by A P Bateman
9
Anna Sergeyev looked up at King as he entered. She was scared and as all mothers would have done, she turned to look at her nine-year-old daughter. King felt a pang of anguish, of regret. He saw that the girl had fallen asleep, her hands still bound to the chair he had put her in. He had not involved himself with any contact with children in almost twenty years of service in the intelligence services. He had never considered them to be collateral damage, had gone out of his way and risked the outcome of entire operations to keep children coming to harm. Now, with the woman he loved taken as leverage, he had barely considered taking the girl hostage, of terrifying her, of using her as a pawn.
King walked across the room and eased at the edge of the duct tape covering Anna Sergeyev’s mouth. He pulled at it gently, her lips stuck, but she did not have enough facial hair to make the process too uncomfortable. He said nothing, decided to leave Dina Sergeyev sleeping as he walked through to the open-plan kitchen and fetched a glass of water for the woman.
She watched him as he returned. He held the glass to her lips and she sucked some of the water off the top.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She pulled away from the glass having slaked her thirst. “You are going to kill us…” she said quietly.
“Your husband didn’t go for it,” he said. “I gave him the chance, but he barely considered it.”
“You expected him to?”
“Of course.”
“Then you know nothing of the Russian mafia. The brotherhood.”
“So, it would seem,” he said.
“Stupid man,” she said, her accent a mix of thick Russian, guttural, with a hint of American. A woman who had grown used to watching and listening to popular culture, but couldn’t quite shake off the motherland.
“Who? Him or me?”
“Both.”
“Fair enough.”
“Bastard.”
“Me?”
“Him,” she snapped. “How much did he ask about us?”
King shrugged. “Nothing.”
“He sacrificed us?”
“In fairness, he was set on torturing me to death to find you.”
“How far did he get?”
“He made a start,” King said. “Drove me out to the forest, told me to dig my own grave.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, when she opened them again, her eyes were moist. “How did he die?” she paused. “How did you kill my husband? My daughter’s father?”
“It was quick and painless,” King lied, thinking of the man’s exploded liver and that dark, unmistakable blood. He wasn’t feeling unhappy about it. He hadn’t been a good man. He felt something for the woman in front of him, the child asleep in the easy chair. “He was a big boy and he was playing big boys’ games. He died by big boys’ rules.”
“How will you do it,” she asked. “How will you kill us both? My daughter is sleeping…” she said, her voice catching in her throat. Tears had formed in her eyes. “You could do it now… while she’s asleep,” she paused. Her brow was perspiring suddenly, her face pale and her breathing more rapid. “Oh, God, no…” she said urgently, as if changing her mind in an event she had no choice over. “I don’t want to die…”
King looked at her, took out his knife and opened the blade. “You fucking Russians are hardcore,” he said. “My car is a hire car. I took it under an alias, so knock yourself out.” He bent down and sliced through the bindings. She pulled her hands away and rubbed her wrists. “I have no way of knowing what will happen with your husband out of the chain, but a powerplay will put both you and your daughter at risk. Can you get to any money?”
“Enough,” she said. “Enough to disappear and live well.”
“That sounds good enough,” said King. “This place is taken for two weeks. You can stay here, make your plans and be invisible. There are shops in the village for food and clothes, nobody will disturb you here. You’ll be just another tourist.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “But why?”
“Why, what?”
“Well, why let us go?” she rubbed her face, then took the glass of water off the table and drank most of it in a few large mouthfuls.
“You were leverage, nothing more. I’m sorry I scared you,” he paused. “And your daughter too. I was desperate.”
“Why?” she asked, seemingly interested, though she was sad. King suspected not so much by the death of her husband, but his willingness to sacrifice them to save face.
“Someone is holding my girlfriend, my fiancé. They want me to perform certain tasks. Killing your husband was one of them.”
She stared at him. “Well, you stand to get her back then,” she paused. “You win, my husband loses.”
“And so do you. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll survive. Possibly longer now that he’s dead. There have been many attempts recently, many betrayals. He has driven to those woods many times. He was scared. So, if not you, then somebody else. Somebody even more ruthless. Perhaps you have saved me, my daughter too.”
“I hope so. It wasn’t my plan, but perhaps some good can come from it.” He folded the knife, slipped it back into his pocket and tossed her the keys to the hired BMW. “Your husband seemed to know the woman behind his death, the woman holding my fiancé.”
“Her name?” Anna peeled the remainder of the duct tape from her wrists, slipped the keys into her pocket.
“Helena…”
“Milankovitch…” she interrupted.
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But your fiancé is as good as dead.”
10
“I thought you were going to slot them both.”
King looked at Rashid as he drove. “Really?”
“Well, you’re pretty hardcore.”
“Says the man who just took down the Bratva Mafia.”
“Needs must,” he paused. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”
King shrugged. “That sort of thing isn’t my style.”
“Complaining?”
“No, you tit. Collateral damage.”
“Not yet, at least.”
“Meaning?”
Rashid negotiated the slip road and accelerated to join the D817. “I just don’t think you’ll stop at anything to get Caroline back.”
King didn’t answer. Deep down, he knew the man was right. But it had only just started. He knew he was going to be put through the ringer. He just hoped he stood a chance of freeing Caroline. He thought back to what Pyotr Sergeyev had said before he died. King had merely thought it a taunt. The man knew he was dying; his injuries were too severe to hope to recover. But King hadn’t been ready for Anna’s comment. And no amount of asking would make the woman elaborate. She had history with Helena Milankovitch, knew her from old. He had seen from Anna’s file that she was Ukrainian. He knew too that she had met Sergeyev in the club scene. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume she was from a similar background to Helena – a dancer, an escort or more.
Rashid carefully overtook a series of slow-moving trucks, keeping the Audi at a speed of around seventy-miles-per-hour. He was making timely progress but didn’t want to push it. Not with a firearm on board. Especially when that firearm was a Ministry of Defence registered 5.56mm Colt M4, part of a requisition from 22 Special Air Service Regiment.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Rashid. “I’ve done some stuff I’d rather not talk about, but I can’t see this going well. Not unless you get some help.”
“You helped,” King answered tersely.
“Always glad to. Especially now I’m shining a chair with my arse.”
“Really?”
Rashid smiled. “Wound up the wrong Rupert.”
“You’re a bloody Rupert,” King corrected him. In the SAS, and now in many other units as well, Rupert was slang for an officer.
“Well, someone a lot higher up the chain than myself.”
&
nbsp; “What did you do?”
Rashid shrugged. “Well, he’s in his fifties, a lieutenant-colonel. He has a daughter…”
“A sullied one now, I take it?”
“Oh, I imagine she was sullied a long time before she met me…”
King smiled. Rashid was a captain, and only recently promoted. He didn’t say anything, but he had a feeling it wasn’t just rank that irked the toy colonel. Rashid didn’t seem remotely bothered, so he didn’t mention it. The army was inherently racist, despite the recruitment films, and there would be those who would think Rashid had simply been promoted to fill a minority quota. King knew it was more likely because he was one of the best soldiers he had ever met.
“Well, getting caught AWOL with a weapon would do more than find you a desk,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Well, you still owe me a beer from the last time,” he smiled. “Seriously though, you need someone helping you. What about ‘Box?”
King shook his head. “Not yet. They wanted to, but I didn’t want it. Not yet.”
“Why? Just think of the resources, the manpower. Even a discreet investigation would give you a few pairs of hands.”
“But they won’t play it like it needs to be played,” King paused.
“This woman, Helen Snell…”
“Milankovitch.”
“Right,” Rashid nodded. “So, let me get this straight. You investigate Anarchy to Recreate Society, a terrorist group founded to kill the richest five people on the planet and continue to do so until the rich offload enough money to get off the rich list. But it’s not all it seems. Helena Snell, AKA Milankovitch, is the wife to one of the richest men on the list and she is sleeping with some guy and has been all along throughout her marriage.”
“Correct,” said King. “Viktor Bukov.”
“The sniper killing all those lovely billionaires.”
“Yes.”
“And the same sniper I killed on the roof before he made his final hit.”
“Yes.”
“Now, this Helena, she has organised this whole terrorism angle to cover the real target, her husband?”
“That’s right.”
“And she’s pissed at you for cracking it wide open. She blames you for not getting the money she thinks she deserved, and for the death of her lover.”
“Who you killed,” King said dryly. “Perhaps I should send her your number.”
Rashid ignored the quip. He’d helped his friend, was glad to have gone up against a notable sniper. “And during your heroics, shutting down the rest of the group, she kidnapped Caroline.”
“And now she wants her fun. But there’s a completely different agenda. She has a past, and so far, two people knew what she was capable of. Sergeyev, before he died, said Caroline would be as good as dead. Not two hours ago, his widow told me the same thing. She has plans, and she’s going to use me to see them through.”
“And Caroline is the carrot dangling in front of your nose.”
“That’s about the size of it, yes.”
“So how are you contacted?”
“A prepaid mobile phone. One number punched in. It diverts to other numbers like an old-school dial-up internet. Must be a dozen numbers diverting before I speak. Even then, I can only leave a message. I get a text in return.”
“And you text back?”
“Yes. I’ve given up trying to call.”
“So, what now?”
King hesitated, the phone in question vibrating in his pocket. He took it out, unlocked it and looked at the screen. “That’s her.”
“Shit, what are the chances? What has she got to say?”
He ignored him, studied the picture of Caroline now enlarged on the screen from the message. She looked to have had a wash and a change of clothes since the photographs he had collected at the post office in Sweden. She was expressionless. However, King recognised it as simmering anger. There was a fire in her eyes that he seldom saw, had only witnessed in a rare argument. He could see the headline of a newspaper, L’Express, a French language Swiss paper. He spread the screen with his thumb and forefinger to enlarge it further and saw that it was today’s date. “I think she’s being held in Switzerland,” King said quietly.
“Are you sure?”
“Could be a ruse. There’s a picture of her with today’s newspaper. She could be anywhere in Europe.”
“You need MI5. They can work with the European intelligence services, Interpol even.”
“Not yet,” said King emphatically. He read the text, frowned, then read through again. “I have to go to Italy first.”
“Italy?”
“Tuscany.”
11
Four days later
Tuscany, Italy
The town of Monteverdi Marittimo was sat on top of a mountain, approximately seven miles inland from the Mediterranean. It afforded excellent views of the sea, mountainsides thick with pine trees and well-tended meadows. On the west side of the mountain, grapes grew in organised rows in vineyards that remained unchanged since the height of the Roman Empire. Olive trees lined the quiet streets, with thick trunks and large canopies, the roots pushing up the paving and causing the road to peak and crack. At harvest time, even these decorative trees were harvested with the use of nets held by the women, and the trees given a shaking by the men, tourists invited to partake amid music and much grappa – the heady and intoxicating fortified liquor made from the waste in winemaking.
King hadn’t bothered trying to order a cup of tea. This was espresso country. He settled for a beer, which came well-chilled and in a frosted glass. The waiter had placed a saucer of nuts beside his glass. King picked at the nuts, sipped the cold beer and watched Luca Fortez order another espresso. King wore dark aviator glasses and scrolled on his mobile phone. Not the phone he had been left in the safety deposit box, along with his orders, in Sweden. He kept that one switched off, the sim card removed, until he needed it. He had removed what he could of the device and inspected it but found nothing unusual. The phone could not be traced unless it was switched on and the sim card was active. King used his own iPhone. Always two models old, but with upgraded software, keeping it as non-descript looking as he could. Between drinking his beer, picking at the nuts and checking his non-existent emails, he studied the folded tourist map, but watched the Italian Mafia boss discreetly in his periphery.
Luca Fortez had been born with a different name. He had then worked his way through another, as hitman and enforcer to the Mafia running everything north of Rome and south of Modena. He had settled on Fortez when he had reached the higher echelons and become a made-man. The killing and violence was not behind him, he ordered such things now, but he had made his way to the top of the pile with the blood of his own friends and family on his hands. His reputation was well-earned, and he commanded respect not so much through fear and intimidation, but by history. People who knew of him, who found themselves in the realms of the mafia’s touch, feared the legend. And that was precisely what the man had become. A legend. Like the Bogey Man.
King had studied the man enough to know he was dangerous. Six-two, well-muscled. His biceps were large enough to indicate he was still extremely physical, despite being in his mid-forties – an age where many Italian men have learned to embrace pasta, wine and middle-age. But it was the man’s eyes that told King he was dangerous. They were the eyes of a killer. The eyes King saw in the mirror every day. Unlike King’s glacier-blue eyes, the Italian killer’s eyes were dark, but they stared hard at everything he looked at. They did not blink either. Like a cobra’s. He wore his sunglasses pushed fashionably high on his forehead, the lenses as dark as his lifeless eyes beneath.
There were two bodyguards. Both big and burly and clearly armed with sizable handguns and spare magazines under their linen suit jackets. They wore dark wraparound sunglasses, open shirts under their white suits and seemed bored. This was a quiet town, a village really, with a few tourists and locals milling through the stree
t. A bakery, a convenience store and several bars and tobacconists. A church and tower were the key points of interest, along with a small piazza and regular open market. King had perused the market, bought some bread, deli meats and cheese, and placed them into a paper bag he had earlier prepared. He had placed the bag on the table, adjusted the lens of the camera to fit the hole he had made in the bag, and was now filming the Italian mafia boss and his two bodyguards, as he sipped his iced beer and picked at the saucer of nuts. King knew enough about surveillance to understand the importance of appearing natural. He looked at the mafia boss like he simply didn’t care, mindful not to allow his stare to linger. He simply took in his surroundings, enjoyed the sunshine and the coolness of the narrow street, which funnelled the air through. A lone traveller, taking his time to soak up the architecture, the simplicity of Italian life in the Tuscan hills.
When the Russian arrived, it was with two security personnel ahead of him, three behind and one bodyguard a pace behind and to his right. All wore the same wraparound sunglasses, black T-shirts and black suits. All five men also wore heavy gold chains around their necks. The lead bodyguard wore more gold than a jeweller’s window. It was by no means subtle. The exact opposite, in fact, a declaration of wealth. At odds with blending into the surroundings and lowering the threat. It was a show of force – the muscle, the wealth, the poor-fitting suits unable to conceal the bulging holstered pistols underneath. And it was as much a show to the Italian security as the rest of the world around them. Many of the people walking through the thoroughfare must have thought a rap video was being filmed. Some even stopped and watched. A few knowing locals walked on. Some would know Luca Fortez, and that would be enough to keep walking.
King watched, waiting to see what would happen next. He had noticed two men loitering at the piazza, and they sauntered over and joined the Italian ranks. Two more walked up the street from behind the Russian and his entourage. The Italians outnumbered the Russians now. The street was full and people walking in and out of a nearby bakery had to side-step the display of muscle. King sipped his beer, ate more nuts and adjusted his seat to put his face in the sun and his back to the show. He could not take in much from his occasional glances, but he would see everything he needed to when he played it back at his convenience. Hear everything too, as the camera was equipped with an amplified directional microphone, what the surveillance world called parabolic.