The Kremlin Phoenix (10 page)

Her attacker was on top of her
now. It was too dark to see his face, but she sensed his bulk over her and
could tell from his grip he was very strong. She whipped her right hand up and sprayed
mace in his face.

“Ugh!” He choked as the blast
stuck his eyes.

Take that
you bastard!
she thought.

She struggled, expecting to tear
free, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he caught her free hand and twisted it,
forcing the mace to spray harmlessly away. He squeezed harder until she dropped
the cylinder, then he picked her up, carried her into the bedroom where he
threw her face down onto the bed. She didn’t know he’d endured far worse
torture in training, and had learned to overcome chemical irritants more savage
than her civilian pepper spray. He tied her hands behind her back, then pulled
her feet up behind her thighs, before tying them off too.

“Let me go!” she screamed, now very
afraid.

He held his knife to her throat
and said, “Scream again, and I’ll cut your throat!”

Nikki fell silent, almost too
scared to breath, then he left her alone in the dark with her fear. He replaced
the fuse, washed his eyes, coughing up what he’d inhaled until all trace of the
pepper spray had been removed. When he had fully recovered, he returned to where
Nikki lay sobbing face down on the bed, terrified. He reached down and pulled
her skirt up over her hips, revealing her underwear. She writhed in protest as he
used his knife to cut her pants away, letting the fear of rape rise in her
mind.

Nikki turned her face toward him,
heart pounding. “Please ...” she begged, “Don’t hurt me!”

He turned the knife, letting her
see it glint in the light from the lounge room, watching as terror consumed her.
To him, it was simply psychological warfare, designed to break her will to
resist. To her, it was a nightmare made real.

When she was shaking with fear,
Nogorev said, “Where is Craig Balard?”

Albert Bridgeworth, a London chartered
accountant turned merchant banker, wore a well tailored dark business suit, expensive
silk tie and white shirt. He was regarded by his peers as an impeccably well
mannered man and one of the City’s most astute financial manipulators. When
Craig called him a few hours after arriving in London and asked for an urgent
meeting, Bridgeworth was sufficiently intrigued to find an opening in his busy
schedule. When Craig arrived at Bridgeworth’s building, he was shown through to
an office decorated with dark teak furniture, historical portraits and deeply
padded leather chairs.

Bridgeworth greeted Craig with a
polite handshake and motioned him to a seat. “Now, Mr Balard, what is this
urgent matter you wanted to discuss?”

“I believe your life is in
danger.”

Bridgeworth’s only response was
to raise an eyebrow curiously. “Really? Why is that?”

“You’ve been making investments
on behalf of a company called Marcell Laurence (UK) Limited. The funds were
provided by the parent company in New York, managed by Goldstein, McCormack and
Powell.” He decided not to mention the master list, or that he had access to
all the MLI funds Bridgeworth managed. “I work for GM&P. All three of the
partners were murdered in the last few days because of MLI. Because you
represent MLI in the UK, I suspect you’re also in danger.”

“Hmm.” Bridgeworth tapped his
desk absently, adding with classic understatement, “That is a pity.”

“I was wondering if you knew
something, that might help me understand why my bosses are dead?”

Bridgeworth gave him a thoughtful
look, weighing up the consequences of discussing his most valuable client with
this stranger. “Can you prove you are who you say you are?”

Craig produced his passport and a
business card. “Does this help?”

Bridgeworth glanced at the ID,
then nodded slowly. “I know the client, and I do manage their UK investments,
which are extensive, to say the least. All in cash, which is unusual. I’ve
never met anyone associated with the company. All the funds came from New York,
although occasionally instructions came directly from the client, always by
telephone or email, never face to face.” He pointed to a small black box beside
his telephone. “All calls go through this innocuous little device, which
ensures anyone listening will not understand what is said. There are other
security precautions as well, but you get the idea.”

Craig studied the scrambler
beside Bridgeworth’s telephone. It was identical to the device he’d seen in Goldstein’s
office, although he vaguely remember it had been missing the night he’d
searched the senior partner’s office.

 “I met Jerry Goldstein once, by
accident. Decent fellow. We attended a conference in Zurich together. Afterwards,
I received instructions never to meet or speak with him again. I never did. I
assume he got the same message, because he never tried to contact me again. The
only contact we were allowed were communications regarding funds transfers, no
personal contact. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.” Bridgeworth sighed sadly. “I
guess it had to happen sooner or later.”

“You knew something was wrong?”

Bridgeworth gave him a deliberate
look. “Everything was wrong. The size of the funds, the secrecy, the insistence
we invest only in cash assets even if it meant lower profits. New York, as the
world’s financial capital, was the central distribution point. London, as
Europe’s financial capital, was the European distribution center.”

“We sent money to Tokyo, Sydney
and Shanghai, as well,” Craig said.

Bridgeworth nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Do you know where the money came
from?”

“No, but I’ve wondered that
myself, many times. That one time I met Goldstein, he said a funny thing to me.”
The old chartered accountant leaned back remembering a long past conversation
over a few drinks with his American counterpart. “He said he thought the only
reason the money had to stay in cash, was so they could get it all back one
day, fast. No wasting time liquidating assets. I always wondered why speed
would be more important than profit, considering we’ve been managing these
funds for many years. And before us, there may have been others.”

“If they are closing out their
investments worldwide, then you are in danger.”

Bridgeworth smiled humorlessly.
“I’m sure of it. I’ve been requested to hand over my documents and digital
records in the next few days. I’m awaiting my final instructions. Unfortunately,
while my documentation can be erased, my memory is excellent.” He took out a
slender cigar and lit it with a darkening mood. “Damned inconvenient! I was
planning to retire next year. I have a small estate in Surrey. It’s quite
beautiful country, green hills, flowing meadows, a beautiful garden. Englishmen
love their gardens, you know…” His voice trailed off into quiet reflection. “I
guess they’ll be coming for me soon.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I’m a very rich man, Mr Balard.
I’ll hire some security experts. We British are rather good at that sort of
thing. There are plenty of ex-SAS chappies around offering top notch services. I
don’t much fancy living behind a private army for the rest of my life, but one
must do what one must.”

“Powell was protected, and they
got him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bridgeworth’s eyes dropped to Craig. “So, why are you here Mr Balard?”

Craig swallowed. “It’s
complicated.”

Bridgeworth’s eyes narrowed. “If .
. . you need protection, you could stay with me.”

“That’s very generous of you, but
I have to meet someone.”

Bridgeworth escorted Craig to the
door. “I do appreciate you coming to see me, Mr Balard. You’ve at least given
me a sporting chance. I served a stint in the British Army many years ago, when
I was a rather dashing young fellow. My old service revolver is packed away
somewhere. I think it’s time to dust it off.”

Craig and Bridgeworth shook
hands. “Good luck.”

“Same to you, old boy.”

* * * *

Nikki heard a faint thud.

She tried to focus on the sound. It
was important to focus, although she couldn’t remember why.

I’ve got
to . . . hang on . . .

The thud sounded again, this time
further away as she slipped towards an enveloping darkness. There was no longer
any pain. That had passed hours ago. She was vaguely aware of the need to vomit,
but lacked the control to force it. Thoughts of people and places flickered
randomly through her mind, flooding her dream state with a lifetime of jumbled
memories.

The persistent thud came again.

Nikki felt herself falling toward
a sleep from which there was no recovery. More disjointed memories flashed through
her mind forming a confusing kaleidoscope of experiences, although strangely, she
was simply an observer. Through the fog, she heard the crash of a door
shattering, but it wasn’t enough to stop her drift towards eternal sleep. Presently,
discordant voices interrupted her peace as footsteps approached.

Craig? Where
are you?

A stab of light cut through the
soothing darkness around her, startling her. Voices surrounded her as strong
hands began pressing rhythmically on her chest, forcing her to breathe. Something
hard was pressed around her mouth, allowing oxygen to be pumped into her lungs.

Oh God, he’s
come back!
she thought, terrified, triggering a
burst of adrenalin from her heart that thinned the fog. A hand straightened her
arm and inserted a needle. The voices spoke rapidly, but calmly, as medics worked
feverishly to revive her.

She felt herself being lifted onto
a stretcher. Soon, she was moving fast as men carried her out through the front
door they’d smashed open, to the elevator. She tried to open her eyes, but
lacked the strength. She drifted away until cool air washed over her face, and she
became vaguely aware that she was outside, being gently loaded into an
ambulance. Doors slammed and a siren began wailing as the ambulance started
racing towards the hospital.

The pain flooded back, blocking
out her thoughts. Cracked ribs ached, stabbing her with each breath. She opened
her swollen eyes, finding two men watching over her.

“She’s conscious!” Hal Woods exclaimed.
He’d initially gone to her apartment to ask her what she knew about Craig’s
trip to London, but found her door locked. He questioned her neighbors, who reported
hearing screams during the night, so he’d called for help to break in her door,
and for an ambulance.

“The injection’s taking effect,”
the ambulance officer said.

Nogorev had beaten her, forcing
her to realize how powerless she was against him. He’d threatened her with rape,
and touched her in ways designed to frighten and intimidate her, to break her
will and to extract the information he wanted. In the end, she’d told him
everything he wanted to know. When he was finished, he’d injected her with
drugs and left her to die alone.

Woods leaned toward her. “Can you
speak?”

Nikki opened her mouth, trying to
form a word, but failed.

“Will she make it?”

“I don’t know,” the ambulance
officer replied.

She wanted them to warn Craig, but
all she could produce were feeble, incoherent moans.

“She’s trying to speak!” Woods
said, leaning closer to her, taking her hand gently. “I’m Detective Woods from
the NYPD.”

She looked into Woods’ eyes, wanting
to speak, but the words would not come.

“Does he know where Balard is?” Woods
asked.

She was vaguely surprised he knew
Craig’s name, that he understood. She tried to nod, but all she managed was to
blink once. The drugs Nogorev had pumped into her were slowly overpowering the
injection the ambulance officer had given her.

“Do something!” Woods yelled at
the ambulance officer.

“We’re nearly there.”

“Tell the driver to go faster!” Woods
said helplessly, studying her swollen, blood stained face.

Nikki heard his voice echo through
her dream, his words now meaningless as she slipped away into a comforting
darkness.

* * * *

Inspector Thomas McGuire of New
Scotland Yard sat in an unmarked police car across the street from the Irish
Rose, with a clear view of the entrance. The pub was a picture of sixteenth
century wood paneled walls and Elizabethan windows. They’d followed Craig from
the airport to a small hotel where he’d deposited his one bag, then to
Bridgeworth’s offices, and finally to the pub, which he’d reached shortly after
lunch. It was now almost midnight, and the pub was about to close. Plain
clothes detectives had taken turns inside, watching Craig sipping cokes all
afternoon. From the way he studied every person who entered, he was clearly
looking for someone.