Suzanne sighed again.
“Okay, Charlie. I can see you’re not going to tell me anything more. So I’ll just have to trust you. I know you can look after yourself.” She shook her finger at her sister. “But one of these days, sister mine, we’re going to have a very long talk and you’re going to tell me all about those missing years and what you really got up to.”
Charlie just smiled at her sister, then turned to stare out of the window.
They’d been good years. Hard work certainly. And with a fair degree of danger. But the hardest part hadn’t been the undercover operations. The times she’d slipped anonymously into a country, either alone or with a team. The jobs where the intelligence had been poor or inaccurate and they’d found themselves in real danger, having to think on their feet.
No, the hardest part had been lying to her friends and family. Having to keep up a fake persona. The hard-up layabout sister who threw up university after one term to go travelling with her first girlfriend. Who later joined the Marines, only to be expelled from there after just a few weeks. And who disappeared for long periods of time from then on, supposedly to work in dead-end jobs across Europe: bars on the Greek and Spanish beaches in the summer; chalets in the ski resorts in the winter.
But it had all been for their safety. If they didn’t know about the recruitment that had come soon after joining up; about the training camps she’d attended—which made the Marines look like a walk in the park—and about the undercover roles she’d played from then on, then they wouldn’t worry about her. And they would, hopefully, be safe. Her biggest fear throughout that entire time was that her new life would spill over and contaminate her old one. Because if that happened, and if anyone had harmed her sister or her parents—despite what they’d done to her—she would never have forgiven herself.
But she’d promised herself—and, more importantly, she’d promised Annie when they’d talked on the phone last night—this was the very last bit of undercover work she was going to do. Her old bosses had promised they would let her walk away; and she believed them—well, pretty much, anyway. And once this trip was over; once she and Suzanne had sorted out Stefano Mladov and Michael Hawkins, she was going to go back home to London, to Annie and their child, and never go adventuring again. She really believed that. And maybe, at that point, she’d be able to have that long chat Suzanne was talking about. It would be good to be able to share the stories with someone else, finally.
Charlie was pulled out of her reverie by a sudden change of direction, as Viktor moved the car sharply to the right and exited the main highway. They turned onto a smaller dual carriageway which soon turned into a single-track road. And then they reached the terminal. So many airports were located, like this, at the end of cul de sacs outside the city. Both she and Suzanne had seen more than their fair share of these in the time they’d been travelling.
The car pulled to a stop at the drop-off point. Viktor looked at Suzanne with raised eyebrows, but Charlie responded before her sister could say anything.
“It’s okay, Viktor. I’ll get out here and you can take Mrs Suzanne back to the city.” Suzanne opened her mouth to argue, but Charlie just grinned at her. “Come on, sis; I’m a big girl, and I’ve been through almost as many airports on my own as you have. I’ll be fine. And it’s far too much of a faff for Viktor to park up. You won’t be able to get past security anyway.”
Suzanne nodded her head.
“Yes, I guess you’re right. But be prepared for a bit of a wait. The security and check-in here can be variable. Not as bad as Moscow, I understand, but not as slick as we’re used to at home.”
“That’s okay,” replied Charlie, “there’s plenty of time before the plane’s due to leave. And at least it won’t be difficult when I get to the other end. I may be going to the old East Germany, but it’s much easier than it was last time I went in.”
“Yes, European politics has come a long way in the past twenty-odd years, what with the wall coming down and Germany reuniting.”
“Not to mention the ease of travelling around the European Union. Just think how much more difficult it would be if we’d never joined.”
“Or if we leave, as some of the politicians are suggesting!”
“Nah, that’s not going to happen,” scoffed Charlie. “Trust me; I understand politics.” She paused and grinned. “And what’s more, our own personal former Member of Parliament agrees with me—so it must be right!”
A people carrier loaded with passengers and luggage hooted impatiently from the lane behind them, as the driver waited for a space to park. The two women jumped and despite Viktor’s gesture that implied there was no hurry, they both climbed out of the car. Charlie was travelling light. She shrugged her rucksack onto her shoulder, hugged Suzanne, waved to Viktor, mouthed an apology over her shoulder to the driver of the people carrier, and headed for the terminal. Suzanne stared after her for a few moments. Then, as her sister gave a final wave and disappeared through the sliding door and into the crowd, she climbed back into the car.
“Back to the apartment, please, Viktor,” she said. But all the way into town, her mind ran through the possibilities. What had Mercy said that had persuaded Charlie to head off to Germany on her own? And just how dangerous was this mysterious man she was off to meet?
Chapter 44
The following evening Boris sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping the Shef would see it as an attempt to get his mind in gear. In fact, he had spent all day coming up with a story that sounded plausible. He opened his eyes and began speaking.
“Well, I guess, in order to make you understand our relationship, such as it is, we need to go back twenty-two years. Anton and I were at college together. We’d been in the same class in primary school, drifted apart during high school, but then reconnected when we found ourselves the only two guys from St Petersburg—or Leningrad as it still was, of course—traveling to Vladivostok to take our degree. We were a long, long way from home; and there wasn’t the money to get back for visits more than once a year, so we naturally drifted into each other’s company. We had other friends, of course, but we’re always happier with people from home, aren’t we?”
The Shef stirred irritably at this point and Boris realised he needed to speed up the story if he wasn’t going to lose his audience and probably his only chance of getting help with the problem of Anton and Francine.
“Everything was fine until the start of the third year,” he said. “Then Anton got friendly with a guy from Moscow. Sergei arrived at the end of the second year and implied he’d made the choice to move schools for his final modules. We found out later he’d been thrown out for persistent drug use, but at the time, we all believed his story.
“Anton became besotted with this guy. He started dressing like him, reading the same books as him, and was always quoting the wisdom of Sergei: ‘Sergei said this…,’ ‘Sergei thinks that….’ To be honest, I was getting heartily sick of hearing the guy’s name. And then I found out Anton was taking drugs too. Only weed, most of the time, but occasionally something harder.
“One night we were driving home from a party, around three in the morning. Anton had been smoking dope and I wanted him to let me drive, but he insisted he was okay. And as it was his car, I couldn’t make him give me the keys.” He paused and sighed, shaking his head in what he hoped was a sorrowful manner. “With hindsight, I really should have insisted. Things could have been so different.” He shook his head once more and then continued. “We were just on the outskirts of the town, in a really dark lane, when there was a bump and a crash. We’d obviously run into something. Anton stopped the car and we jumped out to check the damage. And there, in the middle of the road was an old man. We knew him by sight. He was the local drunk, always begging on street corners. There was a terrible smell of cognac arising from him. He must have been swigging from a bottle when we hit him.”
“Was he okay?” asked one of the guys at the table. Bo
ris shook his head.
“I’m afraid not. We felt his pulse, checked his breathing, but there was nothing. No signs of life at all.”
“And what happened?” asked the Shef.
“Well, I was all for one of us staying with him while the other went to get help; the police or an ambulance. But Anton absolutely freaked out! He was petrified he would go to prison for driving under the influence of drugs. He begged me to say nothing. There was no-one around, no witnesses. We could just drive away, he said, and no-one would be the wiser.” Boris paused again, swallowing and trying to blink a few tears into existence. “And to my everlasting shame, I agreed. We drove away, leaving the poor old bugger on the side of the road. No-one ever found out what we’d done, and although it was difficult at first to get him out of my mind, the memory gradually faded.”
“Pity the old man couldn’t get away so easily,” said the Shef.
“Indeed,” replied Boris. “Anton and I saw a lot less of each other after that night, and when we graduated, we went our separate ways. I never heard from him again—until eighteen months ago. Then one day, out of the blue, he turned up at my office. I’m Mayor of Railkov, a small town around a hundred kilometres outside St Petersburg. Anton told me he’d been running Petrovpharm here in the city for years, but that lately he’d been having problems with some of the necessary licences for an expansion he was planning. He asked me to help ‘grease the wheels’ as he put it. When I objected, he reminded me of that night in Vladivostok and asked what would happen to my political career if it was known I’d been involved in a hit and run accident. And even though I hadn’t been driving, I knew the fact I’d not reported the accident would count against me. So, I helped him get the licences. Nothing underhand, you understand. Just the occasional phone call, unblocking the system when it got stuck. But it seems that once again Anton has implicated me in his illegal activities.”
“In what way?”
“Well, it would appear the drugs he’s importing from Ukraine and then supposedly re-exporting to Africa, are in fact ending up on the black market here in Russia.”
“Do the police really think you’re closely involved with this scheme, then?”
“Actually, no, I don’t think they do. They seem more interested in hearing what I know about Anton than in asking me what I’ve been doing. But I have to say,” he gave a little laugh, “hearing your joke about killing the man responsible, I had to wonder whether that would be a way out of the problem.”
“How so?”
“Well, Anton’s the man they’re really interested in. If he was no longer on the scene, surely, they’d lose interest in me? Especially as I have political friends.”
The Shef snorted.
“Well, it doesn’t look to me like your political friends are doing you any favours just now, are they? You’re the one in here. Where’s this Anton at the moment?”
“I don’t know,” spat Boris. “The night after we were arrested, I think he was released. Maybe the police are watching him, hoping he’ll give himself away.”
“Oh yes, that’ll be it,” said the Shef, his voice dripping with irony. “But look, let me think about your story and get back to you. We may be able to do something to help—although it won’t be for nothing, you realise. We’ll expect something in return.”
“Anything,” said Boris, “anything at all.” As he watched the little man and his entourage walk away, he wondered if he’d made his case strongly enough. He also wondered when he could add Francine into the mix. She definitely had to go, too.
Chapter 45
Stefano Mladov was settling down on the terrace with the latest issue of the Financial Times. He had it shipped in from London, together with The Economist and the Wall Street Journal, by a friend of his. He liked to keep an eye on what was going on in the major financial and commercial sectors around the world. Although much of his business was shady to say the least, and some of it was downright criminal, he still ran the organisation like a business and made decisions on the basis of the long-term economic prospects. His dream was to leave an estate for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren which could be run legitimately. Although he had no regrets about his long life of crime, he realised the thrill of the chase and the excitement of getting one over on the justice system wasn’t everybody’s idea of fun. He wanted them all to be secure and to have the future they desired.
The ringing of the phone disturbed his concentration, but he didn’t stir. Someone else in the house would answer it. The chances were it was for one of the youngsters anyway. And if no-one picked up the receiver in time, the caller would always get back to them if it was urgent.
He vaguely registered when it stopped after three rings but carried on reading the article on the latest plans for expansion by one of the UK’s top industrial magnates. At least he was based in UK now, although his surname gave away his origins in the Indian sub-continent.
“Great-Grandpa, it’s for you,” said a quiet voice at his elbow. Stefano jumped. Young Marina was so quiet on her feet she often managed to surprise people by appearing, as though from nowhere, when they were least expecting it. She’d make a great cat burglar, would this young girl. He raised his eyebrows, asking who was on the phone, but she just shrugged her shoulders and held out the receiver to him. He took it and smiled his thanks, then watched as the young girl gave a wave and left the terrace as quietly as she’d arrived.
“Hello,” he said.
“Stefano Nicovic, it’s Governor Shostakovich from Kresty Prison in St Petersburg.”
“Governor, how are you? It’s been a long time!”
“It certainly has, my friend.”
Stefano and the governor had first met some twenty-five years ago when they were both working on the wrong side of the law. They’d started out in competition to provide protection for the businesses in a small town in Eastern Ukraine, but after a couple of bloody battles which depleted both sides of some key associates, quickly realised they would be more successful working together than fighting each other in such an evenly matched war. Their business partnership had transformed gradually into a friendship that lasted for five years.
Then Shostakovich, seeing the way the Soviet Union was going, decided to move into Russia before it became a separate country, a move the Mladov family was to follow some years later. He’d created a new identity for himself, joined the prison service on the grounds that if you can’t beat them then join them, and they’d lost touch. Although Stefano had kept track of his old friend’s progress and it would appear the same was also true in reverse.
“Stefano Nicovic, I’m speaking from my office. I have someone who would like to talk to you. I’ll be leaving the room for the next ten minutes, and then when I return, we’ll catch up on all our news, yes?”
“I’d like that,” said Stefano, perplexed as to who might want to talk to him from a prison governor’s office.
“Mr Mladov, this is Khariton Bubliov speaking. You probably don’t know my name…”
“But of course I’ve heard of you, Khariton Grigorovic,” interrupted Stefano. “You’re well known, even among immigrants from Ukraine. I was sorry to hear of your current difficulties.”
“Yes, well, everything catches up with you in the end, doesn’t it? But it’s not too bad in here, and as you can see, the governor’s being very accommodating. But we only have a short time, so allow me to get straight to the point. Do you know someone called Boris Lechkov?”
“I don’t think so. Why, should I?”
“Well he certainly knows you, or at least he knows your company.”
“Really? And should I be worried?”
“Well, he’s on remand following an investigation into the illegal trade in codeine phosphate tablets for the manufacture of krokodil here in Russia. Codeine phosphate tablets he says come from your factory in Kharkiv.”
“Now that is interesting. We certainly make codeine phosphate tablets and some of them go into Russia, to St Petersb
urg in fact. But I’m not aware of this Boris, Lechkov did you say his name was?”
“Do you mind telling me who you do deal with?”
“I think that’s probably going to fall under the realms of commercially confidential information, Khariton Grigorovic.”
“Fair enough. Let me put it another way. Do you know the name Anton Dimitriov?”
Stefano felt a jolt of surprise and realised keeping secrets from this man wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.
“I believe I’ve heard of him, yes.”
“Okay, Stefano Nicovic, cards on the table time. Young Boris has told us a fantastic story about being an old friend of Dimitriov’s. He tells us he’s being blackmailed about something that happened back when they were students together and has become entangled in Dimitriov’s scheme to supply the black market with codeine phosphate tablets, and that those tablets come, as I said before, from your factory in Kharkiv.”
“All very interesting, as I said, but how does it involve me? Even if the drugs do come from us, and I’m not saying they necessarily do, we’d be legitimately supplying them. We’ve no control over what happens to them after that.”
“True, but Boris is hinting he wants to take out a contract on Anton Dimitriov. Claiming if he’s out of the picture, the problem will go away, and he’ll be released.” The voice at the other end of the phone paused and Stefano thought he heard the man drawing deeply on a cigarette. The Shef really must have some power and influence if he could get away with not only making a phone call, but also smoking, in the governor’s office.
“And is that something that’s likely to happen?”
“You couldn’t possibly expect me to comment on that, now could you, Stefano Nicovic? Let’s just say there are other considerations.”
“Such as…?”
“Well, it appears Anton Dimitriov has a woman friend, an English woman who’s been working with him in the company. Actually, Boris implied she was the main problem and she too needs to be ‘disposed of’.”
Corruption! Page 16