Reaper

by A P Bateman

  “Send the chef out please.”

  “Sir?”

  Rashid glanced at Marnie, who looked pensive. He looked back at the waiter. “That soup was bloody tasteless,” he paused. “I couldn’t eat any of it.”

  The waiter hesitated, then smiled. Rashid thought the man had heard it all before. He bustled away and Marnie visibly relaxed.

  “Idiot,” she said, but there was humour in her eyes.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Well, that’s agreed,” she said. “We both think you’re an idiot.”

  “See, you’re lightening up,” he said. “No need to thank me for getting you out of the office and away to South Africa. Sweden next.”

  “Thank you?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “No, I’m questioning your logic, not thanking you.”

  “You don’t like to travel?”

  “It’s nothing to do with traveling. It’s my fiancé.”

  “He doesn’t like you to travel?”

  “Will you forget about the travel!” she snapped tersely. She looked up as the waiter appeared with her snapper. She remained silent, an awkwardness to it that was not helped by the waiter, who now seemed to take his time delivering Rashid’s seared Springbok steak.

  “Will there be anything else?” the waiter asked, apparently relishing the awkwardness, maybe because it redressed Rashid’s joke earlier, but more likely it was because it was what waiters seemed to do.

  “Ketchup, please,” said Rashid.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, you heard. Tomato ketchup. And don’t stick it in a poncey dish you’d bring mustard out in. It’s ketchup, you need about five times as much as mustard.” He watched the waiter leave, then smiled at Marnie across the table. “That’ll teach him.”

  “For a moment I thought you were really going to smother that seared steak and yam and spinach fondant with tomato sauce,” she smiled. “Oh, wait. You’re going to, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She smiled. “What on earth is a Springbok, anyway?”

  “A gazelle,” he said. “Like their national animal.”

  “Nice,” she replied sardonically. “Oh look,” she said. “Your tomato ketchup is here. And he doesn’t look to be happy about it.”

  “He isn’t paying the bill,” Rashid said.

  “Nor are you. It’s on expenses.”

  “Will there be a hearing? Misuse of government funds? Moral turpitude regarding an inappropriate condiment?” he smiled, and she laughed; both ignoring the waiter as he placed the sizeable pot on the table and left.

  “You sound like you know hearings. Been in trouble before, then?”

  “Trouble could be my middle name,” Rashid paused. “Except it’s Mohammed.”

  She smiled. “So, you’re not the first-born son, then?”

  “No.”

  “And is he as big a pain in the arse as you?”

  “Wouldn’t know.”

  “Not close?”

  “No. He died.”

  She looked shocked, held her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Rashid paused. “He died before I was born. An Indian raid in Pakistan. Sikhs verses Muslims, that sort of shit. They raided one day. Sliced and bludgeoned their way through our village. My parents fled, my mother got pregnant with me on the journey over. I was born here.”

  Marnie said nothing. There wasn’t much she could say, and Rashid seemed to understand. She took a mouthful of her fish while Rashid smeared tomato ketchup onto a piece of his steak. They chewed in silence, Rashid sipped a mouthful of beer.

  “So, what’s with Neil?” she asked. “The whole Botha thing has sent him into himself.”

  “You noticed?”

  “Difficult not to,” she said, sipping some more wine. “You were the hero, by all accounts.”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “If it wasn’t for Neil’s quick thinking with that planter, I wouldn’t have got into the house so quickly, Botha would have probably fired again. I doubt he would have missed Ryan a third time.”

  She nodded. She had been terrified, cowered in the car when she heard the gunshots. She had admitted it earlier, without shame. She was an analyst. She hadn’t signed up for field work. The most strenuous thing she did was Zumba on a Tuesday and Thursday. She had settled into her duties within MI5, and that had been part of her problem with Rashid’s suggestion she accompany them. She liked to be settled. Or at least, she thought she did. As she sipped her wine, ate her exotic fish and noodles and caught glimpses of Table Mountain in the setting sun from the restaurant window, she had her doubts. She watched Rashid across the table from her. He was ruggedly handsome. Medium height and physically fit. His eyes were almost black, his dark hair sat untended by recent cuts or product, sort of falling in an untidy mop that had once been shorn close at the sides and back. A military cut, long since grown out. His skin was a strong milk coffee colour but weathered from a life in the elements. She knew he was with the Army, guessed at the SAS because of his secondment with MI5. She knew those men were tough and silent types. She couldn’t help but to contrast the man with her fiancé – a city trader who lived in either pin-stripe suits with his old school tie or five-hundred-pound pairs of jeans dubiously paired with rugby shirts and blazers. A man she would not have normally been attracted to, but for the ticking body clock and too much champagne at a mutual friend’s wedding. Andrew was a generous man, but he should have been, he earned a fortune in the city. Enough to retire at the age of thirty-six if he wanted to. But to him, the status and rush that his work gave him meant that the money was less important than the thrill of earning it. She imagined the soldier opposite her would have little in either wealth or assets and could care less about the fact.

  “How long have you been with the SAS?” she asked.

  “Who said I was?”

  “Obvious, really.”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  She smiled. “There’s enough people who are. You know, SAS programmes on the television…”

  “Ex-Royal Marine’s turned tattoo models, putting civilian triathletes through five days of hell?” Rashid interrupted and laughed. “All tight-fitting shirts and Lycra? No, they’re not what the SAS are about.”

  “So, you won’t tell me?”

  Rashid smiled, drank down the last of his beer and placed the glass carefully back down on the table. “Well, I could tell you, but…”

  “You’d have to kill me?” she laughed. “That is a really old one. Tom Cruise said it in Top Gun, I believe.”

  “No,” Rashid reached across the table and gently stroked the back of her hand. “No, I was going to say… I could tell you, but then I’d have to sleep with you…”

  50

  It was completely dark when Caroline tentatively followed Michael outside into the courtyard. There were a few noises, but those were behind them now, the sound of men drinking and playing cards. The night was clear, cloudless. The stars were out in all their heavenly glory, accentuated by the lack of light pollution. Caroline was reminded of how remote Eastern Europe could be.

  “Where are we?” she asked, the thought coming to her now that Michael was on her side.

  “Georgia,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. She had thought Eastern Europe or possibly the Ukraine. She hadn’t been a million miles away. “So, what is that way?” she asked, pointing in the direction of the mountain range. There was nothing to see, simply the world disappearing into darkness.

  “The Caucasus Mountains,” Michael whispered. “Very big mountains. Only a few roads through and very dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Bad roads, bandits, bears, wolves,” he paused. “You name it.”

  Caroline knew that the mountains lay to the north. Which meant the Black Sea was to the east. She visualised the location on a map. She had no idea of distances or scale, but she felt relieved to be able to put a marker on
her location. It gave her a new-found confidence, put some reality into her world of disbelief, fear and uncertainty. Just the knowledge that she knew her location gave her a flush of confidence.

  She followed Michael through the courtyard but hesitated as he bypassed the barn and made his way between two derelict-looking buildings. “Wait!” she whispered, but it wasn’t loud enough to grab his attention. “Michael, wait!” she called, as quietly as she could, but as loud as she dared.

  Michael stopped in his tracks, turned back and said, “What?”

  “The women,” Caroline said quietly. “What about all of the women?”

  “We have to go!” he snapped.

  “But we can’t,” she protested. “I can’t…”

  “There is no room!” He shook his head. “I have a small car… there are thirty women here… we can’t!”

  “No, he can’t!” Jurgen said, a matter of feet away from Caroline. He flicked on a torch, catching their faces in surprise. “Predatel’skiy ublyudok!” he shouted, then as if for Caroline’s benefit repeated it in English, “Treacherous bastard!” His voice filled the courtyard as he stepped forward, his massive frame bearing down on them.

  Caroline lashed out with the table leg. She didn’t have time to check if the bolt was going to hit first, but it didn’t matter anyway because The Beast batted it away with his forearm, almost taking Caroline with it. She was quick to react, using her training, she went with the force, used it, spun around completely and kept the table leg moving around three-hundred and sixty degrees, striking him on the right hip. He let out a grunt, swung a punch which scythed through the air narrowly missing Caroline’s jaw. She had been lucky. The blow could have killed her. She pulled the table leg clear, pushed it head on into the man’s groin. He wheezed and fell backwards, sprawling into the wall of the building. She was readying another swing, when Michael caught hold of her and dragged her backwards.

  “Come on!” he shouted.

  Caroline had lost her momentum for attack, and saw The Beast already getting to his feet. He was reaching for his pocket and she decided not to be there when he got what he was after. She turned and ran, following Michael between the two buildings. Behind them, The Beast was screaming in Russian. Already, the courtyard was illuminated by the lights flicking on within the farmhouse. As Caroline caught up with Michael, their shadows were cast by a powerful outside light set high up on the lee of the farmhouse.

  Michael was a fast runner and although Caroline ran regularly to maintain fitness, she could not match his pace. She dared a backwards glance and was horrified to see that The Beast, despite his bulk, had gained ground on her. She was sprinting hard, as best she could in the boots, but the heel put her at a disadvantage. She tried to increase her pace, but she realised that both fear and adrenalin had dealt her all the speed she was ever going to get. Michael dodged right, beside some bins and a pile of scrap metal. Caroline followed, the sharp turn in direction catching The Beast off guard. He missed the turning, cursed and doubled back. Ahead of them, Caroline saw the metal fence. She already knew she would not get clear before The Beast caught her. The track was narrow, and Michael would slow up to make the initial leap. He would reach half-way and climb, but Caroline did not have enough distance between herself and The Beast to make it. She had another twenty-metres to go, saw her opportunity and went for it. The barn to her right was constructed of wood, but a sizable section had rotted away. Caroline leaped to her right, partially clipping the wood, which splintered as she crashed through into the darkness. She tripped and fell, but rolled loosely, and got back onto her feet in time to see The Beast run past. Two gunshots shattered the night air and she heard The Beast before she saw him, he was breathing hard, rasping and grunting. He seemed to have spent every ounce of resolve in the long sprint, even swallowing sounded an effort. He bent his massive frame to get into the hole in the wall, his broad shoulders wedging briefly as he pushed himself through. Caroline had broken the rotten wood away when she had flung herself through at speed. Maybe she had more momentum, or maybe the rotten wood had been trimmed away, but The Beast struggled to push himself through.

  And that was all Caroline needed.

  She stepped out of the darkness. Shafts of light penetrated the gloom and she stepped closer. The Beast had both hands on the floor, his backside high in the air, like a great ape about to spring up and pound his chest, except he wasn’t going to spring anywhere. Not with his shoulders and neck touching the wood, and nor with the table leg crashing down onto his skull.

  The Beast grunted, dropped onto the ground. Until then he had the tiny automatic pistol in his right hand but sandwiched between his palm and the ground as his arms took his weight. Now his hands were free. He waved the pistol towards her, but she was already taking another swing. The table leg cracked his skull again and the tiny pistol scattered out of his hand and across the ground.

  “You will have to do better,” he grunted.

  He was still moving, crawling closer to her, his body now completely through the hole and inside the building. He pushed himself up onto all fours, his legs scrabbling on pieces of broken wood and discarded waste from years of neglect.

  Caroline struck again, this time on his shoulder, shattering his clavicle. He screamed, grit his teeth and continued to push himself up. Caroline adjusted her grip on the table leg, positioned the two-inches or so of protruding bolt and swung as hard as she could. The table leg travelled in a wide arc, but The Beast raised his arm and met the attack. The impact shook Caroline to the core and the table leg rebounded off his arm. Enough force to break most men’s arms, but his arms were like most people’s legs. He didn’t make a sound, stared into her eyes through the gloom and stood up to his full height, towering above her. Caroline took a step backwards, trod on the pistol and skidded, losing balance. She fell backwards but was already scrabbling for the pistol as The Beast stepped forwards. She slapped the floor repeatedly with her palms, desperately searching for the pistol in the darkness. She glanced upwards, saw how close he was, and dropped onto her belly as she searched.

  “Just where I want you, bitch!”

  Caroline’s fingers groped the pistol. She got her hand around the butt, brought the weapon up to The Beast’s groin and fired. The pistol jumped in her hand and the noise inside the confines of the building was deafening. The Beast screamed, cupped his crotch and dropped down onto his knees, his sheer weight enough to shake the ground she laid on.

  Caroline pushed herself up and pushed the hot muzzle into the man’s right eye and fired. She said nothing, didn’t so much as give a backward glance as she walked on past the man as he dropped to the ground and lay still.

  51

  The shouts and commotion pierced the cool night air. Vehicles started their engines, headlights cut swathes of light through the darkness. Caroline had dropped heavily over the fence, curled up in the undergrowth to wait. She needed to get a handle on what was happening. She did not want to stumble blindly into her captors. A few minutes to assess, and she’d move on.

  She had given up on Michael. The man had not waited for her, nor had he come back to help. She could not entirely blame him. He had played his hand with these people and he would have been called out by now. It would only be a matter of time before they caught up with him, she was sure about that. She needed to accept that she was on her own and plan accordingly. She had The Beast’s pistol, which made her feel more secure. The weapon only had three bullets remaining, but it was still an advantage. She knew that to head north was not an option. The mountains were indeed a solid range of towering peaks, interjected by few passes, and like Michael had said, a dangerous place. To the south, the mountains were less dramatic, but she doubted the problems would be different. To the east? The opposite direction from home, towards Azerbaijan or Chechnya and the Caspian Sea? Not an option. Not for an attractive western woman with blonde hair travelling alone. She may as well hand herself back in and resume her role as prisoner. Which left we
st. A limited alley through which to travel, hemmed in by mountains, funnelling out to the Black Sea and the same towns where Helena Milankovitch once spent her time along the coast of Russia, Georgia and the Ukraine, imprisoned by the Russian mafia in the sex trade. For Caroline, the choices were coming down to just one. But what she feared more than her imminent situation, was that Helena would work out her choices as well. Which meant she had to get moving.

  Caroline got slowly and carefully to her feet, making sure she did not disrupt the bushes as she pushed her way through the undergrowth. She needed to remain out of sight, and that meant everything around her should stay still, too. The way ahead was no longer illuminated by the lights around the farmhouse and courtyard, but the ambient glow seemed to create a halo around the area, making the night sky difficult to see in detail. She could no longer ascertain the direction of the mountains, which she knew to be due north. Without knowing the direction of north, and without being able to pick out the stars for reference, she would not be able to work out which way was west. She walked onward, keeping the farmyard behind her, which at least meant she was not heading east or south. She would have to best-guess until she could find a marker.

  Keeping low, Caroline negotiated the brush. She knew that from what she had seen from the bedroom window, that it would thin-out soon and open out to farmland before long. From there, it was almost uninterrupted meadowland thirty or so miles to the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains. She kept the automatic in her right hand, her finger off the trigger with well-instilled discipline. The Makarov was chambered for a unique 9.2mm cartridge that made for a hard-hitting round in such a small pistol. The fact that she had killed The Beast and had his weapon to offer herself protection did much to bolster her resolve and confidence. She had been captured when she had been in a vulnerable state and she had not had an opportunity to escape until now. She was an ex-soldier, a trained agent with MI5 and she would be a tougher opponent than they could ever imagine.

  Armed and dangerous.