, only one thing mattered. Getting the right result - every time, and with maximum efficiency. He wasn’t aware that words such as ‘loyalty’ and ‘sentiment’ were even part of the man’s vocabulary. He sometimes wondered if, and when, the slut would realise.
Finished interrogating the by now, all-but quivering Siberians, Podruznig turned to Lantzeff. Flecks of foam showed at the corners of his mouth.
'Get them out of my sight. I will decide what to do with them later.'
'Sir.' Lantzeff snapped to attention, and nodded the men towards the stairs leading to their basement quarters. They didn’t need to be told a second time. As they scampered down the steps and Lantzeff made to follow, he stopped to raise a quizzical eyebrow to his boss.
Podruznig nodded. 'But quietly,' he said.
At the bottom of the steps, Lantzeff was about to disappear when he heard Podruznig call, 'And Uri.' He looked up, saw his employer looking down. 'Afterwards, I would like to speak with the Englishman, again.'
Lantzeff gave a sharp nod. But before taking his final leave, he let his boss see his leering smile, so he would know how much pleasure he would take in arranging such a meeting.
CHAPTER 11
Murray left Fofo’s office, pleased not to have fallen out with her. He’d expected she might rail against his decision, try to talk him into letting her pursue the case. But his mind was clear - on this at least. He gave no hint that concern for her safety had influenced his decision. That would really have upset her.
And while he told her he simply needed more time to, 'think things through,' he knew she saw through his words. Fofo knew him well enough to know that indecision wasn’t part of his make-up. If he didn’t intend court action, he had to have an alternative in mind. But professional discretion - or the survival instinct - prevented her delving too deep. He imagined her at home later that evening, glass of Agios Fotios in hand, confiding to her Italian lover her relief at having been spared what could have turned into the most troublesome - and dangerous – piece of representation she may ever have taken on.
For his part, Murray was grateful for the way she played it. After presenting all the arguments she could muster, only to hear him dismiss them one by one, she eventually let it go. Reluctantly it seemed, she agreed to accept his ‘instructions’ in the matter. He’d hated lying to her.
Now, out in the fresh-but-hot air again, he felt freer than he had in a long time. Having made his decisions, the way was clear to let instinct dictate how best to achieve the result he was after. And while it wasn’t wholly without danger, he felt better knowing Fofo would play no part in it.
About to cross the street to where his jeep was parked, he remembered that Patrick’s Bar was only a short walk away. It could be a while before he had time to sample one of the Irish-Cypriot’s coffee and whiskey-chasers again, while being lectured to about the state of local politics, global warming, or some new concern. Turning left, he headed for Kennedy Square. But, intent on making the most of the rest of his morning, he failed to spot the bulky figure that stepped out several doorways to his right, and followed behind.
He had covered less than thirty yards when a black four-by-four coming from behind pulled into the kerb beside him, the nearside doors already opening. Recognising the tactic, he started to divert away. Too late, he sensed someone behind and to his right just as the blow came up and under his ribs, knocking the wind from him. Even as he doubled-up, two burly figures in jeans and tee-shirts were out of the car and, in a well-practised sequence, took him, one under each arm, and bundled him into the back. Face down and hanging half-on, half-off the seat, Murray made to pull himself up. But as he lifted his head he saw only the rapidly-closing fist which exploded into his face with the force of a jack-hammer and turned everything black.
Head still spinning, Murray reached out to the kitchen work-top for support. His vision was yet to fully clear, but he had no trouble making out the blood-red letters daubed on the wall before him.
'So?' he managed.
A blow to his head, from his left this time, sent him reeling again. When he recovered enough to turn, Lantzeff was standing there.
Podruznig’s face, red with anger, appeared in front of his.
'How did you do this?'
Murray took his time, breathing deep, forcing back the doughnut and coffee breakfast that was threatening to reappear. He met the wild gaze.
'Much as I’d like to take the plaudits, I’m sorry to say, it wasn’t me.'
This time, Lantzeff’s fist buried into his stomach. He doubled-up, but hung onto the counter so he wouldn’t fall.
'Do you expect me to believe that?' Podruznig all but spat the words into his face as he came upright again.
'Believe – gasp - what you like.'
One of the pair he remembered from the pavement stepped forward and threw something onto the floor in front of them. It took Murray a moment to work out what the expanse of grey was. Eventually he recognised the felt-mat lining from the boot of his jeep.
'And this?'
The tip of Podruznig’s shoe waved over one corner of the mat. Murray shook his head, trying to focus. Eventually he saw what everyone else could see quite clearly. Two overlapping half-circles of red, smudged with drips.
Murray smiled, tasted salty blood in his mouth. 'Clever.'
Podruznig misunderstood. 'We are not idiots Mr Murray. What did you think? I would just pack up and leave?'
'That would save us all a lot of trouble.'
As Lantzeff made to move Murray steeled himself, but Podruznig held up a hand. Looking up, he saw the Russian eyeing him with a puzzled expression.
'I am confused Mr Murray. When we last spoke I had the impression you were a man of intelligence. Yet you seem to think something as crass as this is the way to get what you want?'
'Well, like I said-'
This time it was the back of Podruznig’s hand that came up and lashed across Murray’s face. Something stung even worse than the blow itself and Murray remembered the heavy gold ring he’d noticed during his previous visit. He felt blood run down his cheek.
Podruznig’s yelled reply bordered on the hysterical. 'DO NOT INSULT ME BY LYING TO ME.'
Murray remembered the accounts he’d read of Podruznig flying into uncontrolled rages at the slightest provocation. And this definitely didn’t come under the heading, ‘slight’. Sense told him not to push too far.
'Who else is going to break into my house and threaten me like this? Klerides?'
Murray made
sure he met the man’s stare. He’d seen eyes like his before. 'We both know it wasn’t Klerides.'
'Yes,' Podruznig said, beginning to pace again, as he had been doing when Murray was first dragged in and dropped onto the floor at his feet. 'That is right.' He was nodding, over and over. Coming to a decision. 'It was not Klerides. As you say, we both know that.' Without warning he rounded on Murray. But Murray was waiting for it and didn’t flinch. 'I had thought we could solve this amicably Mr Murray. That between you, me and Klerides we might work something out.'
'Somehow, I doubt that.'
Podruznig ignored it. 'But I cannot let something like this go. This is not just an attack on me. It is an attack on my family. My reputation.' Murray waited. The Russian was raving now. Beyond talking. 'I have already dealt with those who let this happen. I can do no less with the man responsible.'
Murray awaited the verdict, knowing he would need to be ready.
When it came, it was quick, professional and without any of the dramatic accompaniments that feature in the movies. Turning to Lantzeff, Podruznig said simply, 'Deal with it.' Then, without a backward glance, he turned and walked away, business done.
As before, Murray’s captors weren’t going to give him any opportunity to work out a plan. Before he could even look round to see what was coming, something hit the sweet spot at the base of his skull and the blackness took him once more.
CHAPTER 12
Murray fought his way back to the land of the conscious. The spasmodic jolting and side-to-side lurches, together with the bitter taste of small-arms cordite in the back of his throat, made him wonder what he was doing back in the Al Laiyah hills above the Bay of Kuwait. But as his senses returned, he knew something wasn’t right. The spec of Military snatch-Land Rovers doesn’t include the sort of soft-feel upholstery he could feel on his cheek. Another thing. Back then he always did the driving. Then there was the fact that his hands were somehow locked behind him.
Suddenly his transport dropped, violently, and his head jerked up off the seat. Coming down, his right temple banged against the hip of the man next to him. The contact marked something harder than bone and he realised the cordite smell was coming from the recently-fired side-arm tucked in the man’s waistband.
Murray squeezed his eyes shut while he worked it out. It took only seconds. Suddenly, everything that had happened since he’d left Fofo’s came rushing back. And he knew he was in trouble.
The last few years he’d learned enough about how men like Podruznig deal with ‘business problems’ to know he couldn’t afford to wait to find out where he was being taken, or what awaited him when he arrived. The way the truck kept lurching, it was obvious they were off-road somewhere. Probably the wilds of the Akamas, the area of unspoilt wilderness along Cyprus’s west coast. Its furthest reaches are only accessible by more sturdy four-wheelers – most often the ubiquitous ‘Jeep Safaris’ that do good business in the resort areas. Inhabited only by wild sheep and goats, the rugged terrain is ideal territory for a ‘disposal’ op.
In the way he’d been taught, Murray swallowed his tongue.
The choke-reflex made him spasm, gag, then retch, which brought up the remnants of his breakfast.
'ACCHH,' the man next to him cried. 'You fucking English BASTARD. He’s spewed all over my pants.'
He gave Murray a violent shove which sent him sliding down onto the floor. Laughter came from the front of the truck. Two more there. Three altogether.
As he fell, Murray made sure he managed the half-turn he needed so that he landed almost on his back, hands hidden beneath. He lay there, to all intents semi-conscious but seeing enough through half-closed eyes to recognise the face above him as one from the bunch at the gate a few days before. It had been angry then. Now, it was twisted into an expression of distaste as he wiped at the vomit clinging to his trousers, sending bits of half-digested bread roll into Murray’s face, flicking the foul-smelling goo out the window.
'Bastard,' he said again, then jerked a boot into Murray’s side, before leaving his comatose captive to stew in his own sick. He turned to look out the window, still muttering oaths.
Murray waited until he was certain his guard’s interest was elsewhere, then began fishing. He knew the bill-fold was still there, could feel its reassuring presence through the thin material of his baggies. And by good fortune, his hands were tied in such a way he barely had to move to slide the folded-leather out of his back-pocket. He checked again, but the man was still looking away, his rancid hand stretched out, away from his nose.
Murray rummaged inside, pulling out the batch of notes he’d stuffed in there that morning. As he poked around the pockets he gave thanks that Podruznig ruled by fear. His captors wouldn’t risk incurring their employer’s wrath by robbing their victim - not without express permission.
But his twisted position meant that whatever was round his wrists – it felt like hemp – was now biting deeper. He could feel the needling pain that presages numbness creeping into his fingers. He needed to work fast before he lost all feeling.
Running a finger around one of the linings, he felt the cold metal. He slid it out, gripping it between his fingers. As he did so, he made a mental note to thank Stu Whiteside if they ever met again. The lanky SAS trainer had drummed into them the value of always keeping a craft blade about your person when engaged on an op. And though Murray wasn’t planning to ever be involved in those sorts of operations again, he was glad he’d stuck by the principle, even if it did mean having to regularly replace the billfold whenever the razor-sharp edge sawed through the silk linings.
Keeping a half-closed eye on the figure looming over him, Murray worked at the rope. It wasn’t easy. In the months it had languished, unused, the blade had dulled, which he noted for future reference. And in order to not draw attention, he could only work across the strands in short bursts. He also had to take care not to let the blade slip from his fingers. If he dropped it now, he would struggle to find it again. Even as the thought came, he felt the thin metal becoming slippery in his grasp. Blood. Rope wasn’t the only thing he was slicing through, though the numbness prevented him identifying the source. He just hoped it wasn’t an artery. But suddenly, the pressure on his wrists eased. He was free.
He waited another minute, letting the feeling come back into his hands, so they would do what he wanted when they had to. As the numbness ebbed away, he could tell the cuts were to the fleshy parts of his palms, a couple of fingers, nothing serious. When he was ready, he groaned and, as if finally waking, rolled onto his side so that his weight fell against the legs of the guard above him, at the same time making sure his hands remained out of the man’s sight.
'I think he’s coming round,' the man said. Murray felt him take his upper arms, making ready to pull the weight off his legs and bring him to a sitting position. It meant he would be leaning forward and down. Suddenly Murray felt the man freeze, and knew he’d spotted the severed ropes.
'FUCK, HE’S-.'
Murray exploded upwards. He caught a brief glimpse of a shocked face before he rammed his forearm up and under the man’s chin so that the man’s jaws snapped together with a painful-sounding, CLACK. The man’s head whipped back against the head rest before bouncing forward again, when Murray thrust the point of his elbow straight into his throat. There was a dull, splintering sound as cartilage shattered.
Sounds of movement up front and more 'FUCK’s, signalled the other two reacting. He had only seconds. Even as his victim’s eyes rolled upwards and he began to slide down the seat, Murray was groping at his waistband. Feeling for the weapon’s butt, he whipped it out, at the same time spinning round and pulling the automatic’s slide back so that when he jammed it into the cheekbone of the still-turning front-seat passenger, it was ready and cocked. The man froze. The driver - another face Murray recognised - glanced round.
'SHIZER,' he yelled.
As the truck lurched to the right to bounce off a rut and the driver fought to keep contro
l, Murray weighed his options. Outside, bleached rock, dramatic gullies and low scrub rushed past the window. He’d been right. It was the Akamas. The bare coastline away to his left told Murray they were driving through the area’s most isolated parts to the far north. The old British Army firing range. No witnesses.
'STOP THE CAR,' Murray yelled.
As he gave the order Murray saw the driver’s eyes swivel front, searching, gauging. A quarter mile ahead, on a rise, the dark shape of another four-by-four waited. Murray remembered the BMW X7 he’d seen parked outside the garage. Maybe Podruznig had decided to take a personal interest in seeing to the man he held responsible for re-decorating his kitchen. Either that or it would be Lantzeff.
Sensing the driver weighing options, Murray moved the barrel away from the passenger’s cheek long enough to squeeze off a single round that shattered the driver’s door-window. In the confined space the explosion made his ears ring. Both men yelped in shock and the way the man in the passenger seat clamped a hand against his ear, groaning in pain, Murray guessed a ruptured eardrum. He didn’t dwell on it.
Having got the message, the driver stamped on the brakes. The truck slid to a halt amidst a cloud of dust.
Keeping the gun on the pair, Murray stepped out. The sun blazed down and the sudden heat made him catch his breath. Pulling the passenger door open, he motioned the man out. He didn’t argue. As soon as his feet touched ground, Murray span him round, spread his legs and frisked him. The gun was in the small of the man’s back, under his shirt. Murray tossed it high and far into the bushes. Keeping his eye and gun on the driver, he marched the first man round to the other side then went through the same procedure with him. Up ahead, Murray saw the dust cloud that indicated whoever was in the BMW had seen what was happening and was on their way.
A Killing Place in the Sun Page 6