Arbitrage

by Colette Kebell

  ****

  ‘Stand by. They’re coming out,’ said a voice on the microphone. Margot was visibly tired. During surveillance, it was always hard for her to sleep. She had slept at times in her car, reclining the seat slightly, but tensions were running high. Also, it was a difficult task, and despite years of practice she’d never managed to shake off the desire to control every aspect of a mission personally, down to the smallest details. It was a mixture of arrogance and distrust. She was adept at her work, and she often went on a rampage when the rest of the team did not put the same care and passion into a mission. But there was also a sense of insecurity that would force her to keep the situation under control. The fear of delegating and, in doing so, stumbling across an irreparable mistake. And then, the only reasonable option she had was to check everything until she was inevitably worn out, holding the reins until the end.

  Margot was ex-military, and she’d served in Iraq with the coalition troops during the second Iraq war, though she still remembered Desert Storm, from when she was a kid. Margot had been with German troops at that time and even if newspapers called it a ‘peace operation’, Margot had done her part in that battle, killing an unknown number of Iraqis. After the three mandatory deployments, she’d returned for another two years as a mercenary, although they claimed to be an organisation protecting civilians who were rebuilding the country. When Margot returned to her homeland she soon felt the lack of adrenaline. In Iraq she could manage her own life, even to kill when necessary. Margot would never adapt to make a living as a bartender or working in an office. The only skills she’d ever had she acquired during the war. She decided to put them to use, no matter what.

  ‘Kaleb, get off that rooftop and go to the end of the road,’ said Margot into the radio. ‘Yuri, you and Aleksey are seconds. Ivan and I will continue the stakeout as third. Taras, get to Kaleb’s and await instructions.’

  ‘Roger,’ came as if a single response to her orders.

  ‘The couple are headed toward the centre.’

  While a distant voice, not heard by either, cawed on the radio, ‘Two moving subjects. They are not aware. They are heading for the waterfront.’

  ‘How many passers-by?’ asked Margot.

  ‘Not many but enough,’ replied Kaleb.

  ‘Roger. Keep going in silence. Aleksey, move towards the seafront and wait. Kaleb will leave at that point.’ Margot was studying a map of the city trying to anticipate where the two were headed. The worst was The Lanes, they could lose them easily between those streets or be spotted, but if they kept walking, it wouldn’t be a problem. They alternated security staff to prevent the same face appearing behind them too frequently.

  The couple kept walking, oblivious to the group that was following them. When they reached Marine Parade, Anders and Amelia stopped for a moment to observe Brighton Pier in the distance.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ said Margot to Aleksey, who had replaced Kaleb. ‘Go to the shops and pretend to be a tourist.’

  Aleksey was too close to Amelia and Anders to answer and made two clicks with the radio to confirm that he had received the message. The man he was following looked at him intently as he passed them in a hurry; looking at the ground as if minding his own business, but he felt that look continue to follow him. He said nothing for fear of being rebuked by Margot, although he had made no mistake. Who in hell are these two? He thought as he walked to a newsagent. He bought one and kept walking on the opposite side of the road to where the two were walking. ‘They are heading toward the pier,’ he said with a faint voice on the radio.

  ‘Taras, reach the pier and pass wherever you can, stay near them until they reach their destination.’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘They’ve stopped. The targets are walking into a café,’ said Aleksey.

  ‘Roger. Everyone into position. Taras, stay where you are. Aleksey and Kaleb, stay on the opposite side of the street, we’ll take them when they come out.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ****

  They ordered two cups of coffee, a croissant for Amelia and some sausages for Anders. ‘I would like to go to Romanov’s daughter. At the very least I should try to find that missing money,’ she said aloud, but in fact, she was talking to herself.

  ‘And if she has one piece of the puzzle, what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I have already decided that I won’t keep the bank,’ said Amelia.

  ‘And when did you make that decision?’

  ‘This morning. I don’t want anything to do with my father or my family’s past. They can all go to hell.’

  Anders watched her with admiration, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence to find a person willing to give up a fortune. He wondered if, in the same situation, he would have done the same. He failed to come up with an adequate response in his mind.

  ‘I don’t see you running away with Romanov’s loot.’

  They both laughed. The waitress came with their dishes, and for a while, there was silence again. Anders wasted no time in attacking the sausages, worked with knife and fork as if he had not eaten for weeks.

  ‘No, I can’t see myself running either. Ten million is nothing nowadays, you’re not going to get very far, I would need at least five hundred.’

  ‘And what would you do with all that money?’

  ‘I would buy the biggest shoe store in the world.’ They both laughed. ‘What would you do with all that money?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about that, I don’t even play the lottery. I’d probably do what I do now, touring the world and meeting people.’

  ‘So you’re here visiting?’ asked Amelia. Her companion laughed out loud, which caused some diners to turn their attention to them.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I think I need the motivation to leave a place. Change is always difficult, depends on what binds us to a place.’

  The waitress returned, asking if they wanted something else. Sometimes timing was everything when running a restaurant, interrupting a conversation before someone could ask an embarrassing question or reveal a thought. How many lovers were saved in a bar, we will never know. The two were at their beginning, at the stage where you tried to find out who was standing in front of you, without succeeding. Sometimes an interruption was enough to bring people back to the right pace, to not proceed in a hurry; it’s the mirror of our life, the bar, which reminds us that there’s always a hitch, an unwanted break in front of us. And a price to pay at the end.

  ‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ said Anders getting up and excusing himself from his partner.

  ‘I was thinking of going to the Romanovs’ today, would you accompany me?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Can I use your laptop? I think I found her on Facebook and I wrote her a message, and I’d like to see if she’s replied. Like an idiot, I left my phone at home.’

  ‘Go ahead, it’s in the bag.’ Anders jotted his password and login on a napkin, before heading towards the back of the room.

  Amelia turned on the computer in front of her. The bag, half-empty and flaccid, was placed by her chair, she avoided looking inside it. She started tinkering with the computer and eventually managed to find what she was looking for. Anders returned after a few minutes.

  ‘Did you manage to find her?’

  ‘Yes, she answered. She lives up north, in Scotland. We used to go on holiday there when I was a kid, and my sister has a home near Aberdeen, although I don’t think they’ve used it for years.’

  ‘When would you like to go?’

  ‘Today, she’s given me her address. We can stop in Leeds for the night, we’ll find a nice bed and breakfast.’

  ‘I have nothing else on, and this story has begun to intrigue me.’

  ‘Would you like something else to eat?’ asked Amelia, who had become nervous and wanted to leave immediately, so she stood up without waiting for an answer making it clear she didn’t want to wait. She blushed as soon as she realised her mistake.


  ‘No, I’m fine. Let’s go.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Igor Sokolov came to Brighton that afternoon. In the sphere of Russian mafia, he was as feared as he was detested. Someone had even nicknamed him ‘the woodcutter’ for his habit of carrying an inlaid sixteenth-century German axe, which he used for some jobs. Those who knew him well, few, knew about the history of that axe, taken by his grandfather as a war trophy from a German army colonel during World War II. Nobody knew who the owner was, but during a battle, Sokolov’s grandfather came face to face with a German soldier who had stopped the car near a grove, right before the Russian counter-offensive to liberate Leningrad took a foothold.

  The man came out from behind the trees as if he had suddenly materialised, he killed the driver with a knife and began to hit the colonel with his bare hands, leaving him bleeding and unconscious on the side of the road. Searching the unlucky man’s luggage, he found the inlaid war axe, probably a family heirloom. Its twin can still be admired in Dresden Museum nowadays. It was with that that Sokolov’s grandfather had torn the colonel to pieces.

  The axe passed from father to son until Igor, who had chosen it as his privileged tool to kill his enemies and for ‘small works of persuasion’ as he used to say. The ferocity of Igor Sokolov had no peer, it had been cultivated for years, polished, refined in every detail, first as a special-forces operative and later in the service of the Russian mafia.

  Having to face Sokolov was a powerful message for anyone, often equivalent to receiving a business card from death itself.

  The car, a Mercedes Maybach, travelled through the downtown streets until it arrived at their destination under a Victorian building in the centre. The driver opened the door, and Sokolov entered the building, heading toward the elevator. The building was facing the sea and had probably cost a small fortune, but with what they paid Robert Price, he could probably afford it. Sokolov was not keen on houses or apartments, and despite the tailored pinstripe suit that made him look like a businessman who had just arrived in town, the woodcutter preferred spending time in the countryside, far from too many memories and the noise of the city. Even when he was in Moscow, he avoided the apartment he had received as a gift from the mafia, preferring hotels or even sleeping on a makeshift bed at a friend’s house. He had never been accustomed to luxury, unlike so many with whom he worked.

  The doorbell rang and a blonde, an attractive mid-30s woman, came to answer. He introduced himself as a client of the Mortcombe Bank while in the background he could hear the shouting of children busy arguing over a few games. She asked him to wait in the lounge while Price’s wife went looking for her husband, holed up in his home office.

  The room was furnished with modern, plush designer sofas, contemporary paintings on the walls and a few pieces of art, mostly bronze, scattered around the room. It was not clear if they had taken advantage of a decorator or if it was the work of dear Carla Mortcombe. Sokolov made a mental note to ask at the first opportunity.

  Price’s expression switched in an instant from surprised to terrified before settling on irritated, as soon as he saw his guest. ‘An unexpected visit,’ he said coldly, shaking hands with the guest who meanwhile had stood up from the armchair. Sokolov was an imposing man, six feet three and bulging muscles, clearly visible even if he was wearing a suit and tie. A slither of a tattoo raised from the neck, slightly jarring with his clothes.

  ‘We have an important transaction to carry out, and the boss has seen fit to send me here, to avoid hitches or delays that would be ill received.’

  ‘Obviously, obviously … The accounts are all in order,’ lied Price.

  ‘We just sold a large quantity of weapons and drugs, and with that money, plus what we have in our accounts, we’d like to invest in an insurance company in Germany. As you say, diversifying investments is always important.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about it right here?’ asked Price looking in the direction of the hall, irked by the fact that his wife, unaware of his real business, could reappear at any moment.

  ‘Of course, we do. With old Mortcombe we had an established relationship, which we’ve been in for years. We just want to make sure that the new management … you know, keep our interests in mind.’

  ‘About that … There could be complications. My sister-in-law has control of the bank, but she has not yet taken over. There may be delays.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, to avoid those and get rid of any mishap,’ said the Russian with a phoney smile planted on his face. Price knew the host’s methods; he had witnessed his rampage once before. When he started to get his hands dirty with the sordid affairs of the bank, Sokolov invited him to a demonstration of what would happen to those who betrayed the organisation. The poor guy was lying nude on a table in the back of a butcher shop. Sokolov had started to cut him, piece by piece until he had confessed. This, however, had not given him the right to a quick death. The woodcutter went on for hours hitting him and cutting him with the blade of that sixteenth-century axe. He worked skilfully, causing pain and at the same time avoiding getting the job done too quickly. Price would have vomited his own soul after seeing that havoc, but nobody was allowed to leave the room until the execution was terminated. You could even forget Sokolov’s face. The face was not significant. Nobody would have overlooked the axe.

  ‘You could come to the bank next week, we will release the funds as soon as possible. Sometimes we invest money, it’s our task as a bank to make you earn as much as possible.’

  Sokolov nodded and stood up, heading for the door without saying a single word. There was no need.

  When he left the building, he paused for an instant before getting into the car. A waiter in a nearby café was trying to ward off a stray dog that hadn’t bothered anyone, apart from looking at customers consuming drinks and some sandwiches. Instead of leaving, Sokolov entered the bar, bought a ham sandwich and began to feed that ragged dog right in front of the waiter. One look off Sokolov was enough to stop any action by the waiter. When the dog finished eating, he let the waggling tailed creature onto the backseat of the Maybach. That gesture would have not been enough to erase all the atrocities he had committed, not even scratching the mountain of sins he was guilty of; he was aware of that.

  The car drove off shortly after, while the darkness fell on Brighton, and the pier lights were lit.

  CHAPTER 23

  Logan slumped on a chair in his office and sighed. He cleaned the lenses of his glasses using part of his tie as he often did when he had to find a solution to a problem. His gaze went to the ceiling and to a long crack that had been there for a few years. He had to find a solution.

  He mentally listed the pros and cons before deciding what to do next. Among the advantages, he definitely put the fact that Bruno Mortcombe was in a coma as a positive. At least he wouldn’t create complications. What about Albert Romanov? He had taught him a lot, but after twenty years people changed. Or was it twenty-five? There was still Thatcher, he thought for a moment, but he hadn’t made the exact calculation. After Logan came out of jail, Romanov had done everything possible to bring him closer to his daughter Amelia. He had also acted as a filter against Mortcombe. Not that there was a need, Amelia had already broken those bridges on her own, but it was a gesture Logan had appreciated.

  The original idea of taking revenge on Mortcombe was Romanov’s. They talked about that often, whenever they met in London. For years Logan had meditated revenge, a thousand different ways to kill Mortcombe, but deep down he knew he would never commit murder. He had not changed despite years of detention. Romanov was different, more secretive and warier compared to the young man who had worked for Logan years before. Then came the job offer by Amelia.

  Romanov persisted with the idea of cheating Mortcombe and Logan kept going along for fun. Talking about a scam eased the pain and exorcised the desire for revenge. Over time the plan was refined, discussing pros and cons, possible errors that investigators would discover. It was a game. Until
they ran out of ideas.

  The plan was simple. Utilising a hacker, Romanov would obtain Mortcombe’s username and password, then he would transfer some money to some offshore accounts. Logan’s task was to make them disappear, moving it through several shell companies. Last, deliver to the authorities evidence of Mortcombe’s involvement with the Russian mafia.

  What had made Romanov change his mind was a mystery, but when he was killed all sorts of alarm bells rang in Logan’s head. Sooner or later someone would have made inquiries, and the friendship between the two was well known. And he had to protect Amelia. The fact that Mortcombe was in hospital bought him some time, but he did not know how long. He was not angry with Romanov, after all, had tended to Amelia all those years during his time in prison.

  His mind returned to the meeting with Marcus and how to defraud a bank.

  ****

  He picked up the phone and called Amelia. ‘Hi, Ryan.’

  ‘Hi, just in time. Do you remember those missing millions from the bank?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, I found them. There are approximately ten million scattered in various accounts around the world,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m driving toward Aberdeen to see Albert Romanov’s daughter.’

  ‘Look, try to be careful. Romanov was also associated with the Russian mafia, like your father. What his daughter’s involvement in Romanov’s affairs is all a mystery.’

  ‘Do you think she has any interest in what happened?’ The M6, which passed on the right of Birmingham was pretty busy and Amelia decided not to overtake the bus in front of her. Anders, sitting in the passenger seat, slumbered. He looked like a god at rest.