Dark Matter (4 page)

Natasha sat upright, smiled at her mother, scrambled off the bed, and raced out of the room.  Solomon turned to the pile of letters and putting the others aside, opened the one from her long dead mother and began to read.

Solomon sat up in bed, her chest heaving with dry tears.  To learn that her mother might be alive, that she and her daughter were in danger; that they were going to have to go on the run.  This was almost more than she could bear.  Solomon had so many questions. 
What danger and from who?  Father?  What had mother meant by “not really your father”?  Could mother really be alive after all this time?

Natasha came into the room carrying a large breakfast tray, a look of concentration fixed on her young features she was determined not to spill anything.  Solomon looked at her daughter, any doubts she had evaporated. 
We will leave today.  We will follow mother's story so my little Natasha will be safe.

Solomon was packing for them both; as they would need to keep alternately warm then cool plenty of layers were required, comfortable inconspicuous clothes, nothing “dressy”.  She had told her daughter that they were going on a short birthday trip and that she could take one toy.  Natasha returned with a small fluffy toy sheep thrust under her left arm. 

'I'm taking Sheepy.’  She announced proudly. 

This was just fine with Solomon, as it looked harmless enough.  They left in Solomon's Mercedes after telling the housekeeper that they were going to stay with friends for a couple of nights. 
That,
Solomon thought,
should buy us a few days or so before we are missed, before my father puts out an alert.

They headed north into the heart of St. Petersburg and parked close to the train station.  She took Natasha with her to the bank, withdrawing all she could; this would be the last money they would have.  They left the bank and walked over into the busy main concourse of the train station.  Solomon looked for a ticket seller who appeared conscientious.  She approached the counter and spoke in a clear, articulate voice to the assistant.

'May I have two one way tickets to Helsinki please, one for myself and one for my daughter....Natasha stand still please!'

This last part she said loudly and distinctly, more to the assistant than her daughter, who after all was behaving well.

'Thank you,’ Solomon said to the young man, 'what time is the train?'

'16:00' 

'Is it on time?’  Solomon asked, desperate to maintain the conversation and her eye contact with the ticket seller. 

'Yes, yes it's fine...next please.'  The man said over Solomon's shoulder to the old lady waiting in the queue behind her. 

Solomon made a display of herself by tripping over her own suitcase, just to be sure.  She led Natasha towards the platform, but left by an exit close by.  They made their way back to the car where Solomon stashed both of their identities; cards, passports, everything. 
They will do us no good from here on.
  Solomon also decided that they would leave behind one other thing, her father’s surname.  Solomon Bondarenko and Natasha Bondarenko would now be simply Solomon and Natasha.  

Natasha tugged at her mother's arm. 

'Mummy, aren't we going to Helsinki like the man in the station said?' 

'No dear.'  Solomon looked down at her daughter.  'We are going to play a special game, it’s called
follow the story
.’

'I love games, tell me how to play it.'

'OK, but first we have to get to the bus station, because that is where the story starts.'

Solomon and Natasha entered the Metro-rail, purchasing tickets for the main bus station.  As the carriage trundled from station to station the cold tingling ache she had been feeling, from her wrists to her shoulders, increased and started to throb.  She knew that this would only be the start of it; nothing in her life had truly prepared her for this. 
My military training was based on an enemy I could identify.  Now the enemy is potentially anyone, anyone but Natasha and I.
  Solomon suddenly knew what it was to be alone in the world.  She hugged her daughter tightly.

15:46   27 October  [12:46  27 October GMT]

St. Petersburg Bus en-route to Moscow, Russia.

Solomon already regretted that she could not have withdrawn more money and having to leave behind all of her identity including credit cards.  She had grown up in a privileged life.  Money had never been an issue for Solomon; she had never even had to consider the value of one item over another.  Her friends grew up much the same, the children of the elite.  They would buy a pair of shoes that would be a working person's weekly income, a jacket a month's income.  They had wardrobes full of clothes and most of it rarely worn, destined to disappear come the new season.  Now Solomon had just one suitcase full of clothes, and a very limited amount of money.  Natasha seemed to be enjoying herself though.

             
Looking down at her playing with her toy sheep Solomon thought back to her own childhood.  She remembered how, when she had been growing up, her mother had always told her different stories at bedtime.  Then she started to repeat one story over and over again, “The Queen and the Princess.”  Natasha stopped playing and looked up at her mother.

'Mummy.'

'Yes dear?’  Solomon replied, ready for any one of a million different questions, Natasha having reached that age when you start to question everything.

'Mummy, you were going to tell me the story.' 

Solomon stroked her daughter's hair.  ‘OK, settle down and I’ll tell you.’

Natasha put her toy aside and sat upright.

'The Queen and the Princess.'  Solomon began.  'The Queen and the Princess escaped from the dragon's lair.  They fooled the dragon by pretending to head north to the land of fins, instead they cleverly headed south to the city of the circus.  They continued on and crossed into the land of the king.  They went on their way to the bird that could not fly and from there they continued into the land of laws and poets.  They crossed the sea into the land of ancient soldiers.  Into the land of clocks and chocolate they stopped where it was both safe and familiar, “Do you have anything for me?”  The Queen asked, “What is your name?”  The Queen told him her name and her date of birth and then she received the gift.  They continued their journey through the land of food and crossed the sea into the land of knights.  Their journey nearly complete they sort out the knight who had served in the town of their birth.  Now they were safe, they could finally relax knowing that the dragon could not get them.'

Natasha looked up at her mother, her lips pursed pensively around the first word.  'It's, it's' she wavered nervously, 'It's not a very good story mummy.' 

Natasha maintained eye contact with her mother, conscious that she had just criticised her mother’s story.  Solomon looked down at her daughter and smiled.

'No, Natasha dear, it is not a very good story.  But I don't think my mother ever intended it to entertain.'

'What do you mean mummy?'

'Oh nothing dear...look you've dropped Sheepy.'

Solomon picked the toy up from beneath her daughter's seat where it had fallen.  Natasha clung to the toy, snuggling it into her, her left arm around it, her right hand stroking its head.

Solomon leaned back into her seat and thought about their escape.  It seemed strange to escape from her own home, her own father. 
He is not your father
, her mother seemed confident on that point,
mostly confident,
she reminded herself.  Solomon re-read the words from the letter, “Your father, hah!  He is not your father, not really.  I cannot risk telling you what I know, but I can help you.” 
What does “not really” mean?
  She wondered. 
What could she not risk telling me; after all, she had told me that Natasha and I were in danger, what could be more important than that?

Solomon had only questions.  She did not have anyone to confide in, but she did have a long journey ahead of her to think.  She also had a purpose and a plan. 
That will have to do, for the moment anyway. 
The bus continued its long journey south towards Moscow and the Moscow Circus.

3
Reasons

11:38  27 October  [11:38  27 October GMT]

Alderman, Nicholson & Myer – ANM Banking Group, London, England.

Jack drove at the barrier at some speed, braking sharply to avoid decapitation when it failed to rise.  'Shit', he muttered to himself as he screeched to a halt, his heart racing, urging his blood around his body.  He sat still for a few seconds, beads of sweat forming on his brow, his body reacting to the sudden change in heart rate.  The security officer replaced the phone, gave Jack a cheery wave and the barrier lifted.  Jack pulled the car forward and drove out of the car park leaving his career behind him.

Ever since he was five years old, Jack Hamilton’s ambition had been routed in his fascination with gold.  When he discovered that he could earn a living from dealing gold, no other career would do.  After having served in both the British and US Marines, Jack had found the gold trading position he sought with a U.S. bank based in London.  That had been ten years ago.

Now in his fortieth year he had been working on his MBA part-time for the past three years and desperately wanted to finish it.  The outstanding item was his thesis, “Fundamental Value – Tokens and the Gold Standard – The impact of psychology on 10,000 years of the Market System”.  His thesis was to be the definitive work on the importance of gold in economies and how people’s attitude towards gold had shaped the world.  He had just negotiated a sabbatical from his company in order to give him sufficient time to properly develop his theory, research it, and publish it. 

The drive back to his Belgravia residence gave Jack some much needed time to think about this research.  He knew that one of his greatest attributes was that he was very task orientated, situated in the now, rather than worrying about the future.  However he had come to appreciate this “daydreaming” quality that he had seen in others;
theories
, he had realised,
do not come about when worrying about the now.  If Newton had only been concerned with the “now” when that apple had fallen on his head he would have moved away from the apple tree to prevent it from happening again. 
Newton had not though, and his concern about the fact of why something happened, defined his as a scientific mind.  Jack realised that he was going to need some help in getting his mind into the right place to be able to develop his theory. 
I guess I’m going to have to go and see George.
  Jack dialled his brother’s number.

'Hi Jack what can I do for you?'

'I don't want to trouble you George, but I wonder if I could pop in and see you, I need your take on something.'

The knot in his stomach returned becoming a living thing once again.  It spread out, stiffening all of the muscles in his lower back and then climbed up to his neck, almost immobilising him.  It stopped, coiled around the inside of him, daring Jack to make any sudden moves, ready to cause him pain.

'Sure,' George replied, 'It would be great to see you and catch up, I’ll put the kettle on.'

Although Jack and George had generally gotten along, they also had their differences.  The two things that did always bring them together, apart from their strong feeling of family, were their sense of humour and, now occasional, love of beer.  Jack’s issue with George was that he rarely planned, for the future, for tomorrow, for anything, that combined with an almost obsessive lack of personal responsibility had driven Jack to distraction at times.  Jack had matured some, more willing to accept his younger brother for who he was, not who he wasn't.  He still wished that George would get a handle on life, professors of Military History are supposed to be responsible individuals, not “goofing off” to go surfing and partying with their students.  George on the other hand, happy with his life, often wished that Jack would just chill out.

Jack breathed deeply standing in front of George’s house in Windsor as he waited for the door to open.  He had bought the house for his brother after George had won his scholarship to Eton.  At ten years older than George, he was nineteen when he had assumed both the moral and legal responsibility for both his brother and his sister Tania. 
              George Hamilton had his owns feelings about his brother “popping round” to see him.  Whilst he both loved and genuinely liked his brother, he didn't appreciate the way that he could feel Jack judging him and his lifestyle.  His real reason for not seeing his brother more often was that each time reminded them of the loss of their parents.

It had happened when George was only nine.  Their father, the US ambassador to Great Britain and their mother, herself the daughter of a British ambassador, were kidnapped while attending a conference abroad.  Held for one hundred and sixty eight days their ordeal finally ended on Christmas day when they were both murdered, execution style with a knife to the throat, film of it given to the news agencies.

After the funeral, George still sat his exams at Eton for the chance of a Junior Scholarship; he attended the interview alone, refusing his housekeeper and nanny to come in with him.  He managed to keep his nerve all the way through until he came to the last part of the interview.  Presented with a standard form of personal details, likes, dislikes, pets and hobbies it required a parent’s signature.  His bottom lip quivering he handed the form back to the head master.  'My apologies sir, I have tried to complete it but unfortunately my...my brother is not here to sign it.'  The headmaster later remarked to the bursar how truly rare it was to find such courage in one so young.

When the door finally opened, Jack was treated to the usual aroma, a subtle blend of last night’s curry mixed with used clothes and a dash of stale beer.  Jack followed his brother into the kitchen where the kettle switched itself off in a cloud of steam whilst George rescued two mugs from the sink.  He made an attempt at rinsing them under the tap and reached for the instant coffee.  Jack watched closely.  When George offered one of the mugs to Jack, he decided to take it graciously and opt to drink from the side without the leftover lipstick. 
A conquest of some previous night no doubt
.

'So what’s up then?'  George asked.

Jack started to explain about his sabbatical from work; how he wanted to finish his MBA and that the only outstanding item was his thesis. 

‘I obviously have some ideas for my thesis but I’d really appreciate your views.’

‘Well,’ George began, ‘that depends upon what you want to find out.  I guess you’ll do all the standard research, where gold comes from, how it’s mined, how much there is, how it was formed, it’s atomic composition and number, it’s 79 by the way, that sort of stuff.  Then I guess you’ll do the uses through history bit; Jewellery, tableware, images of deities, spanning a few millennia and finally I’m guessing you’ll move on to the bit that really interests you, it’s value in trade.  That will be the tricky bit for sure.'

George ended his short sermon by staring off into the middle distance.  This was one of the things that George did that really wound Jack up, speaking as though he were in an auditorium giving a lecture.  Jack caught himself;
I came here seeking George’s help because he thinks the way he does, so I can't really criticism him for it
.

George finished his gazing and returned to his speech.  'Yes, that will be the tricky bit for sure.  I suppose if you’re looking for a different take on things I’d follow the money and the people but not the gold.'

George was fully engaged now, hardly even aware of Jack’s presence, Jack leaned in closer, his breathing slow and quiet waiting for his brother to continue.

'You see you have to ask yourself why anyone would really want gold, it doesn’t really do anything except sit there and look pretty.  You have to dig out around a hundred tons of ore to get just one ounce of gold and only then after you have subjected the ore to the most expensive and involved of processes.  Why would anyone exchange his or her time or food for it?  Simply doesn’t make sense.  Iron,
now there
is something worth mining, you can make bridges with it, railroads, and steam engines.  Iron was literally, what the industrial revolution was built on, it goes through a similar but less complicated process to gold, but you can actually do something with the end result.  Or take coal for example, yes, you can only use it once, but at least it produces heat, light, and most importantly energy.  Those are extremely important, heat keeps you alive during cold winters, and light allows you to do more with your day.  Furthermore, you can cook with the heat, improving the flavour and variety of foods one can consume.  Whilst energy allows you to do more, transport goods over vast distances, power refrigeration to preserve food.  If the industrial revolution was built on iron, it was powered by coal.  Yes, Iron and Coal, much better investments than gold.'

There it is,
Jack realised,
there is the angle, which I would probably have never gotten.  Coal and Iron should have been more sought after than Gold.

Jack stayed just long enough to be polite; as he drove back into London, his mind kept going over his brother’s words. 
If Coal and Iron are better investments, then why has gold been so sought after for thousands of years?
  Jack started to think about his own job, for the first time ever, he was really considering the fundamental aspect of his job
.  Gold trader, a trader in gold, one who buys and sells gold.  But why?  The jewellery industry can buy gold straight from the mines as can the scientific industry.  Why are people trading in gold?  Why have they in the past? 
Jack realised that his brother was right, if he followed the gold he would get nowhere, but if he followed the money to the people who had bought gold throughout history and if he could understand their reasons then he would have an excellent basis for his thesis.

09:17  28 October    [06:17  28 October GMT]

Bondarenko Mansion House, Pavlovsk Suberb, 30km south of St. Petersburg, Russia.

General Bondarenko awoke, unsure as to why until there was another knock on his bedroom door.  The knock was loud but timid at the same time, like a naughty child reporting to the head master’s office. 

‘Come in Mrs Golovko.’

The General sat upright in bed as a tired woman in her late fifties entered. 

'I’m so sorry to disturb you Sir.'  She began, her words not as strong as she would have liked. 
It is never easy with the General,
she thought,
such a volatile man, quick to anger and nasty with it.

'That’s OK Tatiana what is it?'

'One of the maids signed for a letter yesterday, only the postman now says that he should have had one of the householders sign and your daughter is not here today, so I wonder if I could ask you to sign please.'

The General’s stomach turned. 
I haven’t seen any recorded mail, and Solomon doesn’t have any dealings that should require recorded mail. 

'Where is the postman?'

The General threw back the bed covers, grabbed his dressing gown from the back of a chair, and made for the bedroom door.  Mrs Golovko scurried behind him as he swept from the room.  Taking the stairs two at a time, he ran straight at the postman who flinched at his approach.

'Give me your manifest!'

Unsure as to what the General referred to, the postman simply offered him the only thing he was carrying, the list of recorded mail from the day before.  The General snatched it and ran his finger down the list of addressees.  He found the entry addressed to his house.  It was as he feared, addressed to Solomon, from a firm of Swiss lawyers. 
This,
he thought,
can only mean one thing, that witch I married has conspired against me and now Solomon knows.  She must be stopped no matter the cost. 
He threw his signature across the page and dismissed the postman.  Mrs Golovko took her queue and excused herself; she would inform the cook to prepare the General's breakfast at once. 

The General went into his study and withdrew his personal address book from his desk drawer.  He dialled the number and barked into the phone when it was answered. 

'Pushkin, is that you?'

'Yes General, it is.’  Captain Pushkin of the St. Petersburg police force stiffened in his chair and focused his entire attention on the phone call; he knew General Bondarenko’s reputation. 

'I have evidence in connection with the murder of the Professor.'

Pushkin didn't interrupt nor did he bother to ask how the General knew of the death of Professor Doran, let alone that it was now a murder investigation.  That information had not yet been released.  He listened as the General continued.

'The evidence cannot be released to you, at least not yet as there is a question of State Security involved, however one of those involved in the murder was Solomon Bondarenko.'

'But,' stammered Pushkin 'but, that is your daughter.'

'I know it is my daughter!  But she is now an enemy of the motherland and must be stopped, dead or alive.'  General Bondarenko slammed down his phone.