by A P Bateman
King had been thrown by the Sweden thing. And he knew he had been played. It had made him doubt himself, because it made sense for Helena to return to her roots. A place where she would have familiarity, contacts and support. He would have bet everything that she was in Russia. But Sweden had brought nothing but the fog of indecision and doubt to him. What was the connection? Was it a random act? Something merely to throw him off the scent? While he kept the phone switched off, lengthened the tether Helena Milankovitch had on him, he was reminded of the feeling of empowerment. Caroline would be safe - no harm would come to her while he remained out of contact - she was still bait to him. It would strike back at Helena, too. She would not know if something had happened to King. She would hear about the Russians, she would be monitoring the correct channels for news. But she would not know about King; whether he lay wounded and dying, dead even, or whether he was homing in on her. It would unbalance her psyche, remove the illusion of control. He would have to act fast though. He would have to make some progress, too.
He had moved quickly. From Sweden to France to Italy. Barely had he had the chance to ponder events, calculate his options, the likelihood of finding Milankovitch or even where to start. But he was sure that if he found her, then he would find Caroline.
King finished his orange juice then picked up his mobile phone, thumbed the screen and checked his messages again. Nothing. He needed to get to an airport. He needed to get a flight and hand back the hire car. But first, he needed to make a call.
36
She watched the door handle turn. Slowly, ominously. The bolt had alerted her, raking backwards, scraping the metal as whoever was behind the door worked the locks. She had felt a pang of fear, of dread. She felt her legs stiffen, had to force herself to move, but she knew she wanted to be anywhere but on the bed. The thought of what could have happened to her last night, what she would have been unaware of under the control of the powerful drug that had been put in her coffee, chilled her to the bone.
The door eased inwards and Michael stood in the doorway, a paper bag in one hand, a pot of steaming coffee in the other. He nodded, stepped inside and poured some coffee into the stained mug. He said nothing as he threw the paper bag onto the bed. Caroline looked at the bag. It had been twisted closed but had started to unravel as it had hit the bed. She could see a bread roll of some description.
“Breakfast,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Where am I?” Caroline asked, ignoring his question. She looked at the steaming cup of coffee. She wanted the caffeine hit, felt she could never eat or drink while she was here again. She walked around the bed, looked at the man in front of her. “I know what you did,” she said. “You drugged me. You came into this room, you were going to rape me.”
“No!” he snapped.
“I was in the bathroom, you tried to open the door.”
“I was concerned,” he said. “I was trying to help you! I came to check on you, you had locked yourself in.”
“You pushed the door, kicked at it. You were calling me.”
“No, I…”
“Were trying to help me? Some help.” She reached over the bed and picked up the bag. She looked at it, then tossed it at him and it bounced off his chest and onto the floor. “Take that back,” she said. She picked up the coffee cup and looked at the murky liquid. Michael looked concerned. He stepped back, his eyes on the cup. “I thought you liked me, Michael. I thought we were getting along.”
He shrugged. “I suppose,” he said.
“It is not acceptable behaviour, Michael.” She looked at him severely. “You have a mother, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I…”
She shushed him, “I imagine you have a sister, or female cousins? Imagine if someone tried to do that to them?” She shook her head. “I thought I was going to try and get my brother to get you some tickets to see Manchester United. Had you forgotten that?” She stared at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To see Old Trafford, see behind the scenes, meet some of the players?”
“Of course!”
“Good. Get me something to eat and drink. Sealed in packets. After that, you can get me some warmer clothes.”
“You are cold?” he asked.
“No. I am not,” she replied haughtily. “I am not comfortable in this flimsy dress. I want something more substantial.”
“I…”
“Do it, Michael. Go and get me what I have asked for. You want to be my friend again, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied solemnly.
She turned her back on him. “Good. And Michael…”
“Yes?”
“I have a sweet tooth…”
37
Mr King,
You have cost me everything. You took away my security, my claim to a fortune rightfully mine. You cost me my freedom. And you ruined my future. You know what happened to my lover, while I lay awake, not knowing of his fate, and that I will likely never see him again. Never feel his touch on my skin, hear his voice.
But I have changed your life, too. What a month you must have had! You must ache for your lover. The uncertainty of what happened to her hurts you inside like an infected wound. You are viewed with suspicion by your employers. You have nowhere to go, no friends to turn to. I did this to you. I changed your future also.
I want you to know who did this to you. I want you to picture me in your sleep. In those darkest of hours, where demons goad you, rule over you, control you.
And now to Caroline. Your beautiful, feisty Caroline. I am enjoying her company. You will, by now, know of my past. Forced into becoming a whore. Passed around to filthy men, a prize, a sweetener for business deal after business deal. I escaped that life, but ended up in the same trap, before meeting my husband. Oh, and what a brute he was, too. Like the men on the Black Sea coast, those casino goers who would win at the roulette and buy me, my body – though my heart was never for sale. You see, he would beat me and bully me, and no amount of his money was worth that life. Viktor gave me the love and affection that my husband never would. And now, as I look at your beautiful Caroline, I see a woman who has seen none of this. A woman who gives herself to a man only when she is loved. A pristine example of a privileged life. She has loved few, and she has done so with all her heart. Shall I take this woman and make her a prize? Shall I see that she spends the rest of her days chained to a bed, screwing men for her own survival, or drugs, or perhaps just for food? Or shall I use her to gain more. Maybe if there were a man who would do absolutely anything to save her? Maybe if there was a man with skills I could use, manipulate for my own gains?
But there is such a man. And now I own him also. Because I know that you will do what is asked, because for you, Alex King, your payment is here, and I can control you in a way you have never known. I have your life in my hand. I can give it to you, I can take it from you, or I can destroy it in front of you.
There is a post office in the town of Sodertalje, near Stockholm, Sweden. It is on a crossroads with a coffee shop to its right and a sweet shop to its left. There is a safety deposit box number 427. The code to open it is 4478. You will go there on May 22nd and open the box at 0930.
Do not fail her.
Helena
Rashid dropped the letter back down on top of the pile of papers. He rubbed his face, with his palm, then fingered at the start of a goatee he had decided to leave in place when he had shaved earlier. “And King saw this letter?” he asked Ramsay but kept his gaze on the woman behind the computer terminal.
“Yes,” he said. “Simon Mereweather took it to him. King left on a plane to Sweden that night.”
“And how long did MI5 sit on it?”
Ramsay shrugged. “We had it a few days.”
“And you didn’t think to put an observation post on this post office?”
“In hindsight…”
“In hindsight, you fucked up,” Rashid said coldly. “You could have had a lead on your missing agent. Instead, Kin
g went in cold and has been on the backfoot ever since.” The woman behind the computer terminal looked Rashid up and down, then back to the screen. Rashid couldn’t decide if she was attracted to him or hated his guts. He never really knew. All he knew was that they always hated his guts at the end of the fling. He wasn’t boyfriend material. Couldn’t give a damn either. “You alright, luv?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she said, curtly.
“Caught you looking,” he smiled.
“And?”
“Are you interested?”
“Of course not!”
“Good. So, get back to the computer and tell us what you’ve found.”
Ramsay shifted awkwardly, but he didn’t respond or interfere.
“Helena Milankovitch. Thirty-six. Born in Belarus, moved to Moscow when she was eight, later moved to the Ukraine. Left home at sixteen, wound up in Georgia around eighteen, worked in the Black Sea resorts of Batumi and Kobuleti. Dancer, exotic. Hostess, escort and then prostitute, by all accounts. She was involved in the Bratva, or the Russian brotherhood. The mafia. She was a hostess. The sort that hangs on your arm, encourages expensive drinks, big bets on the tables, sort of bleed the rich men dry.”
“Met a few of them in my time,” Rashid said. “Except I’m not rich, and drink shit lager, but you know…” He shrugged and gave the woman a wink. “I’d buy you a Cinzano and lemonade, though.”
“You’re all class.”
“Class of one, luv.” He smiled. “You’d get dinner as well. Well, some nuts to nibble on.”
“What?”
“Nuts on the bar. Crikey, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
Ramsay frowned. “You’re breaking about four codes of conduct in the work place,” he said.
“I haven’t had the paperwork yet.”
“It’s about twenty pages long,” the woman said, not taking her eyes off the screen. “So, I imagine you’d need to keep your entire weekend free to read it.”
“Damn. I’ve got plans this weekend,” he smiled. “I’ve got a hot date. A real looker.”
“Really? What’s her name?” the woman asked incredulously.
Rashid leaned forward, his chin almost touching her shoulder as he read from her ID and lanyard. “Marnie Adams…”
The woman smiled, but she also flushed red. She was an attractive brunette, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and the thin-rimmed glasses she wore had slid down her nose. She pushed them back up with her finger and smiled. “I think my boyfriend will have something to say about that,” she said.
“Well, maybe you’d best not tell him you’re spending the weekend with me just yet… You’ll have to think of an excuse…”
“You can rest assured, I’ll be spending the weekend with him.”
“Meh…”
Ramsay coughed, but Rashid looked Marnie in the eyes, gave a little wink, then unhurriedly straightened up and turned his eyes back to the screen. “Yes, that’s about half-a-dozen more codes of conduct right there.”
“Best keep me in the field then,” he replied.
“Well, I think we’d better work out a plan,” Ramsay suggested. “And I’ll tell you now; you’re not going to be free this weekend.” He took out his mobile phone as he heard the bleep, unlocked it and started to scroll the screen.
“You hear that, Marnie? We’ll have to take a rain-check,” Rashid said. He turned to Neil Ramsay. “Sweden,” he said. “That should be our first port of call. We need to go to that post office and see what they can offer.”
“Like what?” Ramsay asked, still distracted by his phone.
“CCTV for one. They’ll have it for certain. We need to find footage of the safety deposit box. We need to see who put it inside, or even what they put inside.”
Ramsay nodded. “Or… we could go via South Africa.”
Rashid frowned. “Where exactly does South Africa figure?”
“This has just come through from Mereweather,” he said, flicking the text down. “When Caroline was investigating a lead in South Africa, looking for the identity of the sniper Anarchy to Recreate Society used in their campaign, she was abducted and very nearly assassinated. Suffice to say she was okay, but she was assisted out of the country by an MI6 field officer, a man named Ryan Beard. He knew of King’s reputation while he was with MI6. He has the name of the South African Secret Service agent who was corrupted by Helena Snell, as she was then, and who betrayed both Caroline and one of their own agents who was chaperoning her to her interview with a witness at Pollsmoor Prison.”
“A link to Helena,” Rashid said quietly. “Well, let’s get going.”
“I need to speak to Simon Mereweather first, get more on this Ryan Beard fellow.” “Fine, you do that. I think Marnie better come,” he said seriously. “She can work on finding out more, use this additional information in her searches, be on hand to keep us up to date.”
“What?” Marnie exclaimed. She took off her glasses, stared at Rashid, but it had the opposite affect to what she imagined, making her features softer and altogether warmer. “Sir, I don’t…”
“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Ramsay said. “You can work on Wi-Fi, and it will keep us in the loop with time zones.”
“But South Africa is on the same time!”
“With Sweden then,” he said. “We’ll work on returning via Stockholm.” He put his mobile phone into his pocket and picked up a file as he headed to the door. “Get ready, both of you. Meet back here with your passports and carry-on bags. No luggage.” He checked his watch. “Say, in two hours? That should give you both enough time.”
Rashid shrugged. “Suits me,” he said. “Just got to go back to the Holiday Inn and grab my bag.”
“But, Sir!” Marnie called after him, but it was too late. Ramsay had already closed the door and was hurrying down the corridor. She looked at Rashid, glared as she slipped on her glasses and took out her own mobile phone. “Happy?”
“Absolutely,” Rashid smiled. “I told you I’d see you this weekend.” He stood up and walked to the door. “Tell your boyfriend not to wait up…”
38
Caroline could see the mountains ahead of her, knew the distance would be deceptive. She had once driven towards the Rockies and they had appeared the same size after an hour on the road. She knew that these would not be in the same league as the Rockies, but she was aware they could be five miles away or thirty. There were scatterings of snow or ice at their peaks and given that it would be late May by now, that would indicate a great height and given their appearance, she estimated they were closer to thirty miles away than twenty. The thought of how long she had been captive made her eyes well-up. She missed Alex terribly, but more than that, to her sadness, she missed her freedom and detested the woman who had instigated this. What could she hope to achieve? She had only met her briefly, and that had been enough. She recognised madness, and clearly Helena Snell had been tipped over the edge. She had been seething with King, blamed him for the death of her lover. Blamed him for her being recognised as the instigator of a terrorist group, and their deadly manifesto. But it had been more than that, she had been in it for her own gain. To kill her husband and to gain financially from his death. And she had been both evil, or perhaps crazy enough to kill so many people as a cover for her agenda. With this knowledge, Caroline truly feared the woman. She knew she was a pawn, but she had no idea to what end.
Caroline considered the mountain region no more. With that direction ruled out, Caroline craned her neck to see what was to east and west. Naturally, if she were able to escape, she thought west would be her best option. Simply because it was in the direction of home. It would seem outlandish to head further away.
She heard footsteps, tensed at the sound. It took all her resolve to steel herself, assume the arrogant superior personality she had used with Michael earlier. She had trained in evasion and capture, knew all about Stockholm Syndrome, where captives can start to sympathise with their captors.
&
nbsp; Well, that was not going to happen with her.
She would reverse it. She would have this cowardly little pervert eating out of her hand. She had taken a chance, and now she had to act on it. She would take each little victory she could.
The lock on the door raked back and she could hear keys rattling. The door eased inwards, and she stepped over to the dresser to be closer to her makeshift club. The wingnut was still tucked inside her bra. But she was trained in Krav Maga. She wouldn’t be going quietly.
Michael skulked inside. He had a plastic grocery bag in one hand, some clothes tucked under his arm as he put the keys back into his pocket.
“Good,” said Caroline. “Put the clothes on the bed.” She waited while he placed a folded pair of jeans and thin sweater on the bed. “No shoes?”
Michael shrugged. “There are none.”
Caroline considered this, glanced at the man’s own. She estimated him to be a nine. She was a five and a half. She looked up at him. “What have you got me in there?” She nodded at the bag.
“Food, some drinks. All sealed, like you said.” He looked behind him into the hallway, then stared back at her. “You will be moved soon,” he said. “When I know, I will come and get the clothes from you. I will be in trouble otherwise…”
“Moved? Where?”
“I do not know.”
“Find out for me,” she said. “Please, Michael. We are friends, yes?”
“I…”
“Are you happy here, Michael?”
“I…”
She interrupted him again. “I could get you a place to stay in England. In Manchester, perhaps. A job, season tickets to watch Manchester United’s home games. My brother could help me get those for you. You will be paid a great deal of money, by the people I work for, for helping me get home,” she paused. She had hurried, but she was desperate. A new place could mean somebody less pliable. It could mean something altogether more terrible even. “What do you say?”