Rise of the Enemy (11 page)

Lena laughed. ‘Carl, don’t you get it yet? Mackie sent you to Russia to die.’

After ending the call with Mackie I slunk away into the foyer of a nearby building where I waited, nervously watching, for over an hour. It gave me a good view of the apartment block and phone box I had used and felt safer than standing out in the crowd. The whole time I had my hands in my pocket, my right hand tightly coiled around the ice-cold grip of the Glock handgun I’d taken from Chris.

I’m not quite sure why I stayed near the scene. Confusion was sweeping through me. I needed time to think. I was in shock. It was almost as if I could see my life falling apart before my eyes. Everything I had come to know and trust, everything solid that I could grasp, was just not quite there any more.

I fought hard to banish the melancholic thoughts. I knew they were useless. Knew they wouldn’t help the situation and would only make me weaker. For that very reason I’d long ago been taught to control and ignore emotion. At times I wished I still could.

As I stood and waited I watched the other people there, anyone out of place, people just hanging around like I was. Any sign of someone who might be connected to the explosion. Anyone who might be watching or looking for me.

Any sign of Dmitri.

Despite what Lena had told me, was he still alive? I was struggling with the concept. I’d seen nothing of Dmitri in months. The last time I’d seen him he’d had a gaping hole in his shoulder and had taken several rounds of rubber bullets to the head. But someone had certainly been using that apartment. I couldn’t get my head around what it would mean if it had been Dmitri.

Why
would
he be alive? He’d been caught with me at RTK. If he’d survived the ambush there, wouldn’t he have suffered the same fate as me at the hands of Lena and her cronies? And even getting past those hurdles, if he was still alive then where was he now?

But the question of Dmitri’s whereabouts, distracting as it was, didn’t matter as much as other questions:

What caused the explosion? A bomb? A rigged gas main?

And why was the apartment destroyed right after my visit there? Had I unknowingly triggered a booby trap? Or was it simply a timer? Had someone seen me go in and set off a remote detonator?

Most importantly, whatever the answer to those questions, just who had laid and detonated the explosives? And that was a question part of me didn’t want to think about.

Could it really have been my own people? Mackie?

One thing was clear: the explosion had been intended to kill. And I was pretty sure I had been the intended target.

Finally the local fire service put out the flames but they continued to spray the smoking embers. Most bystanders had moved on. Many of the residents who’d survived the blast had been taken away by the police. I had no idea how many people had died. I’d seen two black body bags being rolled on gurneys into waiting ambulances, to the gasps and cries of bystanders. But there could have been more bodies
trapped underneath the rubble or some who’d simply been blown to pieces and whose charred, dismembered body parts would be coming out in many smaller bags.

I could do nothing more there, so I moved on.

I wasn’t about to obey Mackie and go back to the station, though. If he or Chris or Mary or whoever else was out there wanted to find me then they’d just have to try for themselves.

I still had some cash left in the wallet that I’d taken from Chris. It would be enough to buy some basic provisions but it wouldn’t last forever. I needed more cash funds and my two other main staples: IDs and weapons.

Although I had the Glock that I’d taken from Chris, it only had one clip. I needed more. I didn’t really trust a single person out there any more and I wanted the security of knowing that I had some firepower at hand. And I had no ID on me at all. Some form of ID would be my only ticket out of Russia unless I could persuade a local to smuggle me over a border somewhere, but I wasn’t quite at that stage of desperation yet.

I had never cared much in life for material things. But the most important things to me were money, IDs and weapons. My security. They were the three things that got me through this life, that got me what I needed and to where I needed to be. And they were the things currently stashed in a safety deposit box in the back of a bank in Omsk. Along with IDs locked away there, I had another handgun, a dozen clips, and enough roubles and dollars to, hopefully, see me through the mess I was in.

The bank was only a couple of miles from where I was. I knew I could take a bus there but I decided to walk. Despite the cold and my blistered feet, I didn’t mind the exercise. Whether it be a prison cell or a Jeep or a bunk-bed train carriage, I’d spent far too much time recently in cramped
conditions. I enjoyed feeling my muscles working again, the warmth that it generated, even if the cold air froze my face and lungs in the process.

The walk took less than half an hour and I found the bank where the safety deposit box was located – the Omsk branch of a small Russian outfit – without any trouble. The branch took up a small plot on the corner of a terraced row of shops. Two tellers sat at their desks, the only staff present other than the manager, who worked out of view, behind a closed metal door, in front of the walk-in safe that led to the deposit boxes.

Altogether it was a simple operation. The tellers didn’t even have glass separating them from the public. A random chancer might think the bank would be ripe for an armed robbery. Except Dmitri had specifically recommended this place due to it being widely accepted that the local mafia used it both for laundering their cash and for depositing their ill-gotten profits. No sensible person was going to rob the safety deposit boxes and prized possessions of the Bratva.

And despite the bank’s apparently basic exterior, the safety deposit boxes themselves were state of the art. Gone was the traditional two-key security. Instead, each box was opened by inputting two eight-digit security codes into the inbuilt keypad: the customer’s own personal code, plus the bank’s code. Handy for me, as it meant that I wasn’t required to cart around a conspicuous key.

I’d only been inside the bank once before, the day I’d brought my stuff there. Now, as I walked in, I didn’t recognise either of the tellers. I didn’t get the sense that they recognised me either. As soon as I mentioned the manager’s name, though, I was whisked straight through to the back room, no questions asked.

The manager greeted me with a double handshake, clasping his left hand over our rights like a long-lost friend would.

‘And how are you, Mr Burrows?’ the manager asked, in broken but serviceable English, ushering me to sit on the wooden chair in front of his desk.

‘Fine, thanks,’ I said, wanting to keep the pleasantries to a minimum.

John Burrows was one of my regularly used IDs. The passport for Burrows was in box 621. The many fake IDs and cover identities I had came with the job. I had passports in numerous names and from numerous countries, social security cards, driving licences, security badges, police IDs and other such identities. The list went on and on.

A small number of the identities had a full story behind them and had become mainstay regulars. I could assume these identities for months or even years at a time. These were aliases that sometimes became so ingrained into my psyche that they were as much me as Carl Logan was. Most of them, though, had been used for only a short period of time, for a specific purpose. These were the ones that I regularly travelled with. That I used to book visas and flights and cars and hotels.

‘You’re enjoying the wonderful Omsk winter, yes?’ the manager said with a beaming smile. We both sat. ‘I think last time you were here was the summer? Quite a difference!’

‘It’s what we’d call fresh,’ I said, smiling back at the man, not wanting to appear rude.

‘Ah, yes, you English have a fine way with words. I like the expression “brass monkeys”. It doesn’t translate too well in Russian but I like it.’

I smiled again but didn’t respond. I didn’t want to enter into a long and detailed conversation about the weather, even if I was quietly impressed with his knowledge of the English language.

‘Which box is it?’ the manager asked, perhaps sensing my impatience.

‘Six-two-one,’ I said.

He typed away at his computer. Then frowned.

‘Six-two-one you say? Are you sure?’

I had just a fleeting moment of doubt, my brain rechecking what it knew. No. I was damn sure.

‘It’s six-two-one. The box was registered in my name when I was here last time. John Burrows.’

‘Sir, the name isn’t relevant,’ the manager said more sternly. ‘We don’t keep a register of names on the accounts. I remembered your name because I’m the client manager. But the code is the only ID we use. As long as you have the right code for the right box, it doesn’t matter what your name is.’

‘Then why are you asking me these questions? I know what the code is. I set the account up myself.’

‘Well, the problem, sir, is that the box is not currently registered.’

I shifted in my seat.

‘Not registered? As in…what are you trying to tell me?’

‘As in the account was closed almost four weeks ago. I’m afraid that box is empty.’

I didn’t feel like talking to Lena today. I was sick of her questions and of her toying with me, enjoying seeing me squirm as she played her little games with my mind.

‘You told me before that Mackie was like a father figure to you,’ she said. We were sitting in the same room, in the same positions. ‘I can’t understand that. After what he did to you. The killing machine that he turned you into. The man with no feelings.’

I squirmed in my seat at her words. I had no recollection of saying that to her – or anything else in those lost days.

What else had I said?

She relished dropping into our conversations the things that I’d told her, as though it gave her an unseen power over me. She used my words – forgotten words – to try to open me up, to try to get me to tell her more. Sometimes it worked. But not this time.

‘Come on, Carl. You’ve been doing so well. Don’t throw it all away now. You don’t want your life here to go back to the way it was before, do you?’

I took her words as a threat. Although my treatment at their hands had certainly improved I was under no illusions as to where I was and what they were capable of. But I didn’t respond.

And I didn’t want to talk about Mackie. About whether or
not he’d lied to me. About whether or not he’d really set me up and handed me over to the Russians to do as they pleased with me – a settling of old scores.

Lena and I sat, not speaking, staring at each other. I could see the look on her face changing. Her confidence and her charm slowly faded. She relished the power she got from manipulating me. But this time I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. And my refusal to play along was getting to her. She was riled.

In tandem with her own mood changing, I started to feel stronger. Like I was sucking the power straight out of her and into me. It was so simple. Without the ability to manipulate me she was helpless, and yet all I’d done was refuse to speak to her.

But what I hadn’t reckoned on was the other side of Lena. One I hadn’t seen before.

The build-up in tension had been slow. But when it came, the change was dramatically quick. Her whole demeanour, her features, her face transformed, just like that. It reminded me of a fantasy story where the wicked witch suddenly shows her true colours. Lena stood up out of her chair, her teeth clenched, her face like thunder, her eyes like balls of fire.

She strode up to me. I was grabbed from behind suddenly by the two guards behind me, two sets of thick arms coming around me and pinning me to the seat. I tried to move but I was stuck to the chair.

Lena sat down on my lap, straddling me, her face only inches from mine. And then, in an instant, with the balance of power restored, her calmness returned. Back was the absurdly pretty, delicate face that I hated so much.

She looked down at me like I was her long-lost lover, a warm smile creeping up her face. She reached out and placed her hands around my neck. I could feel the softness of her skin, could smell her rich, feminine scent and her sweet perfume. Her touch on me was light, almost caressing.

But it didn’t last long.

She pushed down with her thumbs, driving down onto my windpipe. The pressure built up slowly, the smile on her face growing as my air was cut off. I squirmed, tried to wriggle free, but the men holding me were too strong. As my airway was slowly constricted, I tried my best to fill my lungs, but so little was coming in or out that it was almost not worth the expended effort. It only made my heartbeat and stifled breathing more panicked.

She squeezed harder and harder, laughing, the pleasure in her face unmistakeable and growing. Soon, I couldn’t breathe at all. My chest heaved. It felt like my lungs would explode. I could feel my face contorting, my eyes bulging. But Lena just kept on, her thumbs pulsing against my neck.

My protests were becoming weaker, more futile. Not long after, I could barely resist at all. The room around me was becoming blurry. I started to drift, my brain taking me somewhere else. I thought about Mackie. About the many years we’d spent side by side. How I’d looked up to him, idolised him, like a small child does his father. I wanted it to be a happy thought, to focus away from my ordeal. But it wasn’t. All I could think was how everything I’d been through with him had led me to this ghastly place.

My heart was now pounding violently, uncontrollably, in my chest, a response to the oxygen-depleted blood but also through sheer panic. I knew that any second it might shut down altogether. But Lena’s grip on my neck seemed to only get tighter still, her long, manicured nails digging into my skin.

She let out a long scream. Somewhere between fury and ecstasy. She panted heavily, staring deeply into my eyes.

My whole world was turning into one big white mess. I was on the brink.

And then she let go.

She stood up off me. I coughed and spluttered, gasping for air. But I didn’t get a chance to recover. The men hauled me
from the chair, threw me to the floor and pinned me down. My arms were held, a knee placed into the back of my neck. Even if I’d had the strength to resist, I wouldn’t have been able to throw them off me.

‘You don’t want to talk to me?’ Lena said, her words slurred she was so out of breath from exertion or the thrill. ‘Well, this is what you get, Carl. Just remember where you are. I’m in charge here.’

A loud cracking sound rang out. At first I mistook it for a gunshot. The pain that came searing across my back told me exactly what it was. I gritted my teeth. The knee that was on my neck pushed down harder, my airway becoming restricted once more.

I heard another crack, then another, as a thick leather whip was lashed against my back. I only had on a simple cotton shirt. It didn’t offer much protection.

When the fourth crack came I thought that I could actually feel the flesh on my back splitting wide open. I grimaced and shouted out. The pain was immense.

Lena was speaking to me again, but I couldn’t focus on her words any more. It had been weeks since they had hurt me physically. Her viciousness was so out of the blue. I tried to take my mind somewhere else, like I’d done all those weeks before. I tried to think of Angela. Tried to picture her face. Her hazel eyes. Her silky brown hair. Her smile. Her warm, supple body next to mine. But the sound of the whip, the smell of the dank floor, the pain consumed me.

I started to count the lashes to focus my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut on the tenth strike. My body was tense and unmoving, paralysed by the searing pain ripping through me.

I managed to get to eighteen before I lost count. After that my brain finally succumbed and, as it had so many times before, it took me away from that place.