The Gods' Gambit (15 page)

Eastbourne, UK

Elizabeth’s mother wept bitterly when James embraced her to
say goodbye. The touch of her cool wet cheek created a powerful imprint on
James’ memory. Before walking through the door, he turned back and saw her
looking at him. Her eyes – which were very much like Elizabeth’s – were dimmed
by grief. He felt she wanted something from him; something which neither he nor
anyone in the world could give her.

Elizabeth’s father and brother walked with him to his car.
They bade each other farewell, which now carried a different, deeper and more
intimate meaning.

Before leaving, James looked for some time at the house
where Elizabeth had grown up. Through the wide windows, he could see the
figures of her relatives and friends in dark clothes gathered there in her
memory. He felt the anguish pushing unbearably inside his chest as if it would
explode, and drove away.

He wanted to cry but he couldn’t. He had not shed a tear
since he had been told of her death. His eyes burned painfully in sorrow and
lack of sleep, yet they stayed dry. This was not usual for him. He was not the
‘iron macho’ type nor had he ever tried to pass as such. He had sometimes even
been moved to tears by sentimental and romantic films. Elizabeth had always
become emotional when she ‘caught’ him in such moments, and those situations
had normally evolved into lovemaking. James instinctively knew what was behind
his state of mind. Within him, side by side with the sorrow, a dark mass was
lurking and that was what had dried his tears. This mass consisted of deep,
heavy anger; desire to seek vengeance for the murder of Elizabeth and their
unborn daughter and other negative emotions, which he was feeling for the first
time in his life.

He had undergone another change during the last few days. He
had started seeing visions. Sometimes they came during the day when he was
plunged deep into his thoughts. Sometimes they came just as he was about to
fall asleep or right after waking up. He was fully conscious during the
visions. He saw them like transparent holograms overlapping reality. They
lasted only seconds. Most were related to Elizabeth: her corpse on a morgue
table with evidence of cruel blows to her head, scenes of her being kidnapped
and killed. Forensics had determined the cause of death as a ‘blow to the
occipital area with a blunt metal object’. In one of the visions, he saw her
receiving a blow of something like a hammer thrown by an invisible hand. He had
also had visions of an alien place – rocky scenery submerged in semi-darkness.
In the twilight floated strange, hardly discernible serpent-like forms.

Absorbed by the pain in his soul, James drove mechanically
through the streets of Eastbourne. He passed the Royal Hippodrome Theatre on
the way to the A27. The early afternoon traffic was unusually slow. There were
road works at the crossroads ahead and the traffic lights didn’t stay green
long enough to prevent a traffic jam. James estimated that he would get through
the third time the lights turned green. He lowered the window and breathed in
the fresh air which was loaded with a sea tang. He looked at the neighbouring
row of cars passing in the same direction, which were for some reason moving
more quickly. He saw a gold-coloured Peugeot, also with the windows down. He
recognized the faces of the two men sitting in it. He had seen them that
morning at the cemetery after Elizabeth’s funeral. He thought it strange to see
them again here.

His mobile, fixed to the dashboard in front of him, rang. It
was Irina. She expressed her condolences. She had come back from Algeria and
wanted to talk to him and to give him something. She said she was flying to her
country in a few days. “Sorry for bothering you. I’d understand if you don’t
want to meet me right now. I could leave the package for you in your office in
Brighton.”

“I’ll meet you, of course,” James responded without
hesitation. There were very few people he wanted to speak to these days.
Surprisingly, this Bulgarian lady-cop he hardly knew was one of them.

“I’m available. Any time,” said Irina.

The Whiteway Estate, Hampshire, UK

Rays of the spring sun penetrated the opened blinds of the
reception room. James was sitting in an armchair staring aimlessly at the
window. He had been doing this for some time and multi-coloured spots were
dancing in the air in front of him. On the table next to him was a glass of
whisky from which he had sipped once and then forgotten. The house was quiet.
Malee had gone to London after the funeral, and her father, Lao, had gone with
her.

James heard Pema’s soft footsteps. She appeared at the door
and said in a weak voice, “The policemen are here. Shall I invite them in?”
James looked at her, unable at first to understand what she was talking about.
“The police officer who called before – detective Stockton. He’s here with
another gentleman,” Pema explained.

Only now did James remember. About an hour ago, Pema had
told him that a police officer wanted to visit him. “Let them in,” he said.

Superintendent Peter Oliver was the other visitor. Pema
served tea for the guests and left them alone.

“We’re advancing with the investigation. Now we’re
clarifying key facts. This will soon bring results—” Stockton began.

“Do you have any concrete leads? Who did it and why?” James
uttered the last sentence in a low voice.

“I still can’t go into detail,” Stockton responded.
“Apologies for our intrusion at such a painful time, but there are a few
pressing questions I need to ask you.”

“Anything I can help with,” said James.

“Would you define how close you and your fiancée
were? I don’t mean intimacy; rather, the level of trust between you.”

“We didn’t have secrets,” James answered.

“Are you sure? No secrets? You had known each other for only
two years.” Stockton stared at him without blinking.

James cast him a sharp look. “We’ll save time and energy if
I only answer once per question,” he said irritably.

“I’d like to have precise answers,” Stockton insisted.

Superintendent Oliver jumped in. “Let’s not get excited.”

“Elizabeth was completely open with those she was close to,”
said James.

“Was there any case when she demonstrated … let’s say
unsound interest regarding your work for the security services?” Stockton
asked.

James felt a wave of irritation rising within him. What was
the detective trying to insinuate? He did not hide his feelings. “No. I don’t
understand why the hell you asked me that question.”

The detective did not look piqued by this outburst. “Was
your fiancée religious?” he asked.

“She belonged to the Anglican Church.”

“Does the name Allina Muratova ring any bells?”

“First time I’ve heard the name.”

“Allina Muratova is a Chechen refugee with British
citizenship. She works as a social worker, helping newly arrived immigrants to
adapt here. She also collects and sends aid to countries with problems. Allina
Muratova was a student of Miss Elizabeth Eden seven months ago in Haslemere.
She called Miss Eden after she finished the course. Does anything from that
sound familiar?”

“This woman wasn’t Elizabeth’s friend. Elizabeth knew many
people like her through those courses. I still don’t get the point,” said
James.

The superintendent intervened. “Allina Muratova is on the
International Watch List. People on this list are watched for connections with
international terrorist organizations. They’re a potentially risky contingent.”

“Not risky enough if she’s not been arrested,” James
opposed. “Anyhow, Elizabeth had nothing to do with that.”

“We just handle the facts while looking for answers,” said
Stockton.

“It’s a rather convoluted way of finding the killer,” James
said not so much ironically as with disappointment.

Stockton shoved his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a
little plastic bag with a cell phone in it. “We found it in Miss Eden’s
abandoned car. Is it hers?”

James peered at the cell. It was a new Sony. “I’ve not seen
it before,” he responded.

“I dare to ask – are you sure?”

“Totally.”

Stockton returned the bag to his inside pocket and glanced
at the superintendent. “In the week before the death of Miss Eden, phone calls
to Pakistan had been made from this phone. The only fingerprints on it are your
fiancée’s.”

James screwed up his face. This was madness.

“We managed to track down one of the calls. It’s the phone
number of a religious club in Pakistan. The members of that club gravitate
around a radical Islamic group called Sipah e Shahaba, or Friends of the
Prophet. How do you explain that?” Stockton asked.

“This is some kind of huge mistake,” said James. “It looks
like somebody has tried to implicate Elizabeth in something. What I don’t get
is why.”

“I don’t have any more questions,” Stockton said and stood
up. “We’ll keep you informed.”

“Wait for me outside,” the superintendent said to
Stockton.  When Stockton had gone, he turned to James. “Yeah, an
unpleasant story. Stockton is an experienced detective. I believe that
everything will be put in place,” he said.

“I know he’s doing his job. But I can’t be impartial. His
attempts to link Elizabeth with terrorists are ridiculous.” Anger could be
detected in James’ voice.

“It’s as you say. He’s just doing his job. But I wanted to
talk about something else. The department values your expertise highly. Irina
also gave very good feedback about your work.” The superintendent took an
envelope from his pocket and put it on the table. “This is an official letter.
Tomorrow you’ll get a cheque from the financial department. There’s a good
bonus for the Algeria trip.” He rose from his chair and offered James his hand.
“This ends your involvement in the Costov case. I have to go now.”

James did not take the superintendent’s outstretched hand.
“Strange. I’m relieved just as the investigation hots up. I wonder what’s urged
MI5 to get rid of me. Could it be because of what Stockton talked about?”

The superintendent lowered his arm and was silent for a few
seconds. “I’m sorry if you take it like that,” he said.

Near Moscow, Russia

Prior sat in his large-as-a-ballroom study behind a mahogany
desk, turning over sheets of paper from the big pile in front of him. Those who
knew him well, or did serious business with him, never used his real name,
Alexander Rodnov, in private conversations. He preferred to be called Prior. He
ran a variety of businesses in Russia and other countries. In the circles in
which he moved, he had a reputation as a mediator in problematic economic and
political situations, but his name had never been broadcast in the media.

The study, together with its adjoining secret depots and
offices, occupied half of the first floor of the three-storey house in Prior’s
residence near Moscow. It was tastefully furnished with antique upholstered
Russian chairs, sofas and reading tables, cupboards and bookshelves. All the
furniture, except the desk, was made of sandalwood, including the wainscoting
on every wall. The windows were adorned with heavy drapery. Hung on the walls
were paintings by old European masters, which would be formidable assets to the
collections of the biggest museums in the world.

The door opened and a heavy young man in a major-domo
costume appeared. “The ex-president and his people have arrived,” he announced.

“Technically he’s still president. They can wait,” said
Prior, returning his attention to the papers on his desk.

A few minutes after the major-domo had left, Prior suddenly
looked up. In the air in front of him was a blinking holographic red light. He
pressed his palm to a square black glass plate fixed sideways onto the desk and
a huge display panel appeared on the opposite wall. On the display was an Asian
man dressed in an expensive suit, sitting alone at a large table surrounded by
empty chairs. He was a man from the highest echelons of Chinese business.

He stood up and bowed deeply. “Prior,” he said with his head
lowered.

“Hello, dear friend.  How are things?

“Very good. How is it with you?”

Prior waved his hand carelessly. “Fine. Congratulations. I
hear the Red Elders supported your intention to invest in the UK.”

A look of awe swept over the man’s wide face. ‘Red Elders’
was a slang term for a secret forum of the Chinese Communist Party where all
important decisions were taken. A forum had been held two days ago to decide
who from the business elite should be given government protection. “Thank you.
I was given this privilege even though I barely deserve it.”

“Unnecessary modesty.”

“I’ll serve the cause better that way—”

Prior interrupted him. “Sure, sure.”

“My company will take a big share from the energy pie in the
UK.  I am also paving the way for two mine concessions in Europe. I would
like to have your approval,” said the Chinese man.

“My advice for you is to slow down the pace.”

“I could delay the process. Let’s say by a month.”

“That sounds good.”

“I was wondering if you could pass on a good word for me in
Brussels. For all that, we have people in key positions in the European
administration—”

Prior’s face turned red. “Your brain softens when you smell
profit.”

“Forgive me. I got carried away.” The Chinese man was
visibly perplexed.

“We’re preparing a crucial operation in the UK, you know
that.”

“Of course, Prior.”

“It needs cover and support on many levels in Europe and the
UK. There are also hidden factors in play. Bottom line, this operation can only
end up in success if, for the time being, we do not pursue anything else. Right
now there is no room for our political and economical activities in  any
European country. Do you understand this?”