The Black Shepherd

by Steven Savile

  John just gave her a wink.

  ‘In more ways than you can imagine, but he’s a private soul. He doesn’t like the attention, so he likes to keep his work with us private. They all do. They are all very private people.’

  Frankie glanced back at the rogues’ gallery lining the stairs. She could think of a lot of adjectives to describe the publicity-craving, paparazzi-baiting men and women lining the walls, but private wasn’t one of them. Several weren’t the bright shining stars they had been. Actually, looking at the faces – and playing a slightly weird game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon – she realized several of them had been caught in a variety of scandals, often quite sordid affairs. There was one, she realized, that had been swept up by Operation Yewtree in the UK, with multiple counts of statutory rape against minors going through the High Court right now. One World’s reach was long.

  That changed the way she looked at these fading stars. Maybe they weren’t supporters at all, at least not in the traditional sense. Maybe they were victims here. Peter had talked about them using girls to build compromising intelligence that could be used to blackmail people in positions of power, hadn’t he?

  Maybe that was how they made the lawsuits go away?

  John led her into a bedroom. It was considerably larger and more luxurious than the one she’d slept in at the compound.

  ‘Why don’t you make yourself at home. You can leave your things here and, when you’re ready, join us for breakfast in the room at the end of the landing.’

  John held the door open for her.

  She stepped inside and switched on the light.

  ‘I trust you’ll be comfortable in here.’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  John flashed that now familiar smile of his. The more you were exposed to it, the more you realized just how false it was. Practised. Like a second-hand-car salesman’s faux bonhomie. ‘No need to thank me, dear girl. You’ll more than return our investment in you in the years to come. Now, why don’t you have a shower and freshen up, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.’

  Frankie waited for him to close the door, then listened for the creaks and groans of the floorboards as he walked down to the breakfast room.

  She dropped her bag onto the bed, then went to open the blinds that covered the windows.

  Her heart sank when she raised them only to find that there were shutters outside the window. She attempted to peer out through the narrow wooden slats, but couldn’t see much beyond the dull grey sky heralding the dawn.

  The window had been screwed shut.

  She could only assume that through the window was a familiar landmark, something immediately recognizable that would give away the location of their safe house.

  It also meant that if the shit hit the fan, the window wasn’t an easy way out.

  Likewise, the small window in the en-suite shower room was glazed with frosted glass that allowed daylight in but prevented her from seeing out. That, too, had been screwed shut.

  An extractor fan started when she turned on the light.

  She wondered if John had deliberately left her alone so that she could discover these things?

  She turned out the lights and went to find the others.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Ash had listened to Laura’s directions.

  She steered him into the city and through the various ring roads on to side avenues that traversed them, cutting through the more businesslike offices to the decidedly more historical apartments that still dominated the heart of the Old Town. It quickly became obvious that Lossi Plats was his destination, right in the heart of the city. Meaning she was being taken to the same place Irma was being held. Which, at least, removed a difficult decision from the equation. He wasn’t going to have to abandon Frankie in favour of exfiltrating Irma.

  He realized he was still thinking in terms of Irma being a captive, but they had zero evidence to support that. She’d run off to join the cult willingly, she’d shown aptitude for whatever it was they did there and been selected for special treatment. That didn’t make her a prisoner. Hell, he might have to drag her out of there kicking and screaming, truth be told.

  But the fact that she’d cut herself off from her parents, causing them to reach out to Frankie because they thought their little girl had been brainwashed by a cult, yeah, that was more than enough to raise all kinds of concerns about One World, and the police work of Maksim Kask in particular. They’d got more lines of interconnectivity. But proving it beyond a shadow of doubt, satisfying the prosecutors that they’d be able to make the charges stick? That was another ball game entirely.

  But, bring Kask in for murder while One World were harbouring him, that might, just might, blow the whole shit-show wide open.

  He drove past the limousine where it was parked outside one of the old marble-fronted buildings.

  There was no sign of anyone.

  He pulled into a vacant parking space on the far side of the square, turning around to make sure that he was facing the black limo and the door it was parked outside.

  He checked his watch. Given the slow start a lot of these people seemed to enjoy he didn’t expect anyone turning up for work for at least another couple of hours.

  ‘All quiet,’ he said. ‘Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.’

  ‘Did you expect anything else?’

  ‘I dunno. To be honest, London is probably rammed with folks on flexitime trying to get an early start so they can survive the two-hour commute back home in time to actually go to bed before they have to do it again tomorrow. This is all very civilized.’

  ‘Well, it is Sunday,’ she said.

  ‘Christ, is it? I had no fucking idea. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Of course, it also means I didn’t need to put ten euro in the meter to pay for parking.’ She laughed at that. ‘I’ll just have to stick it on expenses. I’m assuming the cathedral has services later?’

  ‘I’m sure it does. You might want to go and find some food. Frankie’s ensconced now. If they move her, I’ll let you know. And yes, I’ve got eyes on. You see the big yellow building behind you? German ambassador’s residence. Surveillance cameras on the exterior. Very handy. So, I’ll see her if they set foot outside the building.’

  ‘Can I ask you something, Law?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘What happens now? I can’t storm the place if something goes wrong.’

  ‘I was hoping you had a plan,’ she said.

  He couldn’t tell if she was joking.

  That troubled him.

  He liked having a plan, it gave him something to ignore.

  He wasn’t going in blind. Not without some sort of signal from Frankie. He had to trust her. She must know he was out here. Right now, it was her show. He was just the support act.

  Peter slid out of the car.

  Everything ached.

  Trying to move only served to remind him that he still wasn’t fully recovered. He stretched his back out and worked the muscles of his neck. Laura was right, he needed to eat. But where would be open at this time on a Sunday morning?

  As if reading his mind from back in Bonn, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Laura had sent through directions to a burger place that advertised twenty-four-hour service. It was a brisk ten-minute walk away.

  The air was still chilly, but the buildings cut down the worst of the wind, starving it of the windchill. He deliberately walked past the building where Frankie was, though didn’t slow as he scanned the facade.

  Every window had been shuttered.

  There was nothing to see.

  Not so much as a chink of light crept out.

  If it wasn’t for the car parked outside, he would have assumed it was empty.

  There was an almost sinister air about the place, he thought, deliberately not looking back over his shoulder. Which only made him want to go inside. Yeah, he was that kind of person.

  Peter Ash was a meddling kid at heart.

>   By the time he returned, stomach full, the sound of his footsteps on the pavement provided a steady counterpoint against the hum of traffic building up in the streets close to the cathedral.

  As far as he could tell there had been absolutely no change in the house – the windows were still shuttered, no sign of any lights, and the car was still parked up out front.

  He settled back into the hire car and speed-dialled Laura.

  ‘Did I miss anything?’

  ‘Me?’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Apart from you, obviously.’

  ‘Nothing. It’s deathly quiet,’ Laura said. ‘I’ve got a tap on the only phone line into the place. No calls in or out, but that’s not saying much. They could be using VoIP or any other service for all we know.’

  ‘Got a name for the owner yet?’

  ‘The entire block is owned by one John Shepherd, Canadian national.’

  ‘Shepherd, as in The Shepherd?’

  ‘The Fork-Tongued Saviour himself.’

  ‘I guess fronting a cult pays well.’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. He’s got prime real estate in every city centre that One World operates in. That’s over fifty cities. And it’s all valuable land. Nothing that isn’t central. John Shepherd is disgustingly rich, at least on paper. There isn’t a single mortgage on any of the properties.’

  Which fell in line with what Donatti had said about them amassing a not so small fortune.

  ‘We’re definitely in the wrong line of work.’

  ‘Ever fancied starting your own religion? I reckon you’d be a natural,’ Laura said.

  ‘It’s on my to-do list. So, background on this guy? Silver spoon in the mouth?’

  ‘Far from it. Before he founded One World he was living on the streets. He’s the definition of a self-made man.’

  ‘Who would have thought helping other people could mean you could help yourself to millions?’

  ‘Everyone from Billy Graham to Pat Robinson by way of Joel Osteen and Jerry Falwell,’ Laura said.

  ‘Good point. OK, so how does that help us? The tax man’s already failed to bring One World down more than once.’

  ‘And it’s not like I can go kicking down the door because you think they’re fiddling their taxes.’

  ‘Ah, but Law, you beautiful human being, you might have given me an idea.’

  SIXTY-THREE

  Curiously, for all the supposed splendour of this place, what went on mirrored the compound surprisingly closely.

  John left, taking Tomas with him. He gave no indication of where they were going.

  The entire atmosphere shifted when he left her with Kask. Any pretence of friendliness the fallen detective mustered for John’s benefit was gone the moment the door slammed, leaving them alone. He took pleasure in her discomfort. She bit back on the urge to argue with him, assuming that he was deliberately trying to goad her into a fight to prove she was unworthy. Well, fuck that, she thought, gritting her teeth, as Kask leaned in uncomfortably close, like he was trying to smell the lies in her pheromones.

  He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe how John could be so wrong, how disappointing she was. ‘Why do you want to do this?’ He asked the same question over and over again. Why, why, why?

  ‘To help people,’ she said the first time of asking. ‘To help One World,’ she said the second. ‘Because we are one family,’ she said the third time. And still he asked:

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we have enemies who would stop us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of an act of kindness.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because someone helped me when I needed it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to help others.’

  He shook his head, breaking the pattern. ‘You can do that anywhere. There are a million places you can go to volunteer and soothe your conscience. So, no, really, why? Why One World?’

  ‘Because they were the ones who helped me.’

  ‘Why do you imagine One World wants your help?’

  ‘Because John has seen something in me.’

  ‘But I don’t. So why shouldn’t I just turn you out onto the streets where you belong?’

  She stared him down.

  ‘Because I’ll give everything.’

  ‘And if that isn’t enough?’

  ‘Then I’ll still keep giving.’

  ‘And what do you expect in return?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It was relentless.

  Question after question without a break, without a pause for her to muster her thoughts, pushing, pushing, always pushing, trying to dig down into her, to get to the core of who Ceska Volk was.

  She wasn’t allowed to eat or drink.

  She hadn’t had a thing since the slices of fresh fruit she’d shared with John. Not so much as a glass of water. It was emotionally draining, and in a strange way left her feeling worthless, as though nothing she said was good enough. And lying just made it more of a challenge, but she wasn’t about to give Kask the satisfaction of breaking her.

  So Frankie answered each challenge with stoic determination, daring him to bring it on.

  And he did. Why had she run? Why had she stopped running? Why had she talked to the kid that was crying? And more personal stuff, digging into her past and her experiences, pushing her to describe the first time she had menstruated, the first time she had touched herself, the first time she had orgasmed, her secret perversions, how she liked to be touched, her failings, disappointments, and lies. Everything she had failed at, had dreamed of and lost. A lot of it seemed to be focused on loss. On dehumanizing her.

  Eventually he said, ‘That will do for today.’ Kask dismissed her. ‘Go back to your room until I summon you again.’

  Frankie had no idea of how long she had been in the room with him answering his constant barrage of questions – and with the shutters keeping day and night out of the building with equal measure it could be lunch or dinner, or midnight just as easily. There were no clocks. Kask had worn a cheap wristwatch for the first ten minutes or so of questions, but the moment he caught her trying to look at it, he undid the strap and slipped it into his pocket. It was deliberate. Removing references to time messed with the clarity of your thoughts. It was subtle, but effective. A form of torture. Make time meaningless and there’s no hope of an end. Everything just goes on and on.

  Back in her room Frankie tried to peer up through the slats in the blinds to see if the sky was darkening, but after a while even that little smudge of grey became indistinguishable from the dirt on the glass.

  She went through to the shower room and gulped down a glass of lukewarm water.

  No doubt that bastard Kask would have taken that comfort away from her if he had realized it was there.

  With nothing else to do, she lay back on the bed and tried to clear her mind, letting the exhaustion sweep over her.

  It had been a brutal day, despite the fact she’d basically sat on a wooden chair all day, a bright bare lightbulb shining in her face while Kask played father confessor come inquisitor. That exhaustion seeped from her mind into her bones.

  She expected him to come knocking at any minute to start it all over again.

  No doubt he was eating, gathering his strength to go again. If she couldn’t eat, at least she could sleep, even if it was only for a few minutes before he came banging on the door or shrieking in her face. She closed her eyes. But her mind refused to empty. She saw Kask’s twisted face behind her eyes. She heard his damned voice and those endless questions cycling over and over. She couldn’t flush them from her thoughts for fear she’d somehow given herself away and he’d caught her in a lie. If she didn’t reset somehow she’d break sooner rather than later. Mental anguish. She wasn’t stupid. Everyone had their limits. Again she felt the urge to lash out, to drive her fist into his face as he asked another stupid, demeaning question. She could have broken his nose and jaw, depressed his cheekbones
and fractured his skull before he’d finished with his hard on from listening to her talk about masturbating. Fucking pervert. But that would have been too easy. It was what he wanted. How he won. He proved her unworthy. A failure. He was getting under her skin.

  She wasn’t just playing the part of Ceska Volk, she was becoming it.

  And that was dangerous.

  She managed to doze. It wasn’t proper sleep, but in the silent house it was restful. When she surfaced, she felt hunger gnawing away at her belly. She wasn’t about to go looking for food. She wouldn’t starve. Instead, she drank another glass of water, taking it slowly. It was good that it wasn’t too cold.

  This time when she tried to peer up through the wooden slats there was only pitch-black darkness. She could see nothing out there.

  She listened for any sign of movement anywhere in the house. The temptation to explore was strong – but at what risk?

  She had no way of knowing if she was alone, if Irma was here, or if John himself sat in the darkness downstairs waiting for her to pass or fail some unspoken challenge he’d set out before her.

  She opened the door.

  It didn’t make a sound.

  The landing was in near darkness.

  She assumed Kask was on the same floor. If Irma was here, she was either above or below, given the number of doors she’d seen. Down offered the excuse of looking for food in the kitchen if she was challenged. Up didn’t.

  She was halfway down the stairs when she heard movement below her.

  Frankie held her breath, pressing herself up against the wall.

  Her shoulder nudged one of the photographs of John with the latest falling star, and for one sickening second she thought it was going to fall.

  The door in the narrow passage beside the stairs opened, spilling light into the hallway.

  A figure emerged, backlit and featureless like something out of a Spielberg movie.

  Frankie didn’t dare move.

  Whoever it was, she didn’t want them knowing she was there.

  The shadow was too large to be Irma, and wrong for Kask, she realized.

  She waited.

  She held her breath.