Wilderness of Mirrors (27 page)

The bike was rocketing down the M4 by the time he got his answer. “Do me another favor, yeah? Pass that along to C. And make certain you tell Ms. Ganapathy it’s urgent.”

Brad bent against the steady stream of wind and lashing rain.
Them? The mysterious members of the group that bought and sold just about anything? How in God’s name did you end up a part of their sordid game, Sammy?

The thought was a terrifying one. If Sam worked for
Them
, then Brad had been handled like a babe-in-arms. Sucker punched at a wedding where he thought the brown-eyed former model seemed genuinely shocked he wasn’t the pianist. Teach him he wasn’t immune to a
Swallow
. Suddenly his peculiar conversation with Nigel made sense. Trust Nigel to sniff her out in 24 hours when it had taken him half-a-year.

So who was she? What information had he inadvertently given her? And what the fuck had she ordered done to William?

J
aak tested the waters. “He threatened my family’s safety.”

His boss’s eyes reflected little sympathy. “You should have thought about that before joining my payroll.”

It was stupid, but a part of him had only now realized what that meant. “You said working for you would be like working with family – a home away from home.”

The backside of twin leather gloves stung Jaak’s cheek. Made him forget all about his burning throat. “Because Ivan said you were good. I take care of men who do their jobs. So far, you’ve been caught and released like an undersized fish. Yet, here you stand, groveling and empty-handed, whining about having your family threatened.” The voice dropped. “I’d cut out your tongue if we weren’t in public.”

Jaak blinked at the involuntary tears the slap had prompted. His boss’s strike – so quick and precise – had not been noted by Alain Ducasse’s other patrons, but it was humiliating all the same.

“I’ll bring Sepp in.” He hoped the promise was one he could keep.

“Don’t bother. I sent Sergei.” Vasiliv’s dead stare moved on to his sushi. “Get out. Go hide yourself in some small hole before I decide to use you as bait for my next dinner.” He stabbed the Yellowtail and swiped it through caviar.

Jaak bit back further conversation. He’d talk to Ivan instead. Walking back to the elevator, Jaak contemplated visiting his grandfather. Perhaps Batushka would help him get out of this mess.

But by the time the doors opened on a sultry woman and her wealthy companion, he had dismissed the passing thought. Money and girls: the ultimate prize. He wanted them so badly his teeth hurt.

Stepping into the elevator, he watched the haute-couture ass shake through the understated black and chrome décor until silver doors blinked and she was gone. To hell with Batushka and his old ways. It was Maslenitsa, a time to celebrate not repent.

Jaak dredged out a pack of cigarettes and his mobile. Outside The Dorchester, he lit up and waited for his friend Boris to answer.

“Slushayu vas,” came a soft whisper.

Jaak pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Who the fuck is this?”

There was a breath of silence while the girl decided if she should answer. “Katya.”

What was the idiot doing having his girlfriend answer? “Where’s Boris?”

“Arrested.” Her voice was low from crying.

Jaak glanced around the street and pulled the mobile closer. “What? When?”

“Today. Near Prince Harry’s school.”

Jaak had to think for a moment. In Katya’s world - a scatter of diapers and glossy rags - the English Royals played a larger than life role. Apparently, even girls dreamed of better things. “Eton?”

“Da.”

“Why?”

“He was with Alexei. There was a body in the car. Son of royalty or something. Oh God, Jaak, do you think they’ll come here? I don’t have a Visa. What will they do? If they send me back, I’ll have to bring the baby. Do you know what my uncles will do?” She started crying.

“Shut up, Katya. This is not a conversation for the phone. You didn’t hear from me. Get rid of his mobile. I’ve got enough problems of my own without getting caught in your boyfriend’s.” He dragged at the smoke, desperate for calmness it rarely gave him. Her sobs were muffled. Behind them he heard the squawk of the baby. What was its name? A girl. On impulse, he said, “Go to the Russian church in Hounslow. Tell Batushka Yuri you know me. He’ll take care of you.”

She sniffed, “Spasibo.” There was a click and the line went dead.

Jaak ran a hand through his rain-drenched hair. A thought crossed his mind. Boris must have been peddling shit for Vasiliv’s anonymous competitor. It didn’t take a genius to guess that one. And if Jaak were able to identify the bastard, perhaps Vasiliv would look more favorably upon him. Maybe he’d even replace Ivan with him. Or better still, Sergei.

Jaak tugged his collar up over his neck, jammed the cigarette in his mouth and thrust a hand toward the next cab. He had an inkling about someone he’d seen driving by the alley outside Sepp’s club. Jaak had noticed the sleek silver coupe slow in front of the hotel’s entrance. And a moment later, when police sirens sounded, it had screeched away.

Jaak remembered that plate and the discrete little parking sticker affixed to its back window. In fact, he remembered quite a lot of things. His mother figured him for a banker. But he had higher ambitions.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked.

“Soho.
Blacks
.”

The eyebrows shot up. “You’re a member?”

“Do I look like one?”

They drove in silence until Dean Street. “There. Just before the Algerian Coffee place, pull over.”

“The spaces are taken.”

Jaak leaned forward so he could make out the three cars parked against the curb. There it was – the silver coupe. “Let me out here.” He tossed an unusually generous sum at the driver. “You never saw me.”

Jaak grabbed the door handle and was about to exit, when the gray-haired man exited
Black’s
innocuous main door. “Never mind. Follow him.”

“You’re Russian.”

“You’re making a mistake noticing me at all. Watch him. Stay close. Absolutely keep him in sight, but don’t let him see you.”

“It’ll be extra.”

“Do I look like I care?”

A moment later, they were heading west on Bayswater Road. They picked up speed until the coupe veered off toward Kew Gardens.

“Pass him when he parks. I’ll let you know when you can let me out.”

More money exchanged hands a few minutes later, and Jaak jogged back toward Kew Road. The night was cold. Icy flakes were intermittent in the misty rain. It reminded him of Moscow. He’d done away with bodies on nights like this. Landfills or rivers were the best. Once, not too long ago, he’d slipped a dark-haired prostitute into the filthy depths of a snow bank.

He watched from inside a throng of merry skaters as the man passed through the Lion’s Gate entrance. Jaak reached for his wallet – the night was fast becoming an expensive one – when his eye caught movement in the alley just behind the entrance.

Holy fuck
. It was the blonde who’d been draped at The Club over Andrus Sepp. What the hell was she doing here?

Jaak considered the turn of events. Opportunities were piling up faster than Muscovite bodies.

So he grabbed his mobile and dialed Sergei.

N
igel felt a crawling at the back of his throat. Two swallows told him it was the beginning of something nasty.
Bloody Jaak
. He had been correct about the scent of lozenges under alcohol and ashtray mouth. At least the good priest had loaned him a parka.

Ignoring the urge to cough, Forsythe hailed a cab as it swung past the British Standards Institution. Hand already dialing his mobile, Nigel ducked into the vehicle and said, “Park a moment.”

The driver, happy to oblige for added fare, continued a game of Spider Solitaire.

“Mr. Dunkirk, please,” Nigel said when his call rang through.

The voice on SIS’s information delivery hotline answered, “Looking for atonement?”

“Thank you, Grace.”

“I’ll patch you through.”

Nigel’s cough was sharp and painful against his throat.

The driver made a discontented sound through his teeth. “You sound like shit.”

“Don’t start smoking.”

There was a laugh, and the gnarled hand held up a fresh carton of Camels. “Already do.”

“Awful habit, isn’t it?”

Nigel didn’t wait for the driver’s response. An agent from ICT was on the line. “You can send text now, sir.”

Nigel feigned disappointment for the driver’s ears. “Right, I’ll ring again later.” He dropped the mobile from his ear and entered the number Batushka had given him. A few seconds later, he had a list of the latest calls Jaak had made and their accompanying users’ names.

Rozenberg, Boris - no address available.

He didn’t read further. Rozenberg was riding shotgun in the Peugeot. And Nigel had a bloody receipt to prove it.

Nigel recalled his promise to the priest with cold fury. If Batushka wanted him to save Jaak, it wouldn’t happen. Not if the bastard had been a part of William’s murder. Irina’s kidnapping would’ve been cause enough for Jaak’s execution had Nigel not pulled the trigger himself. But this…this was different. He’d pull the fucker out of whatever hole he was hiding in and gut him. “Take me to Primrose Hill. Regent Park Road.”

There was a Russian tearoom there that had served Boris the night before.

The rain-haloed lights of passing businesses scattered across the windscreen. Blood red and bone white. Nigel closed his eyes. He
should
be with his family. He
needed
to be with Sam. Instead, he was off on a fool’s errand, hoping to salvage his soul enough so that both women might forgive him.

By the time the taxi drew up, the tearoom’s red awnings weren’t enough to keep those waiting outside dry. Nigel dived into the crowd, threading his way forward until he reached the satin black door. Strains of Ukrainian folk music and the scent of pickled herring knocked him straight out of London into Kiev.

Nigel nodded past the hostess to the hazy din within. “My wife.” He dipped his head toward a lonely woman at the room’s rear. “I’m so late, she’s likely to file for divorce.”

The girl, round faced and pleasant as a Matryoshka doll, grinned up at him. “Go. Buy her a few shots of plum vodka and you’ll be fine.”

Groans of protest sounded behind him, but Nigel had slipped a tip in the girl’s back-turned hand and disappeared amid the crowd.

The clientele was mixed, but flush. He listened to the chatter of Russian and Polish. If the musicians had fans in the crowd, they weren’t singing along to ‘In the Forest’.

Nigel pushed on until he came to the bar. The barmaid was blond. Not a la Sam, but via an expensive salon. “What can I get you?”

Leaning in, Nigel pressed her a 50-pound note wrapped in a fiver. She scooped the pair in a smooth motion, depositing one in the register and the other into her pocket.

“Odin vodka, spasibo.”

She filled the single shot of house Bison and leaned across. “And?” Her Russian was flawless, like her English.

“You know Boris Rozenberg?”

Her mouth moved inside a flirtatious smile as her hands made busy with a dishrag and glass. She was used to people watching her play ‘The Game’. “I know his girlfriend, Katya.”

“Where can I find her?”

“Nowhere now. She came by about an hour ago begging for money. Boris,
govniuk
,” she practically spat the curse,” he went and got himself arrested. Now Katya’s afraid she and the baby will be deported.”

The music swung up a notch when some string instruments blended in. A few voices joined and someone began clapping. Nigel tipped back the vodka. He’d seen the barmaid’s lacquered nails wave away the bouncer’s concerned look.

Not much time. “One more.” He passed her another pair of notes. “I’m not interested in the girl.”

Her eyes spoke of revenge on behalf of ill-used women everywhere. “If you look in the bin out back, you might find something that interests you.”

The elephant-wrestling bouncer plowed into Nigel’s periphery. “I heard you say your wife was here,” he growled.

Nigel finished his vodka before turning. “Then you also heard me mention divorce. I wasn’t quick enough for her. Excuse me.” The bouncer’s fingers became a fist. Nigel twisted his stool and felt the wooden seat shudder as the massive fist ricocheted off it.

His last impression was of a smiling blonde and the boom of Russian curses.

The only way to reach the alley behind the squared and butted businesses was by an adjoining road. Nigel took the perpendicular avenue and ran his idle knuckles over the cold smooth stucco walls. Thoughts of Sam assailed him. The taste of her skin. The hum in her throat.
It would have been so much simpler if I only wanted to sleep with her.

He forced his mind back to his surroundings. A gap in the buildings opened on a thin, tidy passage – just large enough for delivery vans.

His search didn’t take long. Beneath the third bin’s lid, there was a newish Nokia resting forlornly on an earthy pile of almost-frozen potato peelings. Nigel cleaned it with his thigh before flipping through the device’s memory.

Voices lilted from a window someone had popped at the building’s rear. Not wishing to be seen, he walked back toward Erskine Road engrossed in the search of names and numbers.

He froze when ‘William Turner’ lit the screen.
Wellington Turner, more likely
.

Nigel didn’t believe in coincidence. It was a term used by those who failed to notice connections.

What was some drug peddling kid doing with Sam’s godfather’s number?

His answer came in the form of a pebble spinning past the alley’s mouth. Nigel dropped the Nokia into his pocket and turned an ear toward Regent Street. The flash and spatter of wet wheels muffled too much. But he made out the curve of a head-shaped shadow on the sidewalk.