Toby was starting to understand. “Like Irina, I suppose. You killed her too.”
“Ivan brought those two aboard to entertain himself and the supposed buyers of the enriched isotopes. There are no buyers. The women were just drug-soaked, meddling, ignorant, godless whores. I cleansed the world a little with their departures. No regrets. It was even worth drinking some alcohol along the way in such a holy cause.”
“And you framed me for Irina’s death,” Toby said.
Spiegl said, “That was actually a kindness on Ivan’s part, to get you off the yacht. In the event, you kept bouncing back like a rubber ball, so we twisted that to our advantage, and now you have turned out to be extremely useful. So it all worked out well.”
“Worked out well!” Toby put his hands flat on the table and half stood up. “You complete bastards! You killed three women in cold blood and probably those two fishermen and poisoned Dickson Bay for a generation, and you say everything worked out well?”
Spiegl said quietly, “Sit down. Yes, very economical, don’t you think? So few deaths. So much attention. Compare that to the American strategy. ‘Overwhelming force,’ they call it. ‘Shock and awe.’ Brute strength and firepower, fuelled by ignorance and stupidity, I call it. The Americans think nothing of rocketing a wedding party of fifty people in Afghanistan or Pakistan in the hope of killing a couple of junior al-Qaeda officers. Children in a hospital? Fair game—you simply accuse your enemy of using them as a human shield. The CIA, I think Julia will confirm, is quite happy to burn down a drug plant in Mexico, even if it causes thirteen deaths among impoverished local peasant workers. The Israelis ... don’t even go there, as you young people say. ‘Collateral damage’ is the term they all use. The ultimate euphemism. So, yes. It worked out well. For us. And can do so for you, too.”
“When did you know of this, Ivan?” demanded Julia.
Krigov said wearily, “I give you my word, Yulia, not until this man came aboard. That first night, he told me his people held my son. He gave me proof of David’s life—a video of him reading from the day’s
Novaya Gazet—
and
said I simply had to provide the resources of the
Amelia
for a few days and not give anything away to you or the crew, and I would be reunited with my son.”
That’s why you went a little crazy and played Russian roulette that night,
Toby thought.
The son you thought was dead had instead been held hostage for three years. And your sting operation in league with the CIA had come unstuck.
“So, what’s the scam?” demanded Toby. “What is this really all about now?”
Spiegl said, “It is simple finance. A transaction. The price of David
Nikolaevich
Krigov’s detestable life is a modest thirty billion dollars.”
There was another moment’s silence. To Toby, a million, a billion, or thirty billion of any currency, was just noughts on paper. He had never had more than £1,000 in any bank account at any time. And that hadn’t lasted long.
This was so over his head.
“Thirty billion dollars. That’s all. Once we have that, we will release David, and we will be gone. We don’t even want the enriched uranium. You can have that to deal with as you think fit. A nice, clean conclusion, with no further death or environmental degradation. The humane and ecologically sound solution. Figures will change on bank accounts. Some will go up, some will go down. No one in this bay will know. They will drink their champagne at midnight. The authorities will quarantine Dickson Bay and create an exclusion zone out to sea. The wind and the current will move the radiated seawater deep out into the ocean. The dive shops will find other sites to dive. And life will carry on.”
“I don’t have thirty billion dollars,” Krigov protested, his voice choking. “Not a third of that do I have, and very little in liquid form that could be transferred quickly. Maybe only 500 million dollars is available in cash, and that will take some time to identify. Your demand is madness. Take the nuclear material instead. It’s genuine.”
Spiegl picked up a folder from the table in front of him. “That is ours, anyway. A little sprat to catch a fat American mackerel. We have much more. Now, listen well. I have arranged an inventory of your known assets on behalf of your great benefactor and former supporter, President of the Holy Islamic Republic of Tsazakhstan, Gorgy Mendeshev—may peace and blessings of Allah be upon him! You will sign these assets over to the president as trustee of your wealth, on behalf of the Republic and its humble, god-fearing people.”
“Not without further proof of life. If you do not give me proof, I will sign nothing. You may kill me instead. God knows, it will only bring forward the inevitable.”
Spiegl put the folder down again. “Of course. I want you to pay willingly. Would you like to speak to David now?”
“Yes,” Krigov said. Tears ran openly down his cheeks. “Only this thought has kept me alive these past three days.” He sniffed, and wiped his face with a meaty hand.
Spiegl picked up the large rubberised cell phone from the table. He turned to Toby. “Iridium satellite phone,” he explained. “The telecommunications device of choice for both the US Military and al-Qaeda. Ironic, do you not agree? But that’s capitalism for you.” He rotated the thick stubby antenna on the top of the phone. “And these are so much more secure than the Inmarsat. By the way, we have confiscated Julia’s little hoard of comms devices, and Haase has also rendered the
Amelia
’s satellite systems inoperable. So this is our sole point of contact with the wider world.”
“Not much backup there, then. I hope the battery is charged,” Toby said.
Spiegl said, “This operation has been planned for over three years. The greater risk was that others could compromise it. We are wasting time, and Ivan is so keen to speak to his son. Let’s hear it on the speaker, as I am sure it will be a touching moment.”
He pressed keys, and the ring tone warbled out. In a moment, there was a curt answer, a couple of words in a foreign language, presumably Russian. Toby glanced at Julia. She would understand.
In a moment, another voice came on. It was lighter and weaker than the first speaker. It was evidently Krigov’s son David, to judge by the man’s reaction.
Spiegl held the phone out towards Krigov. “Speak. You have two minutes.” He took his watch off and placed it on the table.
The tears streamed down Ivan Krigov’s face. He wept as he spoke. The disembodied voice from the phone’s speaker was modulated into a metallic timbre, slightly like a Dalek’s. But the younger Krigov sounded calm and resigned. After two minutes, Spiegl said, “That’s enough. Your son is safe and well. Say your goodbyes for the moment. You will be reunited with him very soon. He is not far away.”
Krigov wiped his face again. His face was white, and his shoulders shook. Toby was starting to feel really quite sorry for him.
Your son kidnapped.
Your wealth on the line.
And total humiliation, on your own mega yacht.
Bummer.
Spiegl pressed the “end call” button and put the phone down. He turned to Julia. “We are so rude,” he said. “Young Mr Robinson is outside the loop. Julia, please translate and give a brief synopsis.”
“David Krigov is alive and well, he has been held captive for the past few years, he thinks three, in a single suite of rooms in a quiet house somewhere rural with a northern continental climate. He was moved recently. He has been adequately cared for, he has been able to exercise once a week in a small courtyard, and he has kept himself sane because he needs to be mentally sound to clear his name for the murder of the London model girl. He had nothing to do with that. The thought of it has tormented him every day. He misses his father, his mother, his family and friends.”
“Quite so,” Spiegl said. “Now Ivan, your part of the bargain. Firstly, sign across your assets wherever held in the Republic of Tsazakhstan or elsewhere.” He opened the folder and passed it to Krigov.
Toby became aware of movement from just outside his field of vision. He looked up and saw that Haase had produced a small video camera to film the proceedings. It was a Flip camera. His mate Rodney had got one for Christmas. A cool gadget. Rodney would be using his to film tonight’s New Year’s Eve party. Then he would post the result on YouTube.
The real world back home seemed all at once very appealing and very banal. Could Toby ever go back to England and work in a pub again after this? Assuming he got out alive, which was by no means certain.
He had a moment or two to contemplate this while Krigov perused the document, which he eventually signed with a small, spidery signature.
“Now the witnesses.” Spiegl slid the folder across to Toby.
The document was short, one page of American legal-size paper. At the top was an ornate emblem in gold foil. It seemed to depict a monkey in a pointed hat riding on a winged stallion. Around this was a decorative border of ears of wheat and peasants with upraised clenched fists. In each of the four corners of the document was a little woodcut-type collage of a tractor with its grab raised up, standing in front of a dome-shaped building like a nuclear reactor or a planetarium. Stylised sunbeams shone out from a setting (or possibly rising) sun.
“We are working on the country’s ‘corporate identity,’ as you Westerners might call it,” Spiegl said with a hint of apology. “Soviet-era images are hard to banish entirely. It doesn’t really work, does it? But at least everything is in English, as well as our own language. You cannot witness something you do not understand.”
Toby scanned the document. It was a transfer of assets, as Spiegl had explained. It was a summary, and referred to schedules that would specify more particularly the companies, land, property, financial holdings and bank accounts to be assigned. There was space for two witnesses to sign. Toby picked up a Biro from the table and signed his name. “What’s the date?” he asked innocently. Julia closed her eyes. Even Krigov managed a chuckle. After a second he realised, inserted “31st December” and the year, and put his occupation as deckhand.
He passed the folder to Julia. Her eyes were darting everywhere, trying to size up the chance for some sort of action. He caught her eye, but could not get any idea of her intentions, if any. She signed with a small, neat signature. “Why not just seize everything?” she said. “Why this charade?”
“Because we are a civilised country and we believe in the rule of law,” Spiegl said with the air of a family solicitor at a conveyancing. “And we don’t want Ivan’s wife filing a lawsuit in new York. So much unwelcome publicity. One more document.”
He slid another folder across to Krigov, who opened it. His face turned even whiter. “Why must I sign this?”
Spiegl turned to Haase and made a “turn-off” gesture. Haase pressed a button and stopped filming. Spiegl turned back to Krigov. “So we can collect your other assets in the fullness of time, Ivan,” Spiegl said. Then he barked, so loud that Toby jumped in his seat, “Fail to sign and your son dies, now. I have only to make a call.” He picked up the Iridium phone. “Sign and you will see David soon. Your choice.”
Krigov nodded weakly. “It is only money. I will make it all back.”
“Wait for the camera,” commanded Spiegl. “OK—smile, everybody—and ... action!”
Krigov quickly signed and dated the new document with a hand that now shook. The document came to Toby next. Again, it was in two languages throughout. What Toby read made his heart beat even faster. He signed as a witness as before, next to Krigov’s shaky scrawl, and passed the folder across to Julia, who did likewise, without betraying any emotion she might have been feeling.
The film of the proceedings was going to look like a couple of routine business transactions. Haase had positioned himself so Julia’s back was to him. Her face, and therefore her injuries, would not be captured.
Carefully planned,
thought Toby.
Everything in place.
“Thank you everybody, that concludes the formal business,” Spiegl said. He nodded to Haase, who lowered his camera and put it in his pocket.
“Where is my son?” demanded Krigov.
“Soon,” Spiegl said. “Ivan, this has been understandably stressful for you. Go and have a cool-off in the pool.”
“You know I can’t swim,” Krigov said.
“Well, go and sit in the pool armchair while I make a couple more calls, please, to set things up for you. I want you where I can see you for the moment, if you would be so good as to humour me.”
Krigov grunted, stood up and took a deep breath. “If you double-cross me, my people will hunt you down and kill you, you know that,” he said with a hint of his old belligerence.
“Don’t worry, that won’t be necessary. I simply need to call
my
people to let them know that the paperwork is completed.” Spiegl picked up the Iridium phone and began to dial.
Krigov muttered something in Russian under his breath. However, he lumbered over to his pool. The plastic armchair had drifted to the shallow end. He waded in and clambered into the inflatable chair. It rocked slightly as he adjusted his position. He paddled with his bare feet and propelled the transparent seat into the centre of the pool. He looked like what he was, an overweight mogul weighed down also with money and personal problems.
Toby looked up at Julia questioningly. She raised her eyebrows and gave an almost imperceptible shrug as if to say,
Your guess is as good as mine.
Spiegl’s call connected. He spoke two words softly in Russian and ended the call. Then he barked out something in Russian to Haase. Julia shouted “No!” and rose from her seat. Spiegl grabbed her by the arm and twisted it viciously. She yelped. Toby pushed his seat back. It fell with a clatter on the teak deck. Taking all the time in the world, Haase produced a gun from a holster from inside his leather jacket. From his pocket, he took out a silencer and screwed it carefully on to the muzzle.