Fire Hawk (52 page)

‘I think
you
are a shit. A murdering little shit.'

‘No.
Her.
What you think of her? What word is right word for her in your language? Look this video. See what she doing?' he gloated. ‘So professional, yes? Come on. I want to hear you say right word.'

He stood over Sam, glowering down at him, his slash of a grin glinting with silver.

‘Whore!'
he screamed. ‘That is word in English. You say for me now!
My girlfriend is whore!'
His good eye gleamed maniacally.

Sam balled his fists. A sharp upper cut would be so satisfying . . .

‘And you know all about whores,' he snarled, his words spilling out like bile. ‘Something of an expert . . .'

Grimov backed off, stung by Sam's defiance. Eyes blazing in two directions at once, he turned angrily to the tape player and jabbed at fast forward.

The picture broke up. The scene changed. A flickering, jumpy image, but enough to show Chrissie alone on the bed, kneeling with a towel round her shoulders. Talking. Mickey Mouse sound, but talking as if in an argument.

‘I show you,' Grimov fumed. ‘I show what we do with English whores.'

Sam heard a soft tongue click from Rybkin, standing to his right, as if he disapproved of what was happening here.

The picture went dark. Grimov pressed play again then spun round to savour Sam's pain.

The image was grainy and yellow. Outdoors, indoors, impossible to tell at first. The light flickered, as if it came from a guttering candle. Chrissie was sitting on a wooden chair, her ankles bound to its legs. Behind her were railings, and her hands were tied to them. Then Sam recognised the blurred twinkle of the distant lights. Limassol. The balcony of the half-built house in the hills.

He wanted to leap up, to stop this re-enactment of her death to assuage his lingering guilt for failing to prevent it.

Chrissie's face was puffy and bloated, her mouth a ring of sores. She fought for breath, her eyes bursting with terror.

‘No!' Sam howled, springing forward. ‘No! Turn the fucking thing off!'

Grimov knocked him back with the strength of an ox, then the
shpana
pinned him back on the chair.

Sam wanted to look away but some terrible compulsion made him watch. Grimov appeared in shot, his hands grabbing Chrissie's lank hair and swollen jaw. He yanked her mouth wide open.

Sam felt the blood drain from his brain.

A second pair of hands held a funnel over her, of the size used for pouring petrol into a car. On one of the thumbs on the hand that held it the end joint was missing. Rybkin's hands, and they rammed the funnel into Chrissie's mouth.

Sam's mind exploded. There was a roaring in his head. He felt he was outside his own body, looking down on the room noting where everyone stood. On his left, the shaven-haired thug, eyes glued to the screen. On his right Rybkin, long-jawed and guilt-ridden, looking away. Ahead of him Grimov, unrepentant, revelling in his home-made snuff movie. Non-humans the lot of them.

From the corner of his eye he saw the Skorpion machine pistol dangling from Rybkin's hand. It was the only weapon in the room, except his own.

Sam reached for his ankle. The pistol fused with his palm and slid from its binding like a greased sword from a sheath. An extension of his arm, a part of him now, it rose up in front of him. His left hand came up to join the right. Thumb slipping safety, finger on trigger, eyes on tunnel vision, Grimov turning towards him in consternation.

The pistol kicked silently. Then kicked again. No sound but the buzz in his head. Two red rings stamped on Grimov's temple. The monster slumped forward.

Sam sensed movement to his right. He kicked against the floor, skidding the swivel chair back on its castors. The Skorpion swung towards him. Two more silent kicks from Figgis's PSM sent the machine pistol clattering to the floor and Rybkin staggering against the wall, clutching his shoulder.

Movement to the left now, the
shpana
diving for the Skorpion. Again Sam fired. Again some supernatural force gave him an accuracy he'd never acquired through training. The thug jerked and choked as the bullets hit his middle, blood spurting from his side.

Sam scrabbled to his feet, the blur clearing from his brain. Sharp sounds pierced his ears now. Rybkin yelling in pain, his hand pressed against his shoulder.

Sam stared around him in disbelief. Grimov was lifeless, the man on the floor moaning and still. He himself was trembling, the pistol shaking like jelly. Had
he
done this?

But mingled with Rybkin's yells, there was another, far more dreadful sound hammering at his ears. A gagging and choking that was cutting his heart out. He lunged at the edit bench to stop the tape.

Then he rounded on Rybkin, bent on killing him too.

‘You shitbag! You are dead!
Dead!
Understand? Down on your fucking knees, animal!' He scooped the Skorpion off the floor and held it in his left fist.

‘Listen, listen to me,' Rybkin pleaded. ‘All what you see – it was Grimov. His idea. Everything. Killing . . . making video . . . He's crazy for such things. Me, I just do—'

‘What he tells you. Don't fucking come that one! You murdered her. Both of you. It's on the fucking tape.' He aimed the pistol between Rybkin's eyes and took up first pressure on the trigger.

‘Don't shoot. I can tell you things . . .'

‘Then fucking talk!'

‘Yes. I will tell you . . .'

Suddenly the full impact of what he'd done hit Sam with a terrifying force. He backed away, looking about him. He'd killed the Odessa commander of the Voroninskaya gang. He'd done serious damage to one of his hoods, and he was stuck in the bowels of the gang's headquarters which must have echoed like a base drum to the crack of his shots. The door was still ajar. He listened for footsteps or shouts.

‘First. Who else is here?' he demanded. ‘How many others of you?'

Rybkin blinked as if trying to decide how little he needed to reveal. Sam prompted him with a pistol jab against the old scar on the side of his head.

‘Three,' Rybkin fumed, flinching. ‘But they are up. Above ground – in the office where you came earlier.'

‘How do they get down here?'

‘Elevator.'

‘And will they?'

‘Only if I call them.'

Was he lying? Sam couldn't tell.

‘Just remember, arsehole, if they turn up at that door, I blow a hole in your head. Understand?'

‘Understand. I'm telling you the truth.'

‘Now tell me the truth about the anthrax. Where's it to be used? And when?'

Rybkin froze, then tried a shrug, but the pain shot through his shoulder again. ‘I don't know,' he coughed.

‘You're a fucking liar!' Sam clubbed his head with the Skorpion. ‘Now, fucking tell me or you're dead!'

Rybkin regained his balance. The scar tissue on his cheek had split and begun to bleed.

‘I'll tell you, I'll tell you,' he puffed. He looked down as if with shame, his chest heaving with the enormity of the betrayal he was about to commit. ‘I'm not sure, but I think it's Israel.'

‘What d'you mean you're not sure? You arranged transport for the drone – where the fuck did it go?'

Rybkin looked up, his brown eyes feigning harmlessness. ‘All of this – it was Dima Filipovich. You understand? Not me. I just—'

‘Obeying orders. Shut up and tell me where the VR-6 was shipped to.'

‘Haifa,' he whispered. ‘Container went to Haifa . . .'

‘God Almighty!' Sam flared. ‘You realise what you idiots have done? If the Israelis get hit by Iraqi anthrax,
they'll nuke Baghdad. You're mad. You know that? Totally fucking mad.'

‘Grimov – he decide these things.' Rybkin mouthed, pointing at his dead boss.

Jesus, thought Sam, he had to get out of there fast. To warn the Israelis.

‘But when?' he demanded. ‘When's the attack to happen? And why? What's the reason for this lunacy?'

Rybkin shook his head. ‘I don't know.
Truly,
' he pleaded, as Sam raised the Skorpion, ready to hit him again.

For some reason Sam believed him this time.

‘Look, I'm bleeding pretty bad,' Rybkin pleaded. ‘I need doctor. And for Sasha . . .' He indicated the man sprawled on the floor.

‘A doctor?' Sam wheezed, incredulous. ‘Like the one you so generously provided for Chrissie? No. The next time a doctor looks at you, chum, you'll be on a marble slab.'

There was one more question. One vital one he needed an answer to before he got the hell out of there. A question he was almost afraid to ask.

‘Why the fucking tattoo, Viktor?' he croaked. ‘Why was Chrissie marked with the Voroninskaya logo?'

Rybkin's face lit up with surprise. ‘You still don't know?'

‘No.'

‘Then you must look at the tape,' Rybkin murmured, a glint of triumph on his face.

‘I just did.'

‘No. The rest of it.' Cruelty crept back into Rybkin's gaze. ‘The part Dima Filipovich spooled through.'

The shots of Chrissie by herself. Talking . . . Rybkin's eyes cut him like lasers.
The more questions you ask
. . . The Ukrainian's warning sounded in his ears yet again,
but he had to go on. The answers were here, inside that damned machine.

‘Show me,' he croaked, prodding Rybkin towards the equipment. His heart felt as if it were clamped in a vice.

Rybkin hovered over Grimov, clicking his tongue.

‘Get on with it,' Sam snapped, putting the pistol in his trouser pocket.

Rybkin leaned forward and operated the player awkwardly with his left hand. He spooled back, then touched play.

The towel over Chrissie's shoulders almost covered her breasts, but it failed to conceal a livid red love bite on one of them. She'd put some briefs on.

When her voice rang from the speakers, as clear and true as if she were here in this room, Sam's eyes began to blur with tears.

She was shouting.

‘Look Dima, you damn well have to, and tha's it.'

He didn't take in her words at first, except to notice they were slurred.

‘It's not enough. Not for what I've done.'

Not enough? Sam didn't follow.

‘It is all you get
.' Grimov's voice. Distant. Off mike. But hard and dismissive. ‘
It is the price. It is what you are worth to me
.'

Worth? Price? What was this to do with her extracting secrets from the villain?

‘Jesus, Di-ima. How can you say that?'

She was very drunk, her tongue, her face muscles all going slow. Sam's eyes locked on to her lips, which were raw from the sex.

‘Not only is it me that gives you the most crucial piece of information for your lunatic scheme
,' she snapped, ‘
you get to fuck me all over, you dirty little weasel
.'

Information? The word reached out from the speakers
like a hand clutching at his throat. The nightmare he'd tried to suppress was coming true.

‘
Weasel?
' Grimov's voice this time, annoyed and off camera. Sounds of running water, as if he were in a bathroom. ‘
What you say?
' Louder now, as if he'd re-entered the room. Louder and angry.

‘
A weasel's a little furry animal
,' she answered timidly, her slate-grey eyes suddenly meek and scared. ‘
Quite sweet, really
. . .'

‘
Don't make mistake, Chrissie
. . .' Grimov moved into shot, naked except for a towel round his waist. ‘
Don't make mistake to think we need you
.'

Need? Sam prayed he was misunderstanding, that this was some crazy, perverted piece of virtual reality.

‘
You
did
need me, Dima
,' she persisted. ‘
Couldn't have got started without my help
.'

God Almighty. What had she done?

‘
And you have been paid
,' Grimov retorted. ‘
So it is finish. Understand?
'

Chrissie pulled herself up straight.
‘I'll have to talk to Voronin
.'

‘You begin to understand?' Rybkin was watching Sam like a hovering hawk.

He didn't answer. Couldn't. He'd slumped onto the swivel chair, the Skorpion across his knees.

On the screen Grimov slapped her face, knocking her sideways.

‘
How dare you!
' she protested, picking herself up. ‘
If you think that what Voronin paid me entitles you to treat me like dirt . . . I've had to betray people. Friends, Dima, friends! Not that you'd know the meaning of the word
. . .'

Grimov's arms hung at his sides like an ape's.

‘
A hundred thousand is not enough
,' she insisted, drunkenly oblivious to the pit she was digging herself. ‘
Half a million is what I want
.'

‘
You are mad. You agree fifty thousand this time
,' Grimov snapped. ‘
Already you have fifty thousand last year
.'

Sam curled up with pain. ‘Oh God . . .' he mouthed.

‘I agreed to that before I knew what this was all about, Dima. Before I knew how much you stood to make from the deal. And before I realised just what an insanely dangerous game you were playing. Jesus, Dima . . . Anthrax. You never said anything about anthrax when I agreed to help. You realise this could lead to World War Three?'

Sam looked into her eyes searching for some sign of shame, but there was none to be seen.

Grimov didn't answer her.

‘Listen to me, Dima. You'd bloody better pay me what I want
.' Her threat was unspoken, but quite explicit.

Sam put his head in his hands. There were no more words to be heard now. Just the sickening smack of punches, the razor cut of Chrissie's screams and the animal grunts of Grimov's breathing.