Читать книгу A Deadly Trade: A gripping espionage thriller - E. Seymour V. - Страница 10

Even if I found the goods, no way was I travelling on a scheduled flight. My description would already be circulated to every customs officer in Europe. I still intended to show up at the appointed hour on the appointed day because my gut told me that if I were smart I’d find the man who’d employed me for the job. If I could pump him for information, it could give me the vital lead I needed to find who was also in the market for the stolen hard drive. It was a risk. Wes might turn up in Barcelona with backup in place.

I decided to call in a favour. A fan of the two birds with one stone scenario, I also wanted to chase down the Russian lead.

One of my main clients, Mikhail Yakovlevich, was currently in London. He had houses in Russia, France and Britain. His British home, in Kensington, was worth a cool ten million. Having made his fortune in the steel trade, he’d specialised in supplying raw materials to factories in short supply. This was the shorthand version. In reality he had clawed his way to the top of his particular grubby pile through the cultivation and maintenance of friendships within the FSB (formerly KGB) and the relentless elimination of his enemies. I knew this because I’d carried out most of the eliminating. His FSB connection was what interested me.

I arrived outside the white stucco porch, gazed up at the four-storey dwelling, and hoped he was in. Eight marble steps to the lacquered front door, and before my foot touched the first, one of the most sophisticated security systems in the world clicked into action. Yakovlevich took his own safety seriously; evidenced by the entourage of former convicts he hired to protect him. Most of them looked as though they’d been conceived in Frankenstein’s laboratory.

I rang the bell, one of those old-fashioned hand-pull affairs. The door swung open. There is a saying that behind each powerful man is a good woman. In this case, behind each discerning butler is a heavy-duty thug. Once the butler established that I was not there to arrange the flowers, Yuri, Yakovlevich’s lieutenant, stepped out of the shadows towards me. I found it difficult to meet Yuri’s eyes. Not because I was afraid of him, but because the tattoos on his face obliterated his features.

I slipped off the spectacles, popped out the contacts. ‘Hex to see Mr Yakovlevich,’ I said.

‘You have an appointment?’ Yuri knew full well I didn’t.

‘No.’

‘Wait.’ His eyes never leaving mine, he took out a mobile phone, pressed a few digits. A quick burst of Russian and I was allowed over the threshold. As usual I removed my shoes and was subjected to a full body search. Unpleasant and humiliating but essential if I was to gain an audience with Yakovlevich.

I followed Yuri upstairs to a first floor drawing room of immense proportions with fabulous views of a walled garden. The room should have been stunning. It was if one’s taste was one of decadence meets burlesque. Thick-pile rugs on oak flooring, gaudy ornaments atop highly decorated French furniture, and a series of floor to ceiling paintings of Yakovlevich’s young mistress in various states of undress, the last verging on pornographic.

Yakovlevich lay half-sprawled on a cream leather sofa. He was wearing one of his signature outfits: dark Italian suit, now crumpled, white shirt and silk tie. Red-faced, he held a glass of Chivas Regal in his hand, the half empty bottle sitting on the marble-topped coffee table in front of him. Chugging on a Cuban cigar, no doubt from Davidoff on St James’s, he welcomed me with a cheery wave.

‘Hex, my friend, come in, take a seat. I hope Yuri did not treat you roughly,’ he boomed, deep-voiced. I smiled as if being treated in such a degrading fashion happened to me every day, and sat down opposite him. He stared at me blearily. ‘Drink?’

‘Thank you.’ Refusal would only invite censure.

Mikhail summoned his butler. More whisky poured, I settled back, glass in hand. I was used to the drunken fool routine. A frustrated actor at heart, Yakovlevich was no more inebriated than his butler. He knew I knew but we all played along.

‘So what brings you here?’ His Russian deep-set eyes fixed on mine like barnacles clinging to the rusted hull of a wreck.

There was no point in using an obtuse approach with Yakovlevich. Well-connected, it was only a matter of time before he worked out my angle. In any case I really wanted to see if I could smoke him out. Making no distinction between commodities, the Russian was the kind of man who would do a mean trade in ‘babushkas’ if there were a ready market. It was rumoured that Yakovlevich had personally paved the way for the transportation of nuclear material from an old and decrepit nuclear facility. I never did discover who the buyer was and where it ended up. A man without scruples, Yakovlevich would not hesitate to deal in other forms of trade, including bio-weapons, as long as there was good money to be made.

‘Nerve agents,’ I said, suitably obtuse.

‘I know nothing of such things.’ Yakovlevich smiled broadly. ‘Only what I hear on the grapevine, as you say.’

I nodded, smiled encouragingly and took a long swallow of whisky. I had the feeling I was going to need it.

‘I remember some years ago,’ Yakovlevich began, a sage expression on his fleshy features, ‘Something about a stolen smallpox virus from a bio-containment laboratory in Siberia. A terrifying prospect.’

‘There are still bio-labs in Russia?’

‘All old. All crippled,’ Yakovlevich said morosely. ‘Before the break-up of the Motherland, there were many scientists working in the field. Many worked for Secret Department Twelve.’

I made an educated guess. ‘Part of the former KGB?’

‘The KGB’s First Directorate responsible for biological espionage,’ he explained.

‘What sort of research?’

‘The study and creation of toxins and substances specifically designed to poison reservoirs, pharmaceutical drugs and contaminate air conditioning systems.’

I stifled my interest by taking another snatch of whisky. ‘Where are these scientists now?’

‘Scattered to the four corners of the earth.’ He snorted a gust of thick aromatic smoke into the atmosphere.

‘To work for the highest bidder?’

‘Something a man of your obvious talent can surely appreciate.’ The chill in Yakovlevich’s eyes tempered the smile on his face. I returned the expression. A snake in a suit, Yakovlevich dreamt, slept and ate in terms of profit margins, marketing potential. ‘I understand there is a market for such commodities,’ I said softly.

He sat up, knifed me with a sharp smile. ‘You think I, Mikhail Yakovlevich, would trade in such things?’

‘Not at all,’ I said.

‘Good,’ he said bluntly.

‘But who would, Mr Yakovlevich?’

His face assumed a dolorous expression. ‘Look at the world around you, my friend. Think of the turmoil. Think of the threat from Islam. See what they have done in Chechnya. Now that Bin Laden is dead there are any number of young radicals keen to avenge him and spill the blood of ordinary Russians.’ He leant towards me, a hawkish look in his eye, ‘What if such a commodity fell into the hands of fundamentalists?’

I snatched at my drink. Faced by such an appalling prospect it was hard to think, let alone think in clear straight lines. I attempted to factor this possibility into the context of my work. People for whom I worked, gangsters and felons, pimps and pornographers, could fill a criminal version of ‘Who’s Who.’ Many based abroad, all fell under the wide umbrella of international organised crime, yet I could no more envisage them doing deals with al-Qaeda than Santa Claus. Yakovlevich remained an exception and I knew for a fact, aside from the grandstanding, that he wasn’t choosy about his trading partners.

Temporarily forgetting his drunkard impression, he said, ‘I am guessing you did not come here for philosophical debate.’

My turn to smile, I leant back, took a verbal detour, eager to bring down the conversational temperature. ‘I need to be in Barcelona in three days.’ Which meant I had less than forty-eight hours to trace the hard drive. ‘You once offered me the personal use of your helicopter, remember?’ Originally Yakovlevich had suggested it in the particular context of a job he wished me to carry out. I’d declined. I’m not keen on flying coffins. He later proposed it in the form of a bonus. Now seemed like the perfect opportunity to make good on his offer.

‘I haven’t forgotten, Hex.’ He puffed out his massive chest. ‘I am a man of my word, a man of honour.’

He was neither of those things but I didn’t argue.

‘That’s most generous of you.’

‘Not at all, I am sure you will return the favour,’ he said, with a wily smile. ‘I will speak to my pilot and put him on standby.’

We discussed the finer details of pick-up and time. Yakovlevich took a big gulp of whisky and leant back, making the leather creak. ‘These scientists to whom you allude,’ he said slow-eyed, picking up from where we left off. ‘How is this of interest to a man like you?’

I evaded giving a direct answer. ‘In the light of the brain drain, Russia’s bio-weapons systems must be set back a couple of decades, at least.’

Yakovlevich closed his eyes. He looked half-cut. The more inebriated he seemed the more interested he was. ‘Officially, Russia has no interest in such things. Unofficially, who knows?’

‘Is this why the FSB are interested in the death of a British scientist?’

‘The Kelly affair,’ Yakovlevich ventured with another slow blink. He leant forward and deposited the remains of his cigar into an antique marble ashtray.

‘More recent, the Wilding affair.’

‘Ah, I heard something about it on the lunchtime news. Most unfortunate. They are saying that she died in suspicious circumstances.’

‘Unconfirmed, I believe.’

Yakovlevich held the glass to his thick lips, fixed me with a dragnet stare. ‘And you say this is of interest to the FSB? Since when did you work for the organisation?’

I let out a laugh. ‘I don’t.’

‘So?’ he pressed, his lips drawn back into a lazy smile.

‘I keep my ear to the ground. As do you.’

Yakovlevich let out a snort of laughter. ‘I like this game you play, Hex.’ He took another drag of his cigar. ‘Tell me what you have heard.’

‘A Russian diplomatic vehicle was seen outside Wilding’s home this morning.’

‘I know nothing of this.’

‘A pity.’

I played my next card softly. ‘I heard something was taken.’

His dead eyes briefly sparked with life. ‘Robbery? Fascinating. What exactly?’

‘Information,’ I said, obtuse.

‘Making the possibility of murder more likely,’ he said with a complicit smile. ‘In my experience, people are removed either because they threaten one’s interests, they know too much, or are offered the opportunity of collaboration but foolishly decline.’

I am not a rude man. I believe in go along to get along. Charm gets you further than aggression – to a point. I did not tell Yakovlevich that he was taking the linguistic equivalent of the scenic route and failing to answer my question. The fact he was prevaricating told me quite a lot. The wily old bastard was buying himself thinking time. Yakovlevich issued a sly smile. ‘My memory is not so good but didn’t Wilding inspect old bio-labs in Russia?’

‘I’ve no idea. When?’

‘Early 90s, I believe. Part of a UK/US delegation.’

‘She must have been a junior member.’

‘Who knows?’ Yakovlevich said, dismissive. ‘Many laboratories were closed down. Many good men were put out of work. Russians have long memories. Perhaps she was killed out of revenge.’

A fair point, a new angle, and one I wanted to explore. ‘Could she have been working on something that was of particular interest to your people?’

His smile was caged.

‘I have no firm evidence,’ I continued, ‘but there’s a possibility that Wilding was working on bio-weapons. In a defensive capacity, of course,’ I added swiftly.

‘Of course.’ He smiled without exposing his teeth. ‘And how did you come by this information?’

‘On the grapevine, as we say.’

He threw his head back, laughed, full-throated, then returned to his woozy eyes half-closed act. One glance at his watch was my cue for leaving. I duly obliged and drained my glass.

‘Forgive me, Mikhail, I’ve taken too much of your time already.’

‘Think nothing of it. A pleasure, always.’ He lumbered to his feet. ‘We must do business again soon.’

I cleared my throat. I wasn’t sure what to say, the concept of taking on another assignment strangely unsettling, then Mikhail handed me over to Yuri who, resembling a creature trapped between night and day, escorted me from the building.

I did not go far. I crossed over, walked to the end of the street and loitered in the descending mist. The air, dank and chill, nipped at my clothes.

Yakovlevich emerged fifteen minutes later wearing a dark cashmere coat slung rakishly over his shoulders. For him to venture out alone without a minder in tow a rare sight.

I followed at a respectable distance, the thickening fog concealing my pursuit. As I trailed from street to street, out into the glare of Knightsbridge with all its sleek and not so subtle charm, then dropped onto the Brompton Road and eventually to a residential maze of leafy squares and railings, I wondered where the big Russian was heading with such abandon. In his enthusiasm, he seemed to have forgotten the basic rules of tradecraft.

Yakovlevich was now quite a way in front, the grey and gloomy streets deserted apart from the odd cyclist. A glance at my watch informed me that it was not yet four in the afternoon. Then he was gone.

I paused, bent down as if to tie a shoelace, and listened. Muffled voices drifted from a garden square ahead. Screened from the road by railings and dense foliage, it provided an ideal location for a meet. I didn’t know who was on the other side of the conversation.

No gambler, I was more inclined to study a quarry and calculate his actions accordingly. All men had a price and Yakovlevich was no exception. Superficially, he seemed like any other gangster, the acquisition of huge wealth and riches his reason to get up in the morning. In reality, he was a power junkie, which explained why he rubbed shoulders with those who could really shake things up and make them happen: his cronies in the FSB. Straining my ears, I heard Yakovlevich’s deep bass voice speaking in his native tongue. I had no clue what was spoken, but I calculated that Yakovlevich’s garden guest was a Russian intelligence officer. Had Yakovlevich personally ordered the hit, he would have kept his distance. The fact he was here, reporting back to base, indicated that Wilding’s blood was not on Yakovlevich’s hands. The same could not be said of the Russians.

Straightening up, I squinted through the murk at the empty street. Frustratingly, there were few places in which to hide. Acutely aware that if I got close enough to see Yakovlevich and his friend, they could also see me, I backtracked and sloped across the road and stole down a flight of stone steps leading to a basement flat. Hopefully, the occupants were out. Concealed behind a boundary wall, I slipped the camera from my briefcase and waited.

Yakovlevich emerged first, followed by his friend. They crossed the road together, passing dangerously close to where I crouched, breathless. Taking a snap, I got a good look at the other man: middle-aged with short grey hair and a distinctive scar on the left side of his chin. Seconds later, they shook hands; Yakovlevich walking one way, ‘Scar-face’ the other.

Mission accomplished, I slipped the camera back into the briefcase. I probably had another hour, if lucky, before the light entirely faded, smothered by the thickening murk. Within an easy stroll of Imperial College in Exhibition Road, I decided to head that way. The Israelis’ London Station, embedded in the Israeli Embassy on Palace Green, was also within striking distance. Reuben once told me a small team operated there from several floors below.

Cutting back into a crush of shoppers, I allowed myself to be buffeted along on a human tide. A fragment of me wondered what it would be like to run alongside and join them. The thought lasted seconds.

It started to spit with rain as I turned a corner and walked up Exhibition Road past the Natural History Museum, the V&A on the opposite side, and glanced up at the main entrance to Imperial College with its geometric glass and steel winking in the gathered gloom. By now the woman from the British Security Service would already have paid a visit, interviewed Wilding’s line manager and asked all the usual questions: were all security restrictions in place; was anything missing; was Wilding behaving oddly; had she trouble sleeping; was she depressed? I wished I could have been a fly on the wall when that conversation took place. But I had other ideas.

I’m a big believer in timing. Wrong place, wrong time exists, but it’s rare. It underlines the theory of calculating the odds. Match a certain set of events with a number of different players and chances are those players will end up bumping into each other, the fact my path almost crossed with Wilding’s assassin a fine example. Given the circumstances, it was actually surprising that we didn’t meet. I hoped my theory held up now.

Taking a left into Kensington Gore, I sauntered parallel to Queens Gate with its classy hotels and wide residential streets of Victorian buildings and white stucco grand six-storey edifices, similar to those found in central Moscow. I felt peculiarly settled in the shadows and I walked slowly, softly, in the direction of Kensington Palace Gardens, more specifically Palace Green, the most secure and exclusive road in Kensington and beating heart of Embassy land. Within its half mile stretch of prime real estate lay the red brick former home of the novelist and essayist, William Thackeray, its current occupier the Israeli Embassy. As one would expect, security around the embassy remained extremely tight. Fine by me. I had no intention of straying too close.

My field of vision restricted, my hearing constrained by the hostile elements, call it intuition, but I sensed the redhead at Wilding’s house that morning would be chasing down the same leads, perhaps within the same time frame. All I had to do was pick a spot and wait.

I set down the briefcase beside me and took up a position leaning against a plane tree. Surrounded by a collection of moving shapes, silhouettes, the gauzy light of cars and lorries, I took out a pack of cigarettes I’d bought earlier in a backstreet newsagents. Fog stretched over my face in a damp embrace. There were many approaching footsteps, some fast and staccato, others flat and heavy. Still I waited.

Two cigarettes later, the last crushed against the heel of my shoe, I heard a purposeful yet even tread. Having devoted years to identifying the idiosyncrasies of others, I knew, without the smallest doubt, the gait and pace belonged to the woman with the flame-coloured hair.

I struck hard and fast. Action is faster than reaction. There are exceptions. The woman, highly trained, was one. As my hands clamped around her throat, she flicked her head up, the crown striking my jaw. Next, she raised her right leg. For this I was ready. Before her knee could make the connection with my groin, I flexed, and substantially increased the pressure on her neck. I had to be careful. A man can be rendered unconscious in three seconds, dead in fifteen. I needed her alive, articulate and co-operative.

I am a strong guy. My shoulders are broad. I used all my body weight to push her against the base of the tree. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Even so, you’d think someone would come to her aid. Nobody did.

I released the pressure on her neck. I did not clamp a hand over her mouth. I removed her earpiece, stuck my hand in her jacket and lifted her phone, scrolled through, switched it off and shoved it back. I let her recover, but I stayed up close and very personal. I could smell her perfume: floral, contemporary, notes of citron, cedar and musk. Anyone walking by would assume we were lovers about to get it on. I put my mouth close to her ear and whispered, ‘If you’re smart, you’ll understand I haven’t set out to kill you.’

‘What do you want?’ Nice voice, low and melodic, well spoken. Her eyes, an iridescent green, shone like a cat’s in the night. She hadn’t asked me who I was and that told me the boy had talked and she had paid attention. I smiled. She was smart. We were going to get along fine. I loomed over her, using my body to put a barrier between her and anyone else in the street.

‘Wilding was working on something big. What was it?’ No way was I prepared to suggest a blueprint for a biological military weapon let alone any possible ethnic aspect. Way too hot.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Not smart, reckless. I flew at her throat once again. ‘Do you enjoy killing women?’ she spat, her voice low and accusing. I let my hands drop as if I’d touched molten steel.

‘I didn’t kill Wilding.’

‘You were there.’

‘I don’t deny it.’

‘If you didn’t kill her, who did?’

‘We wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation if I knew.’

‘This isn’t a conversation. It’s an assault.’

‘How did he kill her?’ Call it professional interest.

‘Fuck you.’

I admired her spirit. Faced with a force field of barely suppressed aggression, most keel over. Not this woman. ‘My guess is that he injected her with something.’

‘You should know.’ Her cold smile reminded me of light on icy water.

‘I already told you. I didn’t do it.’

‘So what were you doing?’ The green eyes narrowed to two feline slits.

Tricky one. ‘Searching for information.’

‘What exactly?’

I shrugged. ‘Data on a hard drive.’

She blinked slowly once, a cover for the interest she undoubtedly felt. She now recognised that we were dancing on the same stage. ‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t have it.’

‘You insult my intelligence.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t have it. Someone wants it. May even have it. And now I want it.’

‘Who’s the someone?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

Her brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘You don’t know who contracted you for the job?’

I didn’t care to be reminded of my failure. ‘You understand how the game is played. The man who instigates mayhem is five times removed from the action. You don’t think your average suicide bomber meets the mullah who commissioned him, do you?’

‘Rich,’ she sneered, ‘me taking lectures from you.’

‘I’m just saying that …’

‘You don’t have a clue who you work for.’ She glared at me in disbelief.

‘I don’t. Not on this particular occasion.’ I’d cocked up.

She gave me a long hard, venomous stare. When she spoke her voice scorched with contempt. ‘You might think you’re a somebody, but you have no idea what you’re involved in.’

‘I do.’ I didn’t. I was like a pilot making a crash landing. God knew where I’d fetch up.

‘No, you don’t,’ she repeated flatly.

‘Then enlighten me.’

Her laugh was dry as tinder.

‘I’ll take that as proof I’m on the right track. Wilding was involved in something most sane people would prefer not to think about.’

‘It’s proof of nothing,’ she said, tight-lipped. I looked into her eyes. I thought I detected weakness. She looked torn between keeping her mouth shut and wanting to trade. Getting down to the nitty-gritty, the gathering of intelligence is all about give and take, and I was the best lead she’d had all day. I decided to try and tempt her.

‘I’m thinking Wilding would hardly store A-grade information in her home, but then it would depend on what it was and what she planned to do with it.’

Two spots of colour flashed across her cheeks.

‘I accept I’m running ahead of the evidence,’ I riffed. ‘Must be virtually impossible to steal anything from Wilding’s place of work. The security arrangements would be strictly monitored, bombproof even. Then again, she didn’t need to steal anything. She already had it in her head. What should I call you, incidentally?’

‘Whatever you like, this isn’t a social engagement.’

‘We could help each other.’

At this she laughed again. Low, from her belly, this time. It was a good laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Secrecy’s my middle name. Your superiors wouldn’t have to know.’

She issued another cold, cynical look. ‘Unlike you, I have rules to obey.’

‘But surely they could be bent a little?’

She smiled without warmth. ‘What are you trying to do, end my career? Sorry, I’m not open to corruption.’

‘Not even if it helps save the day?’ I let that sink in.

She looked at me, sullen, eyes revealing nothing at all.

‘Toxins, nerve agents?’ I goaded, desperate to get a rise.

Her full red lips pressed together. I noticed she wore brick-red lipstick, very Forties starlet. I continued to barrage her with questions. ‘Who would be in the market for it?’

‘You’ve been reading too much spy fiction,’ she glowered.

‘What about your friends at the Israeli Secret Service? Do they have an opinion?’

Her face betrayed no emotion.

‘Funny, they showed quite an interest this morning.’

She let out a surprised breath and her body tensed beneath me. I smiled. ‘Your sidekick has quite a crush on you, did you know? The other guys hanging around were regular police officers. Judging by their sour expressions, they don’t care for the security services pulling rank.’ As soon as the words exited my mouth, I realised I’d said too much. For reasons unknown I’d wanted to impress her, to let her see that I was worthy. Vanity, Reuben had often reminded me, was a capital offence. ‘How is the boy?’ I said, changing tack.

She fixed me with hard eyes. ‘Safe from you.’

In spite of every effort to curb a reaction, a pulse above my left eyelid quivered. Like a shark scenting blood in the water, she spotted my weakness.

‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

I had no answer. If I wasn’t careful she would lead me to a place I’d no desire to visit. It was her turn to smile.

‘Your failure reveals worrying inconsistency. It’s as if you give a damn.’

I swallowed hard. She wasn’t finished. ‘I wonder what the hell that’s all about,’ she said, her turn to goad. ‘Care to share?’ I did my best to retain a blank expression. Her lips curved into a superior smile. She was onto me. I stepped back. ‘You’re free to go,’ I said. She didn’t move an inch. I had the impression of her staring right into my soul. I wanted to break her hold on me. Her gaze dropped, eyes fixed on a point beyond my shoulder. I turned minutely. Next, her hand thudded into my chest and she was gone.

I bent down to see if she’d taken the briefcase. It wasn’t there. She’d performed a classic disappearing trick. Like I said, she was smart.