Lost (41 page)

“How long have they been here?”

“Since lunchtime,” says Joe.

Ali wil have cal ed them. She is out of surgery and must have heard about Gerry Brandt.

Rachel spies me from across the room. She looks at me hopeful y, her hands fidgeting with her col ar.

“Did you talk to him? I mean . . . did he say anything?”

“He said he let Mickey go.”

A breath snags in her throat. “What happened to her?”

“I don't know. He didn't get to tel me.” I turn to the others and let them al hear. “It's now even more imperative that we find Kirsten Fitzroy. She may be the only one left who knows what happened to Mickey.”

Gathering the chairs in a circle, we hold a “kitchen cabinet” meeting.

Margaret and Jean have managed to find a dozen of Kirsten's ex-employees. Al are women aged between twenty-two and thirty-four, many of them with foreign-sounding names. They were nervous about talking—sex work isn't something you advertise. None of them has seen Kirsten since the agency closed down.

Meanwhile, Roger visited the old offices. The managing agent had kept two boxes of files that had been left behind when the agency vacated the premises. Among the documents were invoices from a pathology lab. The girls were being tested for STDs.

Another file contained encoded credit card details and initials. Kirsten probably had a diary with names matching the initials. I run my finger down the page searching for Sir Douglas's initials. Nothing.

“So far we've cal ed more than four hundred clinics and surgeries,” says Rachel. “Nobody has reported treating a gunshot victim but a pharmacy in Southwark had a break-in on September 26. Someone stole bandages and painkil ers.”

“Cal the pharmacist back. Ask him if the police pul ed any fingerprints.”

Margaret hands me a coffee. Jean takes it away and washes the cup before I can take a sip. Someone gets sandwiches and soft drinks. I feel like something a lot stronger, something warm and yeasty and golden.

Joe finds me sitting alone on the stairs and takes a seat beside me. “You haven't mentioned the diamonds. What did you do with them?”

“Put them somewhere safe.”

I can picture the velvet pouches stitched inside a wool y mammoth in Ali's old room. I should probably tel Joe. If something happens to me, nobody wil know where to find them.

Then again, I don't want to put anyone else in danger.

“Did you know that elephants with their trunks raised are meant to symbolize good luck?”

“No.”

“Ali told me. She's got a thing about elephants. I don't know how much good luck it's brought her.”

My mouth has gone dry. I stand and slip my arms through my jacket.

“You're going to see Aleksei, aren't you?” asks Joe. I swear to God he can read minds.

My silence responds eloquently.

“You know that's crazy,” he says.

“I have to stop this.”

I know it sounds foolishly old-fashioned but I'm stuck with this idea that there is something dignified and noble about facing your enemy and looking him squarely in the eye—

before you thrust a saber in his heart.

“You can't go alone.”

“He won't see me otherwise. I'l make an appointment. People don't get kil ed when they make an appointment.” Joe considers this. “I'l come with you.”

“No, but thanks for the offer.”

I don't know why people keep trying to help me like this. They should be heading for the hil s. Ali says I inspire loyalty but I seem to be taking kindnesses that I can never hope to repay. I am not a perfect human being. I'm a cynic and a pessimist and sometimes I feel as though I'm locked into this life by an accident of birth. But at times like this, a random act of kindness or the touch of another human being makes me believe I can be different, better, redeemed. Joe has that effect on me. A poor man shouldn't borrow so much.

The phone cal to Aleksei is diverted through several numbers before he answers. I can hear water in the background. The river.

“I want to talk. No lawyers or police or third parties.”

I can hear him thinking. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Neutral ground.”

“No. If you want a meeting you come to me. Chelsea Harbour. You'l find me.”

A black cab drops me at the entrance to the marina shortly before ten. I lift my watch and count the final minutes. It's no use being early for your own funeral.

Spotlights reflect from the whiteness of the motor yachts and cruisers, creating pools like spil ed paint. By comparison, the interlocking docks are weathered and gray, with life buoys hanging from pylons anchored deep in the mud.

Aleksei's boat, draped in fairy lights, takes up two moorings and has three decks with sleek lines that angle like an arrowhead from bow to stern. The upper deck bristles with radio antennae and satel ite tracking devices.

I spent five years mucking about on boats. I know they float and soak up money. People with a highly defined sense of balance are more likely to get seasick, they say. I can vouch for my equilibrium but an hour in rough weather on a cross-channel ferry can stil feel like a year.

The gangway has a thick rubber mat and railings with bronze pil ars. As I step on board the vessel shifts slightly. Through an open doorway I see a stateroom and a large mahogany dining table with seating for eight. To one side is a bar area and a modular lounge arranged in front of a flat-screen TV.

Descending the steps I duck my head, which isn't necessary. Aleksei Kuznet is sitting behind a desk, his head lowered, reading the screen of a laptop computer. He raises his hand, making me wait. It remains there, suspended. Slowly the hand turns and his fingers wave me forward.

When he raises his eyes he looks past me as though I might have forgotten something. The ransom. He wants his diamonds.

“Nice boat.”

“It's a motor yacht.”

“An expensive toy.”

“On the contrary—it is my office. I had her built to an American design at a boatyard on the Black Sea near Odessa. You see I take the best from different cultures—American design, German engineering, Italian craftsmen, Brazilian teak and Slav laborers. People often criticize Eastern European nations and say they don't do capitalism wel . But the truth is that they operate the purest form of capitalism. If I had wanted to build this boat in Britain I would have had to pay award wages, workers compensation, national insurance, design fees and bribes to keep the unions happy. It's the same when you put up a building. At any stage someone can stop you. In Russia or Latvia or Georgia none of this matters if you have enough money. That's what I cal
pure
capitalism.”

“Is that why you're sel ing up? Are you going home?”

He laughs mordantly. “Inspector, you mistake me for a patriot. I wil employ Russians, I wil fund their schools and hospitals and prop up their corrupt politicians but do not expect me to live with them.”

He has moved across to the bar. My eyes flick around the stateroom, almost waiting for the trap to snap shut.

“So why
are
you sel ing up?”

“Greener pastures. Fresh chal enges. Maybe I'l buy a footbal club. That seems very popular nowadays. Or I could just go somewhere warm for the winter.”

“I have never understood what people see in hot climates.”

He glances into the darkness of the starboard window. “Each man makes his own paradise, DI, but it's hard to love London.” He hands me a glass of Scotch and slides the ice bucket toward me.

“Are you a sailor?”

“Not real y.”

“Shame. With me it's flying. You ever see that episode of
The Twilight Zone
where Wil iam Shatner looks out of the window of a plane at 20,000 feet and sees a gremlin tearing off pieces of the wing? They made it into a film, which was nowhere near as good. That's how I feel when I step on a plane. I'm the only person who
knows
it's going to crash.”

“So you never fly?”

He turns over both his palms, as if revealing the obvious. “I have a motor yacht.”

The Scotch burns pleasantly as I swal ow but the aftertaste is not like it used to be. Al that morphine has deadened my taste buds.

Aleksei is a businessman, accustomed to cutting deals. He knows how to read a balance sheet, to manage risk and maximize profit.

“I might have something to trade,” I announce.

He raises his hand again, this time pressing a finger to his lips. The Russian steps from the companionway looking as if he's been trapped in an il -fitting suit.

“I'm sure you understand,” says Aleksei apologetical y as the bodyguard sweeps a metal detector over me. Meanwhile, he issues instructions via a radio. The engines of the boat rumble and the ice shudders in my glass.

He motions me to fol ow him along the companionway to the gal ey where a narrow ladder descends to the lower deck. We reach a heavily insulated door that opens into the engine room. Noise fil s my head.

The engine block is six feet high with valves, fuel cocks, radiator pipes, springs and polished steel. Two chairs have been arranged on the metal walkways that run down each side of the room. Aleksei takes a seat as if attending a recital and waits until I join him. Stil nursing his drink, he looks at me with an aloof curiosity.

Shouting to be heard above the engines, I ask him how he found Gerry Brandt. He smiles. It is the same indolent foreknowing expression he gave me when I saw him outside Wormwood Scrubs. “I hope you're not accusing me of any wrongdoing, Inspector.”

“Then you know who I'm talking about?”

“No. Who is he?”

This is like a game to him—a trifling annoyance compared to other more important matters. I risk boring him unless I get to the point.

“Is Kirsten Fitzroy stil alive?”

He doesn't answer.

“I'm not here to accuse you, Aleksei. I have a hypothetical deal to offer.”

“A hypothetical one?” Now he laughs out loud and I feel my resolve draining away.

“I wil trade you the diamonds for Kirsten's life. Leave her alone and you get them back.”

Aleksei runs his finger through his hair, leaving a trail in the gel. “You have my diamonds?”

“Hypothetical y.”

“Then hypothetical y you are obliged to give them back to me. Why should I have to trade?”

“Because right now this is only hypothetical; I can make it real. I know you planted the diamonds in my house to frame me. Keebal was supposed to get a warrant but I found them first. You think I saw something that night. You think I can hurt you somehow. You have my word. Nobody else has to get hurt.”

“Real y?” he asks sarcastical y. “Do not attempt a career as a salesman.”

“It's a genuine offer.”

“A hypothetical one.” Aleksei looks at me, pursing his lips. “Let me get this straight. My daughter is kidnapped and you fail to find her. She is murdered and you do not recover her body. Then people try to extort two mil ion pounds from me and you fail to catch them. Then you steal my diamonds and accuse me of planting them on you. And on top of it al , you want me to forgive and forget. You people are scum. You have preyed on my ex-wife's grief. You have taken advantage of my good nature and my desire to make things right. I didn't start this—”

“You have a chance to end it.”

“You mistake me for someone who desires peace and harmony. On the contrary, what I desire is revenge.”

He moves to stand. The negotiation is over.

I feel my temper rising. “For Christ's sake, Aleksei, I'm trying to find Mickey. She's your family. Don't you want to know what happened?”

“I know what happened, Inspector. She's dead. She died three years ago. And let me tel you something about families—they're overrated. They're a weakness. They leave you or get taken from you or they disappoint you. Families are a liability.”

“Is that why you got rid of Sacha?”

He ignores me, pushing open the heavy door. We're outside now. I can hear myself think. Aleksei is stil talking.

“You say to trust you. You say trust the deal. You have no idea, do you? Not a clue. You're like the three wise monkeys al rol ed into one. Now let me make a deal with you—

hypothetical y speaking, of course. You return the diamonds to me and then step back. Let people work things out for themselves. Market forces, you see, capitalism, supply and demand, these are the things I understand. People reap what they sow.”

“People like Gerry Brandt?” With a flick of my wrist, I grip his forearm. He doesn't flinch. “Leave Kirsten alone.” His eyes are narrow and dark, with something toxic behind them. He thinks I'm some dumb plod, barely off the beat, whose idea of subtle interrogation is a nightstick and a strong right arm. That's how I'm acting.

“You know what a Heffalump is?” I ask.

“Winnie-the-Pooh's friend.”

“No, you're thinking of Piglet. Heffalumps and Woozles are the nightmare creatures that Pooh Bear dreams about. He's afraid they're going to steal his honey. Nobody can see them except Pooh. That's who you remind me of.”

“A Heffalump?”

“No. Pooh Bear. You think the world is ful of people who want to steal from you.”

The sky is gray and the evening air damp and heavy. Away from the throb of the engines my headache finds its own rhythm. Aleksei walks me to the gangway. The Russian is close behind him, swinging his left arm a little wider because of his holster.

“Have you ever thought of getting a normal job?” I ask.

Aleksei contemplates this. “Maybe we should both do something new.”

Then it dawns on me that he's right, we're not so different. We both screwed up our relationships and lost our children. And we're too old to do anything else. I have spent two-thirds of my life putting criminals away, most of them smal -timers and lowlifes. Aleksei was what I was working toward. My ambition. He's the reason I did the job.

As I step onto the gangway the Russian fol ows, two paces behind. The rope handrails are looped between brass posts. He closes the last step and I feel the warm metal of the gun brush the short hairs at the base of my skul .

Aleksei explains: “My employee wil go with you and col ect the diamonds.”