You Will Never Find Me (33 page)

‘We told you,' said Jaime a little too quickly. ‘We don't know who we're dealing with yet. It could be dangerous for you—you could get killed.'

‘That's what I'm saying,' said Brito.

‘What do you mean?' asked Jesús.

Jaime shut him up with a look that took half his face away.

‘How much are we talking about?'

‘Thirty-five thousand euros.'

‘You've got to be fucking kidding,' said Jesús.

Another look that locked the words up in Jesús's throat as if he'd been stabbed.

Jaime sat back, looking at Brito carefully. How much did he know?

‘That Russian story. What did they pay you for that?' said Jaime. ‘And don't tell me it was anything like thirty-five thousand.'

‘This isn't the Russian story. That was a long-term investigation. You wanted instant information. I don't know why, but you did. I got it for you. Along the way I found the real story hidden inside. This one's got legs: intrigue, emotion, tragedy and . . . evil. And it's not over yet.'

‘Seven thousand,' said Jaime.

‘Thirty . . . two,' said Brito.

‘Ten.'

‘Thirty.'

Jesús watched them like it was a tennis game.

‘Meet you in the middle,' said Jaime. ‘No more.'

‘Twenty it is,' said Brito. ‘When and where shall we meet?'

‘Here in fifteen.'

The brothers left, headed up the street to Sol.

‘Are you fucking crazy?' said Jesús in a savage whisper over his brother's shoulder. ‘Twenty grand for that? El Osito will kill us.'

‘So
you
know how much Brito knows, do you?'

‘No.'

‘Well, shut the fuck up then. You think El Osito wants any attention from the cops with this deal he's trying to do with the English coming up? You think Vicente wants this new market to be destroyed even before it's got started? You think Vicente wants the cops anywhere near the guy who's supposed to be running his European operation?'

‘No, no, you're right.'

‘El Osito won't know anything about the money.'

‘You mean
we
pay for the story?' said Jesús. ‘El Osito told us if it cost money . . . '

‘I know he did. But we're paying just to keep everything quiet. That way El Osito stays calm,' said Jaime. ‘We go to him and ask for twenty thousand, you don't know what he'll say. He might shrug his shoulders. He might tell us to kill Raul Brito. We do that and somebody somewhere will put us and him together.'

 

INSTRUCTIONS

 

Mr. Bobkov will use his own car, the BMW. We will accept one female driver in the car with him.

No mobile phones are permitted in the car.

He will go from the house in Netherhall Gardens to Denmark Street near Tottenham Court Road Tube station.

He will go to an Internet café above a shop called Wunjo Guitars, where he will ask for a package left for Mr. Bobkov. He will have to show some ID.

From there the driver will take him to Whitechapel Road, where he will receive more instructions.

There must be no tracker system in the car.

The money must be with Mr. Bobkov at all times except when he goes into the Internet café.

If the car is followed or any of these instructions are not obeyed the deal is off and Sasha will be killed and you will not hear from us again.

 

The phone rang. Kidd hit the button. Bobkov held up his hand.

‘This is Bobkov.'

Silence for a moment.

‘Finally, I wondered how long it would take,' said the voice. ‘Just for security: what did you give Sasha for his last birthday?'

‘Nike JR Mercurial Victory 111 Turf boys' football boots, in orange.'

‘You have the instructions?'

‘Yes.'

‘Everything is clear?'

‘No.'

‘What's the problem?'

‘There are no timings. When is this supposed to happen?'

‘You will be told that later.'

‘What do I get in return for this money?'

‘Nothing. It is purely to establish trust. To see if we can work with each other.'

‘No. I have to have something more tangible than that for seven hundred and fifty thousand.'

‘How about Sasha's right leg from the knee down?'

The phone went dead.

 

The door opened with such force that it cracked back against the wall. Sasha started. No words. They grabbed him, one around the arms and shoulders, the other around the legs, and held him steady.

‘What's your favourite foot with the ball?'

Sasha was too terrified to speak. A third man leaned over and smacked him around the head.

‘Which foot?'

‘Right,' whispered Sasha.

The man took off the shoe and sock from Sasha's right foot.

Sasha felt something sharp and metallic around his big toe.

‘What are you doing?' he whimpered.

‘Shut up, and when I tell you to, scream as loud as you can.'

‘What?'

‘Scream!'

The bolt cutters tightened around his toe and Sasha screamed. He felt the warmth of his own blood trickling between his toes. He screamed even louder.

 

‘These people,' said Bobkov, furious. ‘It's not about the money. I know what this is.'

Nobody said anything.

‘They know all about the technology. They refuse to talk. They won't negotiate. They make threats. They offer nothing. They demand trust,' said Bobkov. ‘Trust from
me
. Those fucking bastards.'

‘You have to keep calm, Andrei,' said Kidd. ‘This is part of the plan. They know you're a cool customer. They know they have to take you to the edge and hang you over it to get what they want.'

‘It's not about the money now,' he said. ‘It's not even about Alexander Tereshchenko. This is about control. This is about powerlessness. This is about insignificance.'

‘Let's just play it out,' said Kidd.

‘If it's the FSB what do they want with money?' said Bobkov, unable to let go of the rant. ‘It's nothing to them. They're not doing this for the money. Seven hundred and fifty fucking thousand.'

‘This trust that they want,' said Mercy.

Bobkov wheeled round on her.

‘They don't know the meaning of the word,' he said, pointing out the window as if they were right there. ‘Trust to them could just as easily mean suspicion or doubt. You don't know what it's like. The world thinks we've moved on, that the USSR is no longer with us, that the communists have disappeared. They haven't. They've just scratched out the title of their party. It's all still there. The apparatus is still in place. Even the aim is the same. It's just more openly criminal, that's all.'

‘Do you think this trust they're asking for is more a demand for you to close down your investigation into the Tereshchenko killing?' said Mercy.

‘They're working on that,' said Bobkov. ‘That you can believe. Irina Demidova being planted at DLT for instance.'

Mercy's mobile vibrated. Papadopoulos.

‘We've got a fingerprint match with Sasha,' he said. ‘That was the car they used to kidnap the boy.'

‘O.K., so what are you going to do now?'

‘I'm doing what you ordered me to do,' said Papadopoulos. ‘I'm meeting Olga for a drink.'

‘That's a subtle shift of responsibility,' said Mercy. ‘Don't blame me if you don't make it home.'

‘You sound different.'

‘It's complicated . . . but the short of it is that Amy's alive. We don't know where. All we know is that she wasn't killed in Madrid.'

Bobkov's mobile rang. He tore it out of his pocket. Hit the receive button twice by accident and the loudspeaker was activated. The video played out with Sasha's screams resonating tinnily around the room. Bobkov dropped the phone as if it had gone suddenly live.

The fixed-line phone rang in the room. Mercy hung up. Kidd hit the button.

‘Are you ready now?' asked the voice.

‘I want to speak to my son,' roared Bobkov.

‘The technology you're using makes that impossible,' said the voice.

‘You want to find out if I can be trusted, but I have to be able to trust you,' said Bobkov. ‘And what do you do. You send me a piece of shit. You torture my son and send it to me. You offer me nothing. Where is the trust?'

‘No, that's true. You give us trust and we make you fear. That is how it works,' said the voice. ‘Now we stop with the talk and proceed with the action. Once we see you're prepared to act in a certain way then you will see the same from us. If you don't then all your fears will be realised. Do you have a driver?'

‘Yes.'

‘Name?'

‘Mercy.'

‘Is she the black policewoman?'

‘That's right,' said Bobkov, raising an eyebrow.

‘Good. You're learning, Mr. Bobkov. You will leave now for Denmark Street. Remember, no mobile phones. No tracker system.'

 

‘Do you always take your suspects out to dinner?' asked Olga.

‘Yeah, I'm the good cop,' said Papadopoulos. ‘Since when did you become a suspect?'

‘So Mercy's the bad cop?'

‘You don't want to get on the wrong side of Mercy,' said Papadopoulos. ‘There's Mercy-ful and Mercy-less. I've seen them both and I know which one I prefer.'

The waitress brought a meze platter for them to share. Papadopoulos was drinking beer; Olga was halfway down a glass of white wine. They were sitting in the Beehive on Crawford Street and Papadopoulos was hoping he could count this as an expense while another part of his brain was thinking up a strategy for explaining the amount on his credit card bill when his girlfriend did the monthly accounts.
They
didn't go out to the Beehive on a Thursday evening, not on the combined salaries of a detective sergeant and a social worker saving for a deposit on a London flat.

‘Did Mercy-ful put you up to this?' asked Olga.

‘I don't think she had dining with the witness in mind,' said Papadopoulos. ‘Then again, I told her you were way out of my league.'

Olga laughed. She liked that. Didn't mind this good-looking, self-deprecating Greek. Good men were thin on the ground, even in London.

‘So what do you want to know?' asked Olga. ‘Now that you've got me under interrogation.'

‘I was wondering how I was going to work you round to that.'

‘Nobody works me round to anything, George.'

‘No, I don't think they do,' he said. ‘Not even Mr. Dudko.'

‘Not even? Not ever. Dudko's a dud. He's got all the connections but they're just not working too well in his brain.'

‘He made out it was a joint decision of his partners to take on Irina—Zlata Yankov.'

‘See what I mean? Can't even admit to his own crap decisions. I know for certain that Igor Tipalov wasn't even consulted,' said Olga, stuffing pitta bread piled with hummus into her beautiful, lipsticked mouth. ‘I need some more wine before I get started on Zlata.'

George told the waiter to bring the bottle and leave it, poured her a hefty glass.

‘This is my version of waterboarding,' said Papadopoulos. ‘Two bottles and people tell me everything.'

‘So what do you do, you and Mercy?' asked Olga. ‘I mean I know you're cops, but there's bobbies, pigs, filth and heat . . . Where are you on the scale?'

‘Heat,' said Papadopoulos without hesitation. ‘We're in the Met's Kidnap and Special Investigations Team.'

Mercy had been right. Olga was impressed.

‘So this isn't about killing anybody?'

‘That might be part of it. Do you think Zlata Yankov's capable of that?'

Olga stopped, looked at him seriously.

‘I wouldn't put it past her,' she said. ‘She's one of those women who always gets what she wants and seems game for any strategy. She was all over Dudko like a rash. With someone who could see through her better, she might well resort to murder. She struck me as amoral.'

‘That's pretty strong.'

‘To call her immoral would imply that she knew what morals were.'

‘I can see I've got you started now.'

‘So who “might” have been killed?'

‘Zlata was having an affair with someone who was found dead in his bath this morning.'

He looked up. She was shocked. The babaganoush wasn't making it to her mouth. She hadn't expected it to get this real.

‘Have you ever heard of a guy called Andrei Bobkov?' asked Papadopoulos, thinking of a likely connection.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘It's not him, is it?'

‘No. How do you know him?'

‘He's one of Mr. Tipalov's clients,' said Olga. ‘Mr. Tipalov is our energy specialist, which includes by-products of oil and gas production. Mr. Bobkov trades in chemical gases.'

‘Just before I met you this evening I had it confirmed to me that DLT Consultants' Mercedes CLS was used in the kidnap of Andrei Bobkov's son Sasha.'

Olga slapped the edge of the table with both hands. There was a hard
crack
from the multiple rings on her fingers, which startled people at the other tables even in the crowded roar of a London gastropub.

‘I know Sasha,' she said in a ripping whisper, eyes wide open. ‘He's a lovely little boy. Probably not so little now. Is that what this is all about?'

‘There's another level of complication that we're trying to disentangle,' said Papadopoulos, ‘but I have to be able to trust you to keep your mouth shut about this. You can't talk to anyone at DLT, or anyone anywhere, in fact.'

‘That's why I'm employed by DLT. I know how to keep my mouth shut. That's why Zlata was such a problem for me. Always asking questions. I had to keep changing the password on my computer with her around.'