by Tim Heath
“Didn’t you go to collect something,” Charlie said, ever the one to stir a situation.
“Yes, I got what I came for,” she smiled back, her eyes flicking to Zoe ever so slightly. Zoe was quiet as if awed by her surroundings and a little concerned. They got back into the car, and the police escort led the way for them once again.
“It’s not far, just five minutes I think,” Anya said as the car emerged from behind the garage door and pulled out onto the street. Cars were parked all over the place. It seemed for the local driver, really anywhere would do. The flashing lights of their escort made negotiating the crowded roads easy work. They drove alongside the river, boats visible moving along the canals, a battleship in the distance.
“That’s the Aurora,” Anya said, for Zoe’s benefit. She’d been there with Charlie at least twice. Fond memories she wanted to push from her mind. “It’s for tourists now. Shame you haven’t the time to check it out.” They were due to fly out again later that evening.
They pulled up on a side road outside a park with the river in front of them. There was a small canal between them and the park, and a humped bridge where the way would lead them over the channel. Zoe presumed it was the Summer Gardens, with the vast, twenty-foot iron railings around the front, a pair of iron gates in the centre giving entrance to the park. Charlie had been there once before, but not since the major reconstruction that had taken place in the last few years.
The park was open as usual and some people, in ones and twos, were walking around the tree-lined paths. It was not a day for stopping, and the benches were empty. It was too cold. The police tape aside, there was nothing to tell you that a crime had taken place there. Charlie recognised the bench from the photo; a fountain stood next to it. All around the park, there were statues, various busts of no doubt famous people from centuries ago. They weren’t here for the art. Charlie stepped over the tape and walked to the bench. He stopped where he thought the attacker had stood, arm raised, gun pointed at the victim, as captured in the photo he’d been shown, taken at the time of the crime. Charlie was just five feet or so from the bench. He sat down on the bench. The fountain was to his left. That was fenced off, and there was no way anyone could have come from that side. The attacker would most likely have come from either the right-hand side or from in front of him. Either way, you would know someone was approaching. The gravel on the paths made it impossible to walk in silence, plus there was obviously nowhere really to hide. If the attacker had aimed to do it secretly, the park made no sense regarding privacy. Zoe pulled out the photos they had, the first one being the one taken just before the shooting. She stood in the spot where Charlie had just stood so that he was on the bench in front of her. They could almost touch each other. The photo in her hand had been taken by a wedding photographer who––they’d been told––was standing at the main gates when the attacker first entered the park, the same entrance they’d used moments before. From where she was standing, slightly to the left and over Charlie’s right shoulder, there was a line of sight through the trees to the gate. The photo was possible. Charlie also looked, realising what Zoe was doing, before getting up and looking at the same picture in her hand.
“The photographer would have had a good clear view and a safe distance,” Charlie said. They turned to Anya.
“Which direction did Hackett flee?” Zoe said.
“Here, follow me,” Anya said, walking back a little and along a path that ran east for about one hundred metres before it got to the edge of the park. There was a canal below them and beyond that the small road where they’d parked the car some ten minutes before.
“Police divers found the weapon on the bottom of the canal near the far side just over there,” Anya pointed. Zoe shivered; she was feeling frozen to the bone.
“Okay, I think I’ve seen enough,” she said. Anya glanced at Charlie, who also seemed like he’d had enough.
“Okay then, follow me. I’ll run through the surveillance footage with you that we had from the airport when Mr Hackett arrived and when he left on the days surrounding the murder. Then I’ll try and answer any further questions you have. Maybe you want to go to the offices of RusCom before you leave, too?”
“That might be helpful, Anya, thanks.”
All three of them left the park and headed for the car. Ten minutes later they were in the lift, at Big House, on the way up to Anya’s office at the FSB’s city headquarters in St Petersburg.
9
It was Friday morning, and they were all once again sitting around the same table in the cramped room in London. Charlie, Zoe and Anya had made the trip to and from St Petersburg yesterday. The MI6 technicians had been working on the device, often with the Russian technician alongside. Charlie had been bringing them up to speed. He finished with the trip they’d made to the RusCom offices in St Petersburg.
“They can spout off a lot about this device, I can tell you. They say it’s the next big thing. There is no way to crack it––files never actually sit on the device, it just accesses them from the mainframe, which is wireless and totally unhackable.”
“Nothing is unhackable, Charlie.”
“Believe me; this thing is,” added the Russian technician. The MI6 technicians didn’t believe it, but let it drop. It didn’t matter at that moment.
“They really think they have something and the primary application is to be this uDecide program. Their tagline for the marketing is that it lets ‘You decide what you will become.’”
“That’s tacky,” Zoe said.
“Tell me about it,” Charlie said. “Anyway, they are raving about it. Some specs were apparently leaked. It’s got the industry on a bit of a buzz. Nothing like hype to drive up interest.”
“Yes, and on the back of this the share price is rising,” added the MI6 technician. “Trading is open again, and shares are back up to what they were before the murder. Analysts are expecting a sharp rise today. Rumours really do drive the market.”
“Is this why Hackett killed Fernandes?” Zoe asked, wanting to put the most pressing matter firmly back onto the table.
“We just can’t see the link. Nothing in Hackett’s life connects him to this. The device was left at the scene. As the prototype, you think they’d have taken it if that were the goal. It makes no sense.”
The extradition had been delayed for a day but was due to take place that afternoon. Insight into Fernandes’ Kremlin connections had warned them enough to seek a stop to the process, but after a day of hard negotiations, the British had finally relented. The job was now keeping this away from the media. They knew they wouldn’t manage to do that for too much longer.
“What have you learnt about the device from this end?” Charlie said.
“The hype would seem somewhat justified. Dating seems correct, from all we can tell, but the device is certainly the master here, we are just the observers. Everything goes back to the mainframe, presumably in Moscow somewhere. That makes it impossible to hack into the actual device for any real specifics. It’s kind of like just a window, keeping us at arm’s length from the important, less secure stuff. Entries are somehow time-coded––they will show up as and when they allow you. Access isn’t instant. We’ve got the second entry open, and printouts are in front of you.” Each picked up the piece of paper and read it carefully:
Entry 2 - June 2010
Takeover of three Russian developers
Offices across the UK
Property in the Caribbean
Entry onto Forbes rich list
Principal financier for Putin’s re-election campaign
Win Businessman of the Year
“There is no evidence that these were speeches. The search on the first, and now this one, have come back negative,” the technician continued. “This entry is dated eight months further on from the first one. Clearly, he was contemplating the purchase of three firms, which he did in the summer of that same year. They have added a significant profile to RusCom. The UK operations di
d increase, but not really concerning this device, as far as we can tell. We are still looking properly into that one. He owns a property in Barbados, which was purchased at the beginning of July 2010. No further details yet on that. He made the Forbes rich list in 2011, which was a surprise to many. We are looking into where the wealth came from. That led him to Businessman of the Year both in the UK and Russia, the first man to have ever done that in the same year. And he put up sixty percent of the re-election campaign funding for Putin in his return as President in the 2012 election.”
“So he’s a man who is well connected to Putin’s inner circle,” Zoe said.
“Yes, very much so. There are a lot of rich and powerful men that Fernandes used to rub shoulders with.” Zoe looked at Anya. She did not lift her eyes from the sheet of paper in front of her.
“I’m sure, but I don’t really see what this brings to our case,” Zoe said. “I mean, some guy’s notes, written for most probably personal gratification can’t really tell us much about why he was killed.”
“We don’t know what they will tell us, Zoe,” Charlie said. “We’ve not much else to go on. Hackett is being taken away later today, we’ve got all we can from him. It’s over to the Russians now. This is all we’ve got to go on.”
“It just feels like a waste of time. It feels like I could have been doing more, something worthwhile.”
“Be my guest,” Anya said, not really glancing up at Zoe as she spoke.
“I guess you’d like me out of the way,” Zoe said.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Zoe now had Anya's full attention. There was a brief moment of silence, which gave both ladies a chance to think, though they didn't break eye contact with each other for a second, before eventually, Zoe gave out, looking away.
“Nothing, forget it. Look, I’m thirsty. Anyone want a drink...” but Zoe was up and out before anyone could have given her a reply.
Bill was taken from his holding cell at just after three on Friday afternoon on an overcast but a dry autumnal day. Charlie was with him, though Zoe had not come to this routine procedure. Bill looked pale and unwell. Two officials from the Home Office were with them, as were officials from the Russian embassy, as well as Anya and her colleague, who would deal with the handover personally and be the ones to escort the prisoner to Russia. They were booked to travel on a cargo flight that was leaving from the freight terminal at Heathrow in two hours. Bill’s family would be informed as the plane was taking off. It was the only way to limit press intrusion into things. Charlie had arranged an area to be cleared in the central warehouse at the freight terminal. Huge pallets of cargo were stacked all around them. There was just three staff on that day, and only one would know what was happening, the other two reassigned for the afternoon. Charlie led Bill over to a seat and lowered him down. The last week had seemingly aged him ten years.
“We’ll be okay here for a moment, folks. You can take five and wait outside,” Charlie said. They went to stand outside, cigarettes already in their mouths. There was no real threat of escape, no risk.
“How are you bearing up, Bill?” Charlie said, now just the two of them were in that part of the warehouse.
“As well as one can be, I guess is the right response. This last week has been a nightmare. I’ve not even seen my family. Now how are they going to be able to see me once I’m in Russia? Do they even know I’m here?”
“They are being told shortly,” Charlie said.
“You believe me when I told you I don’t have any memory of doing this, don’t you?” He looked Charlie squarely in the face, his eyes moist, but honesty apparent. Real, blood-chilling honesty.
“Bill, I don’t know what I think. Look, you seem like one of the most genuine, kind-hearted people I’ve ever had the good fortune of meeting. I mean that. I’ve not heard a bad thing said about you, apart from the evidence. You don’t deny that now do you?”
“Like I’ve said all along, yes, I have memories of these things, like nightmares. Being on a plane, having fake documents. I don’t remember being in Russia. I’m certain I’ve never been there.”
“I have, though, Bill. And I’ve seen the video evidence. I’ve seen the photo. You were there. I don’t know why, nor why you would want to kill Anthony, but I’ve seen it. They found the murder weapon, and it had your prints on. I’ve stood and looked at the canal. I’ve seen where the photographer stood and took the photo where you were holding the gun to Fernandes’ head. It all works out, Bill, it really does.”
“But I didn’t do it, I’m telling you. I don’t have any memory of it...”
“And I’m so sorry about that. You see, memory loss won’t save you. It’s not evidence. Maybe you shut it out because of what you did. The Russians have a concrete case. Blood on your shirt, found in your home in the UK, that matches Anthony. Fake passport and visa, date stamped as entering and leaving St Petersburg twenty-four hours apart. I’ve seen the video as you entered the country. Witnesses see the attacker make the kill. You are photographed shooting Anthony and they report the gun was thrown into the canal. It was recovered, and it has just your set of fingerprints on. I mean, Bill, really, this doesn’t come down to memory. You don’t have to know you committed a crime to make it that. It’s the evidence that convicts you, not your consciousness. You’ve also been diagnosed with the early stages of dementia, though maybe it’s a little further on than they first said. I’ve done all I can for you, Bill, I really have. I wanted to believe you, on some levels I do. I don’t believe, for example, in your right mind, you have any aggressive notions towards any human being, especially towards Anthony Fernandes. I believe that you haven’t seen or heard from him in years since he moved away. I believe that. And yet, I believe you did in fact murder Anthony Fernandes. That you managed to travel to Russia, find a gun and shoot him where he sat in a public park. And of all the cases I’ve ever worked or will ever work on, I know, right here and now, this will be the one case that when I retire, I will remember with most confusion. You’ve got to prepare yourself though, Bill. In a little while, you will be on that plane. It will take you to St Petersburg and you will enter into criminal proceedings for the murder of Anthony Fernandes. Everything you’ve ever held dear, and everything you’ve ever done for a good cause, will be brought into question. They’ll look to destroy that image, in order to destroy the one argument against a conviction for murder. The argument that you are not a killer. The argument that you are actually an amazingly kind-hearted, good-mannered man that has done so much for others. I don’t think this will be made known. And with the evidence they have, I doubt it needs to be, nor would it actually make much difference. It wasn’t enough to convince the Home Office. Believe me, if there was a way we could have blocked this extradition, especially to Russia, we would have.”
“They all think I’m guilty before it has even begun,” Bill said, resignation clear in his voice now.
“I’m sorry, Bill. I really am. I don’t know how this could all happen to such a person. But the evidence has convinced even me. And I wanted very much to find a hole in the story, to put it to the Russians that they’d got the wrong man. But I couldn’t because there isn’t one. I think you should make peace with what god you have, and accept the fact that you will not see freedom again. You’re going to prison for the rest of your life.”
Tears were starting to run down both of their faces, Bill more so than Charlie, but still Charlie could not help himself. Bill reminded him of his grandfather. Not long after, the rest of the group returned, and Bill was escorted to the plane. Papers were signed, and the two men from the Home Office left. Bill walked over to Anya.
“I guess this is it then,” he said, those doleful eyes burning into Charlie more than ever.
“Yes, sir, it is. I don’t think I will ever meet such a gentleman, guilty of such a terrible crime.”
Zoe shot him a funny look.
“Will I see you again, Anya,” he asked.
“Don’t count on it
, Mr Boon”.
He stepped back as they boarded the plane. Moments later the doors were shut, as Charlie began to step away and returned to his car, where after a moment’s thought he pulled away. He saw the plane lift off as he was joining the motorway.
“Good luck, Bill,” he said. “I think you’re going to need it.”
10
It was the start of a new week. Charlie sat with Zoe in the canteen, their cups long since empty. It had been a rough weekend. News broke like a hurricane of the extradition of William. His family, especially his children, kicked up a massive fuss. They’d been filmed, interviewed and photographed by every news channel and paper. Theirs was the hottest story of the hour and didn’t seem to be slowing. The angle most loved was why give in to Russian pressure––why extradite an innocent man? Both lead agents had been followed all weekend. The press had camped out at Charlie’s modest London home. The relative quiet of Scotland Yard made it a welcome sight. Few would usually say that.
“Have you heard from her?” Zoe said
“Anya, you mean? No, nothing yet.”
“What is it with her? What’s the attraction?”
“You mean besides the obvious?”
“And there it is, the classic male response. I might have thought better of you, Charlie.”
“Look, Zoe, I don’t know what mission you are on against any other women in power, but believe me, it’s not all about looks. I get your gripe. I do. But it’s different with Anya, I mean it was different.”
“Don’t kid me that you aren’t still interested. I’ve seen dogs sniffing out a sausage show less interest than you!”