A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  Despite the recording’s visual clarity however, it didn’t include audio. Perhaps wisely, Podruznig had insisted that his conversations should always remain private. After noting the times shown on the screen, Lantzeff crossed to the other side of the room, behind the operator. Checking to make sure that the Ukrainian’s attention was back where it should be, on the bank of screens, Lantzeff pulled open one of the flaps that covered the wiring and control boxes governing the CCTV system.

  Lantzeff had warned his staff many times, under pain of dismissal or worse, that no one but he was allowed to touch the highly sensitive, 'CCTV, Tuning Regulator.' So far, the warnings had worked. He hoped it would continue. If word of the extra level of monitoring he had arranged to be installed alongside the CCTV ever reached Valerik, there would, he was sure, be hell to pay. Picking up the earphones he kept there for the purpose, he cupped one to his ear, at the same time setting the digital clock so that the scanner-recorder would playback whatever signal it had locked onto at the time the call came in. As the figures mirrored that shown on the video, Lantzeff settled himself on the side of the desk and listened. And as he did so, a leering smile spread across his face.

  CHAPTER 26

  After refilling both their glasses, Gina rose from the table to move to the bench-seat overlooking the garden. Murray waited a minute, debating within himself, before moving to join her. She moved her skirt, making way for him.

  'It is a beautiful night,' she said.

  'And a hot one.'

  Her bare shoulders lifted as she gave a light shrug. 'It is July. You expect snow perhaps?'

  He drank his wine. All around, the scent of the jasmine she had told him over dinner was her favourite, hung in the air.

  'Thank you for that wonderful meal. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten like that.'

  'I am glad. A man like you should be able to eat well.'

  Not sure if there was some sort of message there, he shot her a sideways glance. The three-quarter moon was behind her. Its silvery light cast a halo around her silhouette. Her head was back as she looked up at the stars, mouth open in almost childlike wonder. It brought home to him, again, how beautiful she was. Not for the first time that evening he thought on how different this Gina was from the self-assured restaurateur-cum-policeman’s daughter he had known thus far. It made him wonder what other sides there were, whether he would ever get to see them.

  Though the bench was made for two, he was conscious that the way she was sitting his larger-than-average frame was pressing against her. Instinctively, but perhaps also to relieve the tension that had crept into him, he moved his arm so it rested on the back of the bench, behind her. As she surveyed the heavens, her hair brushed over his skin. It tickled. Thus far he had been comfortable in the evening warmth. Suddenly he was conscious there was sweat above his top lip.

  'I ought to thank you as well for your help. I should have mentioned it bef-.' The finger she pressed to his lips as she turned, stopped him.

  'Not tonight. This is your night off, remember?'

  After a moment’s pause he nodded, gave a wry smile.

  When she’d called with her invitation to dinner she had added a stipulation. 'But we do not talk of houses, or Russians or policemen, yes?' It had sounded good to him and he’d agreed, readily. But come the night, he’d found it harder than he expected. He was way out of practice making polite conversation. All through the first half of the evening, he’d had to keep reminding himself of their agreement. Up to now almost all his contact with her had revolved, one way or another, around his problem with the house, Podruznig, and his dealing with her father. But putting his personal difficulties to one side meant he had no choice but to relate to her as not just an interesting person in her own right, but also - no getting away from it - an attractive - make that very attractive - woman. It created a conflict he was still struggling with.

  As the evening wore on, the wine helped. And while he remained determined not to make a fool of himself, he couldn’t escape the feeling that even if he did, she wouldn’t object. But he was also scared of waking in the morning feeling like he’d done something unforgivable. Okay, some would say two years is long enough. Others, not.

  As he turned to take in the pretty face next to him, he found her already staring at him. He had slumped low in his seat, and the way she was twisted round, she loomed over him, moonlight filtering through the dark tresses framing her face. He raised the hand on the back of the chair, letting the tips of his fingers play through her soft hair. Suddenly, it was not the jasmine, but her musky fragrance that was all around. She dipped her head, bringing her face closer to his, a wave of hair falling across her cheek. She was lovely. He swallowed, feeling the panic beginning to rise.

  A door banged inside.

  'HELLO-OO?'

  Gina bolted up, eyes wide with first surprise, then disappointment, finally, annoyance. As the clicking of heels on tiles sounded within, a growl, fierce but low, came from her throat.

  'Urrrghhh.'

  As Gina shot to her feet, Murray turned in time to see a smiling Ileana, slim-waisted in her white cut-offs and wearing a glittering top that showed inches of midriff, pull open the sliding glass door to step out into the garden.

  'I am not interrupting anything I hope? Hello, Peter.'

  'Hello Ileana,' Murray answered, suddenly conscious of a different conflicted feeling - relief, mixed with disappointment. 'Not at all. We were just enjoying the beautiful evening.'

  While Murray and Ileana chatted, idly, Gina’s silence was deafening. And though the smile stayed on Ileana’s face, Murray was painfully aware of the daggers flashing from her elder sister’s eyes. Eventually Gina joined in the conversation.

  'I thought you were going into town tonight?'

  'I was. I am,' she corrected herself. 'But my car is in the garage. I need to borrow yours.'

  'What? Take my car on one of your nights out? You think I am stupid?'

  'I will look after it, Gina. Honestly. I am supposed to be meeting Mario later. I need a car.'

  'What is wrong with a taxi?'

  As Ileana pouted - 'Gi-na!' - Murray made to go into the house, sensing he was playing gooseberry.

  'It is alright, Peter,' Gina said. 'Ileana won’t be staying.'

  To Murray’s surprise, her sister turned her appeal on him, as if he had some say in the matter.

  'Tell her, Peter. I will look after it, won’t I?'

  Put on the spot and caught out by her unexpected familiarity, Murray was, for once, lost for words. His gaze wavered between the two women, uncertain what his answer should be. 'I er... Well, I… Erm...'

  Gina turned her gaze on him, a pencilled eyebrow arching. And what has this to do with you?

  Suddenly realising he was now being subjected to the fierce scrutiny of not one but two attractive women, Murray felt himself begin to redden. For long seconds both women stared at him, demanding his support. Then, without warning, they both burst out laughing. It made him feel even worse.

  'Oh, Peter.' Gina held her stomach. 'Your face!'

  He turned to Ileana. Her hand was over her mouth, trying to suppress loud giggles. Murray’s initial reaction was to wish he was somewhere else. But as their unsuccessful attempts to control their mirth continued, the inevitable happened. His embarrassment dissipated, replaced by a deprecating smile that, despite his best efforts, and to his horror, began to turn into a chuckle. Seconds later the dam broke, and Peter Murray laughed like he had not laughed for a very long time.

  Eventually each managing to reassert some semblance of control, they picked up the remnants of the conversation.

  'That was very bad of you to embarrass Peter like that,' Gina chided. As she spoke, she dabbed a tissue at her eyes, trying to rescue her makeup.

  Ileana hung her head, like a chastened schoolgirl. 'Sorry. Peter.' It set off a whole new round of laughter.

  'Enough,' Murray said eventually, feeling the urge to show some manly control. Though ben
eath the surface, the smile lingered.

  'Yes,' Gina said. 'Enough. My stomach is hurting.' She rounded on her sister. 'Go Ileana! Take my keys. Just make sure it comes back without any scratches.'

  Ileana squealed her delight, and gave her sister a hug.

  'Thank you Gina. I promise I will look after it.' She turned to Murray. 'Goodnight, Peter. Gina was right, you do have a nice smile.'

  He nodded, but didn’t rise to the bait. 'Enjoy your evening Ileana.' As she made to go back inside he added; 'Don’t stay out too late.'

  As she turned to flash him a mischievous smile, Gina ushered her out with a smack to her rump.

  'GO.'

  Alone again, they turned to each other. He was about to say something when Ileana returned.

  'I am sorry, Peter. I need to get Gina’s car out.'

  Remembering he had parked across the driveway, blocking her Mercedes, Murray fished in his pocket.

  'I’ll move it.'

  'No need. Give me your keys and I’ll do it. I have disrupted your evening enough already. I’ll leave them on the table in the hallway.' He handed them over.

  With a final, 'Goodnight,' she left once more, pulling the glass door shut behind her.

  After she had gone, Murray let out a long sigh.

  'I’m not sure which of you is worse. God help the men you two marry.'

  Gina smiled. 'Whoever said we will marry? Perhaps we shall stay single. That way we can have more fun.'

  Sensing the playfulness he had seen more of that evening than ever before about to return, and remembering where they were before Ileana arrived, Murray thought a diversion was called for.

  'How about if I make coffee? I think I‘m ready for one.'

  This time her smile was more knowing than humorous. 'That would be nice.'

  As he went into the kitchen, Gina headed for the bathroom off the hallway. He was filling the coffee pot when he heard her shout. He poked his head round the door.

  'Sorry Gina, what was that?'

  'I said, 'Ileana seems to be having trouble starting your car.''

  He stopped to listen. Sure enough, the noise of an engine turning over, not firing, sounded from the road out front.

  Murray froze.

  During his time undercover, he’d learned the value of a car that always started first time. The habit had stuck. Now he made sure that whatever he happened to be driving, it was always well-tuned. In that moment, the words of the lanky SAS Instructor who took them through their week-long survival training came to him.

  ‘And watch out for anything out of the ordinary. The slightest sign could spell danger….'

  Murray dropped the coffeepot and exploded from the kitchen, racing for the hallway.

  'ILEANA!'

  Gina came out of the bathroom.

  'What is it?'

  Ignoring her, he rushed past and wrenched open the front door.

  'ILEANA GET-.'

  The last thing he registered was a blinding flash and a blast of intense heat, then he was flying back down the hallway, taking Gina with him.

  Part Two

  NEGOTIATION

  CHAPTER 27

  The well-dressed man in rimless glasses leaned forward in his chair, brought his hands together, and gave the official a withering look. 'So tell me, Vagit, what is your explanation this time?”

  Nervous as always in the man’s presence, Vagit Gudenov, the Odessa Port Authority Manager, swallowed hard, at the same time resisting the temptation to wring his hands. Instead he concentrated on trying to come up with a compromise that might satisfy his inquisitor’s demands yet still leave the way open for the kickback that up to thirty minutes earlier he had been expecting would be his before the day’s end. As he searched for an idea, Vagit’s mind was, for once, not preoccupied with the humbleness of the surroundings.

  The stinking, grubby office overlooking the dock was mainly used by the foremen and loading supervisors who gathered there several times a day to iron out differences, drink tea or something stronger, and while away the odd hour perusing the Chinese porn magazines the salts dropped off. The latter activity was, of course, essential to the process of ensuring that no operation was completed in a shorter time than the Gang-bosses had allowed for. Though the dockers were on piece-rates, work these days was plentiful and the chief concern of those in charge was to make sure no one did any more than they had to.

  Gudenov hated the foreman’s office with a passion. Not only did it smell of stale sweat and the grease that, like such places the world over, was embedded in the worn square of carpet covering the centre of the floor, it always brought back discomfiting memories. His own, sweet-smelling, leather and mahogany retreat on the third floor of the Port Authority Building the other side of the quay was the antithesis of where he now stood. But his infrequent trips dockside always served to remind him of his early days as a dock-labourer, the lowest of the low, at everyone’s beck and call. And though he had worked, fought, schemed and scratched his way to the pinnacle of the Port Authority’s rigid hierarchy, Gudenov had no nostalgia for 'the old days'. Proud of what he’d achieved, he nonetheless preferred to forget his humble origins. Back then, the docks had been a vile and dangerous place to work. Apart from the horrendous state of the equipment they were required to operate - serious injury, death even, was a regular occurrence - the place always swarmed with party informers. There had never been any shortage of men and women willing to supplement their meagre pay-packets by drawing some bumptious official’s attention to the latest tittle-tattle regarding doings around the world, sparked by news brought in on the latest tide. Agents from the local KGB contingent, as it was in those days, were never away from the place.

  But worse than the memories, was the fact that whenever Gudenov was called to the office, he invariably found himself on the defensive.

  Under normal circumstances, he rarely had cause to visit the place. As far as he was concerned, his duties now consisted of making telephone calls, attending meetings and signing whatever documents Vatlava, the pretty secretary he was screwing, placed in front of him - after the contents of the accompanying envelope had been removed, counted and added to the ledger only he and Vatlava knew about of course. So why risk getting oil stains on his expensive shoes, or seagull-shit on the English-tailored suits he preferred to wear, by actually visiting the dockside? He knew what went on there well enough, he didn’t need reminders.

  It was why Gudenov could never understand why the man now sat behind the desk, still waiting, patiently it appeared, for his explanation, seemed to enjoy coming here so much.

  For the past year, ever since ownership of Northwest Shipping passed into Anatoly Kaskiv’s hands in fact, what began as the occasional drop-in - just to say hello and become acquainted with how things worked, Gudenov at first assumed - had grown to the point where it was now happening once a week, sometimes twice. It was not good. Not good at all. Apart from the disruption that accompanied Kaskiv and his entourage’s arrival on the dockside, each visit also brought with it the inevitable phone call.

  'Vagit? I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?'

  It meant Vagit having to drop whatever he was doing - on one, memorable, occasion it had been Vatlava - to drag himself across the dockyard, avoiding the slick puddles and crap that lay all over, to climb the rickety wooden steps to the office. There he would find Kaskiv, as usual poring over papers spread across the desk, flanked by his courtiers, all doing their best to look like they shared his sudden passion for all things maritime. And while he waited for the man who had summoned him to speak, sometimes even to acknowledge his arrival, he would try to work out what this week’s interrogation was to be about. It always began more or less the same way.

  'Sorry to drag you away Vagit, I am sure you are very busy,' - patronising bastard - 'But there is something here I do not understand. Can you please explain…?' Which is when Gudenov would spend the next hour - sometimes longer - trying to make the former steel worker who ever
yone said had the best business brain in all Ukraine but who Gudenov thought of as rather dim, understand why dock-work was not like any other business. Of course the task was made doubly difficult by the fact that Gudenov’s instincts warned him against mentioning that, like most ports in the former-USSR territories, and especially those on the Black Sea, the Odessa Dockyard worked by means of a long-established system of kickbacks and patronage. It meant that cargoes were handled in strict order of priority, depending upon the thickness and speed of arrival on the Authority Manager’s desk of the package required to accompany the Bill of Lading.

  For that reason, Vagit frequently found himself in the impossible position of having to defend a handling schedule that anyone with a modicum of intelligence could see made no sense at all. And though there were times when Gudenov was certain his inquisitor was fully aware of how things worked and was merely tormenting him, there were others when he was equally certain the man was so naive as to make him wonder how such an idiot could have amassed the fortune he had.