The Deal (26 page)

“Are you really sure, Sara?”

She nodded without words.

“There are other ways,” continued Jonathan, “and if it goes wrong you’ll be in real personal danger. I’m not sure that we could reach you in time.”

There was no response.

“Right, ok, we’re with you,” stated Jonathan.

“Are we?” said Abbi, looking intently at Sara. “You realise that you’ll have to be Sara Flemming. There’s no time to create a false identity.”

But Sara just nodded. She had Gavin in her sights.

Could it be, thought Oliver to himself, ‘Night on Bold Mountain’? Was this the piece of music that was proving so elusive to identify?

He was still reeling from the week’s events and, in particular, the putdown administered by his colleague during the Thursday meeting. He had tried to discuss events with Andrew, but the chief executive seemed dazzled by the potential earnings from the Russian deal.

Ascent, he thought. Could ‘night’ be mistaken for ‘ascent’?

He had spent his lunch hour in the Barbican music shop, discussing his mystery music with the manager. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. The piano start, the strings, the move up the scales, the trumpets and the drums.

“It could be one of ‘The Five’,” the manager suggested.

Oliver was then introduced to this group of Russian composers, sometimes also referred to as ‘The Mighty Handful’ or even ‘The Mighty Coterie’. The manager became expansive, as was usual when he found a rare, willing listener. He managed to deliver the following information in about two breathless minutes.

Their formation began in 1856. Two Russian composers, Mily Balakirev and Cesar Cui, met and were joined a year later by Modest Mussorgsky, and then by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov in 1861 and Alexander Borodin in 1862. In that year all were in their twenties, apart from Rimsky-Korsakov who was only eighteen. All were self-trained amateur musicians. Their nationalistic approach to composing, based in part on village songs, Cossack and Caucasian dances, church chants and church bells, created their reputation for reaching out for the “soul of Russian music”.

Looking down the list of works by Mussorgsky, it was Oliver who spotted ‘Night on Bold Mountain’. He could barely contain his excitement. “Ok, that’s enough history,” he said. “I’ve a feeling we might have identified the composer!” However, disappointment immediately followed when this proved to be an orchestral piece without piano.

Nevertheless, as far as Oliver was concerned, Mussorgsky could well be the composer of the music he sought. On the advice of the manager he purchased a CD containing ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’. Perhaps the most famous of Mussorgsky’s piano works, this was composed in 1874 following the sudden death of the composer’s friend, the artist Viktor Hartmann. The music was written as a dedication and to celebrate an exhibition of over four hundred of the artist’s works in the Academy of Fine Arts in Saint Petersburg.

Late on the Friday evening, in his Clerkenwell home, Oliver turned down the lights, poured a glass of white wine and let the music wash over him. However, he only heard the first few bars of the two Promenades which introduced the main sections. As he nodded off, he missed Mussorgsky’s depiction of the motion of walking through the picture gallery.

At around ten past nine in the evening of a glorious July day, Dimitri was smiling to himself in the lounge bar of the Dorchester Hotel in Park Lane, and pondering whether to telephone for an escort to entertain him during the night ahead. The usual charge was one thousand pounds, and there were no limitations. He drank some more vodka. He was pleased with the day’s work. Tomorrow in his hotel bedroom he would rehearse for the start of Monday’s presentations. He was frustrated that he had been unable to contact Abbi, whom Gavin had found out was in France. Nevertheless, Dimitri was ready for Harriman Agnew Capital to raise ten million pounds, which he anticipated he could double in about three weeks.

The waiters were busy scurrying between tables to answer the demands of some impatient guests. The pianist was playing a piece by Debussy which she followed with ‘God Only knows’, made famous in the 1960s by The Beach Boys.

Dimitri was tired, but enjoying the adrenalin that came with the anticipation of making money. He needed a woman and had a number of ideas on how he would spend his time with her. He refused to wear a rubber. The agency knew that and charged extra, without any protest from their client. He decided that he would make the call.

He had already noticed the two women two tables away from him. The redhead he didn’t fancy but the skinny girl with the crop top and leather skirt took his attention. As he raised his glass to his lips, the two women suddenly stood up and the redhead began screaming at her companion.

“You slut! You whoring slut! Touch him again and I’ll fucking...”

She didn’t finish her sentence, instead swinging her open hand hard into the other girl’s face. The girl was knocked backwards, stumbled and then fell across the next table and right into Dimitri’s lap. He instantly held her to him, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, and stared in amazement at the attack. The management arrived in force and took hold of the redhead. They asked the girl, still being held in Dimitri’s arms, whether she wanted to press charges. Between her tears she managed to shake her head. The manager asked her if she needed medical assistance, but Dimitri announced that he would look after her. Another member of staff brought a bag over and placed it by the girl. The redhead was led away and the tables were straightened.

Dimitri had now positioned the girl into the space beside him. He snapped his fingers and, following a terse order, a brandy was served. She gulped it back. There was a reddening weal across the side of her face. She located her bag and took out some tissues and a tube of cream which she applied to her injury.

“What’s your name?” asked Dimitri.

“Sara.”

“What was that incident about? Why did she hit you?”

“She thinks I want to steal her boyfriend. They’re breaking up and she needs an excuse. I was in the way.” Sara looked at her rescuer, wiping her tears away with her hand. “May I have another brandy please?” He snapped his fingers at a waiter. The drink was served and once again Sara finished it rather quickly.

“My name is Dimitri. Dimitri Petraffus. I own coal mines in Russia. I am here on business.”

“You’re on your own?” asked Sara.

“I have staff here,” replied Dimitri, “but tonight I’m on my own.”

Sara picked up her bag and said that she needed to go to the cloak room. Dimitri followed her with his eyes and decided not to telephone the agency. When she returned she’d put on a white top.

“Are you married?” asked Sara.

“Three times,” roared Dimitri. “I like you.”

Slowly she began to feel comfortable in his presence. She soon recovered her poise and when Dimitri invited her to have dinner with him, she accepted. She said she had to make a phone call. She went outside and returned eight minutes later.

After they’d finished their meal, Dimitri asked Sara if she would care to join him in his bedroom for drinks. She refused. They carried on talking and Dimitri asked her many questions about herself, her work (she was a researcher for an MP) and her male friends. Again Dimitri suggested they should go to his room for the evening. He offered her one thousand pounds. This time Sara accepted his invitation.

They reached the tenth floor and entered his suite. Dimitri disappeared and took a shower, before reappearing in a white towelling robe. Sara handed him a large vodka from one of the four bottles she’d found by the ice bucket. She’d switched on the music system and the sound of Beethoven filled the room.

“Now, Dimitri,” she laughed. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really in London? You haven’t told me the truth.”

“You’re a clever girl, Sara,” he said. “But why should I tell you?”

“How about because every time you reveal something interesting I’ll remove a piece of my clothing?”

“Ok. Good. I like that game.” Dimitri re-arranged the table so that they sat opposite each other with the bottle of vodka between them. Sara had put some ice in a small bowl. While Dimitri stood up to take a phone call, she slipped a pill into his drink.

“Good, we start our fun.” He undid his robe, but Sara stretched across and pulled the two sides together to cover his masculinity.

“I am raising ten million pounds from some people in the City. What will you take off?”

“Nothing. That’s not enough. I want something much more interesting. Who are these people?”

He was beginning to slur already and Sara realised she had to slow the process down.

“OK. I will tell you. I am raising money on my mines south of Moscow in the Donetskii Basin. A firm called Harriman Agnew. They are getting it for me. Now, you take off your top.”

“No. Not yet. You must try harder. Why’s that interesting?”

“Because I only own one mine. They think I own seven!” Dimitri roared with laughter and Sara took off her top. She was wearing a pink, low cut bra. She had neat, full breasts and her nipples were pressing against the material. She poured Dimitri another drink.

“Dimitri. You’re a naughty boy. But how, if you own one mine, do they think you own seven?”

“You English. You love paperwork. All I do is understand what you want and give it to you. They keep telling me ‘it is FSA regulations’.”

“FSA?”

“Financial Services Authority. They scare them all. Not me. Rules make it easy. I read the rules. Me and my lawyers, we work out the answers. You take off your clothes, Sara.”

“You make it sound far too easy,” said Sara, as Beethoven continued the evening concert in the background.

“As I say, you clever girl. I tell you what happened. You take off your clothes.”

“We’ll see, Dimitri. What happened?”

“They sent a nice man called Duncan to see us. He was a tough guy. We tried with him with a woman. She was a beautiful Russian hostess. He said ‘no’. We gave him a lot of money. He gave it back.”

Sara took off her bra and Dimitri’s erection shot out from under his towelling robe.

“Wow,” exclaimed Sara.

“You remove your skirt,” ordered Dimitri.

“So how did you fool this…what did you say his name was...David?”

“Duncan. We planned it carefully. We showed him our mine. My only mine. We then take him to see another five mines. He could not hold his drink. He thought he visited six mines. But before we arrive at each mine, my lorries reach that mine before us. Sara,” he roared out, “he counted the same seven lorries five different times!”

Sara took off her skirt.

“Even better, Sara…We don’t even own the other six mines!”

“Dimitri, you’re a clever man, aren’t you?”

Sara took off one of her hold-up stockings.

“Two mines owned by my competitors. I had to take some armed guards for a little… persuasion.”

Sara took off the other stocking.

“You take off your knickers now, Sara.”

“Dimitri, you fooled this man but it can’t be as simple as this. You laugh at our rules but it can’t be that easy.”

“Take off your knickers,” ordered the Russian.

Sara’s heart rate was now in excess of one hundred and twenty. She knew she was entering into dangerous territory. She removed her final item of clothing. Dimitri stared at her.

“Open your legs!” he commanded.

“Dimitri. I want you to fuck me as hard as you can.”

He took off his robe and displayed an amazing amount of body hair. He went round to Sara, pulled her out of her chair, and dragged her to the bed.

She grabbed his penis and encouraged him to lie beside her. She went down on him and began sucking, but sat up suddenly.

“Dimitri,” she cried. “One more vodka.” She leaped off the bed and went to the bottles. She poured two glasses and into one she dropped a pill which she had hidden earlier at the back of the refrigerator.

“Dimitri. We can fuck each other. But first you must tell me how you fooled them.”

“Simple, Sara,” said Dimitri, fondling himself. “Money. It is always money. There’s a firm of lawyers in London. For a million pounds they prepare everything. Title deeds, directors’ forms. Everything. At Harriman Agnew there is a man called Gavin Swain. I have never found anyone so ready to believe anything I tell him. Money, Sara. Money money money. Now we fuck.”

Sara knew that the pill needed one minute to act. But she had miscalculated Dimitri’s body weight and the dosage supplied by her former graduate boyfriend, who was now researching bio-chemistry drug development, was ten grams short. Suddenly, he pulled her underneath him, pushed her legs open and tried to enter her. She screamed and he slapped her. She pulled her nails down his face, but he punched her and bit into her left nipple, refusing to let go. She squeezed his testicles and he roared in pain. He punched her in the stomach and while she was winded he turned her over and tried to enter her from behind. He used his body to hold her down and pushed his finger into her anus.

Sara was reaching the point where she could resist no more but, suddenly, the pill worked. Dimitri started to moan and rolled off her, onto his back. He began to snore.

Sara rushed to the bathroom and was violently sick. She was bruised and bleeding. She sat on the toilet for ten minutes and cried, before returning to the bedroom and checking on the snoring Russian.

She then splashed water over her face in the bathroom, dressed and collected her things. She also located three small recording machines from around the bedroom which she had positioned earlier when Dimitri was in the bathroom. She switched them off and put each in to her bag.

From inside the fridge she extracted a small jar which she had deposited earlier when she was serving Dimitri his vodka. She then took a pair of latex gloves from her bag, went over to Dimitri, opened the jar and pulled the foreskin down his penis. She slowly rubbed the cream – which contained a substance her ex-boyfriend told her would “do the trick” – over his glands and pulled the skin back up. She then applied the cream to his testicles.

Her final act was to go through his briefcase and find a number of documents with the name of a London firm of lawyers on its heading.