The Rain-Soaked Bride (3 page)

‘What went wrong?’ Shining asks.

‘Someone felt the need for revenge,’ Toby replies, glancing towards the girl in the back. ‘She shot Bretzin.’

‘Good for her,’ Shining replies, changing down so he can turn onto Senate Square.

‘But not for us.’

‘He deserve it,’ she says in English from the back seat.

‘No question,’ Toby replies. ‘I just hope it doesn’t stop us getting out of here with our heads attached.’

The traffic is in chaos. Many cars have pulled to a halt, responding to the explosion that has lit up the St Petersburg sky. Shining is aware that he’s drawing attention to them by driving so quickly but can only hope to put a bit of space between themselves and any pursuit.

He doesn’t manage it.

‘They went the other way,’ he says, stabbing a finger at the mirror where a black BMW is speeding towards them. ‘They must have guessed we’d have to cut back on ourselves.’

‘Or there’s enough of them to take a punt that we might have done,’ Toby replies, turning back to the girl. ‘Keep your head down.’

The BMW, having spotted them ahead, accelerates, weaving past the slow traffic to draw up behind them. Toby can see one of the passengers leaning out of the window and aiming a gun towards them.

‘Brace yourselves,’ he shouts as a pair of shots ring out, neither hitting them.

Toby sees the girl turning in her seat to look through the window.

‘Don’t,’ he says, reaching back and tugging at her arm. ‘Just keep your bloody head down.’

Shining swerves in the traffic, cutting from one lane to the other, weaving through the cars and trying to keep them a moving target. He tugs his phone from his jacket pocket, concentrating on the road ahead, and tosses it to Toby as the shooter in the car behind fires again. There is the terrifying sound of pierced metal then a crack of glass as a bullet hits the rear window.

‘Andrei,’ Shining says. ‘Evac. Plan B.’

Toby nods and presses the call button. After a few seconds the call is answered, the car still speeding along Senate Square.

‘Andrei?’ Toby asks, ‘we need you to do your thing. Black BMW on our tail. Can you handle it?’

There’s a raucous stream of Russian expletives from the phone and Toby hangs up.

‘He can handle it,’ he says, turning back to the girl. ‘You need to hold on tight.’

Shining keeps his foot on the accelerator as the water and English Embankment appears ahead of them.

In the car behind, Sergei Usoyan, a young
shestyorka
, the bottom rung of the Russian Bratva, tries to retain his aim as Albert, the driver, weaves around a stationary truck.

‘Just shoot them,’ suggests Semion, from the back seat.

‘What do you think I’m trying to do?’ Sergei replies, taking another shot and blowing out one of the car’s brake lights.

There is a flash of light from the pavement, as if someone has turned a searchlight onto the road and, for a moment, the occupants of the car can’t see a thing.

‘What now?’ asks Albert, fighting to keep control, only too aware that he is driving blind.

The light is gone as suddenly as it appeared and he slams on the brakes as they approach the junction with English Embankment. Ahead of them, the car they’re pursuing makes no effort to slow down. It surges straight ahead, shooting through a gap in the traffic.

‘They’re not turning!’ Semion shouts. ‘You must have hit the driver.’

‘Yeah,’ says Sergei. He knows he didn’t, but he’ll take the credit if it’s on offer. Something like that is your passage up the ranks.

The car sails straight across the road, mounts the pavement, hits the low wall and vaults towards the Bolshaya Neva river. For a moment it’s flying through the air, its undercarriage torn lose by the impact. Shattered concrete and bricks trail behind it. Then it curves down and falls out of sight. A moment of silence then a plume of water shoots upwards as the car hits the river.

Albert ignores the blaring horns of other drivers as he cuts slowly across the road, pulling up alongside the hole in the wall. They get out, running to the wall and looking out onto the river where the impact has sent great circular waves out across the frothing surface of the water.

Sergei raises his gun but Semion knocks it away. ‘Not now,’ he says, ‘the place will be crawling with police any second. They’re dead. Job done. Let’s get out of here.’

They run back to the car, Sergei laughing. ‘I got the bastard! You see that? I got him!’

The BMW turns back up Senate Square, Albert sticking his finger up at the complaining traffic. ‘What’s wrong with the fuckers?’ he says. ‘You’d think they’d be more interested in someone taking a nosedive into the river.’

‘People don’t give a shit about one another these days,’ says Semion, seemingly without a trace of self-awareness. ‘Makes you sick.’

They drive back the way they came, not sparing a glance for the young man standing on the pavement who watches them go past. If they had, they might have noticed the strange way he was staring at them. Maybe they would even have noticed the large flashgun he puts back in a case before wandering off through the park.

Half an hour later, and a mile or so down the road, three people ascend the gangplank of the cruise liner
Oriana.

‘Well, Mr and Mrs Somerset,’ says Shining, speaking Russian for the girl’s benefit. He hands out their fake passports. ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your honeymoon. Don’t mind me, your gracious uncle, I’m just so glad you didn’t mind inviting me along.’

Toby looks at the girl. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be sleeping on the floor. It’s only a cover story.’

She shrugs, looking at her face on the passport. ‘I don’t sound like a Caroline.’

‘You’ll stay in your cabin until we get back to Southampton,’ says Shining. ‘Isn’t that what all honeymooning couples do?’

She just stares at him. ‘I don’t understand. I am grateful, but …’

‘Working with August is always confusing,’ admits Toby. ‘You get used to it.’

‘But they just stopped following,’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘A friend of mine,’ says Shining.

‘He has a lot of friends,’ adds Toby.

‘He has certain skills,’ continues Shining.

‘They always do,’ adds Toby.

‘He makes people see what he wants them to.’ Shining acts as if Toby hasn’t interrupted, these are two men who have spent long enough together that they have a habit of talking at the same time. ‘Remote hypnosis. He can create brief, shared illusions. Andrei is invaluable whenever I’m in St Petersburg, though it takes a lot out of him. He’ll be sick for a week thanks to us.’

‘You’re talking crap,’ she insists, scowling at them. ‘Why do you treat me like a child?’

‘We certainly don’t mean to,’ says Shining, taking her hand, ‘and crap is subjective. You’ll get used to it. We’re not your average espionage department.’

Toby starts singing ‘Send In The Clowns’ and chuckling. She throws him a disgusted look.

‘I think you’re trying to make a fool of me,’ she says. ‘Don’t. Too many men have made a habit of that.’

Toby stops singing, his face now completely serious. ‘I know. That’s why we had to come for you. I understand. It seems unbelievable. I was just like you a few months ago, I didn’t understand any of it. You get used to it. If there’s one thing you can accept, it’s this: we look after our own.’

‘But I don’t even know you!’

Toby nods and she is struck by the look of deep sadness on his face. ‘I know, and that’s my fault. But listen, Tamar, I’m sorry you had to wait so long but you’re free now. You’re safe.’

‘Safe?’ Shining smiles. ‘For now. Give it time … Things in the Clown Service rarely stay safe for long.’

Baekdu Mountain, Baekdudaegan, Korean Peninsula

The Changhe Z-11 helicopter veered over Heaven Lake, buffeted by the high winds that always rage around the peak of Mount Baekdu, and prepared to descend.

Its sole passenger looked out through the window, gazing down on the brilliant, shining surface of the frozen caldera lake. The ice showed a distorted reflection of the helicopter as it passed. It was stretched thin, then fat, like a customer in a fairground hall of mirrors.

Local myths claimed that the lake was home to monsters. The passenger smiled at the thought. He knew all about monsters.

It was also claimed as the birthplace of Kim Jong-il. The Korean Central News Agency had added one last piece of deific splendour to the dead dictator’s legend when it claimed that the ice had split with a deafening crack at the moment of his death. The passenger knew all about the power of legend too.

They came to a shaky landing on an area of flat ground away from the tourist areas and the passenger stepped out, barely able to stand in the wind.

‘You are lucky we didn’t end up in the lake,’ said the pilot. ‘This is not a good place to fly.’

‘I have a feeling our host likes to make things difficult,’ the passenger replied, removing a data tablet from his jacket and checking the GPS information. ‘As well as keeping this so close to the border he can deny us later. We need to head down towards the forest,’ he said. ‘About a kilometre or so.’

‘I’ll stay here,’ the pilot said. ‘I’m paid to fly you, not keep you safe from bears.’

The passenger shrugged. ‘I don’t think it’s the bears I’ll be worrying about.’

He began to descend the mountain, tucking the data tablet back into his coat to keep his hands free.

As he worked his way down through the rocks towards the tree-line a few feet below, he cursed his clients’ frequent desire to arrange meetings in inhospitable places. What was wrong with a civilised restaurant or pleasant bar? He suspected they chose these places as a test of his character, something he found insulting and childish. He didn’t have to prove himself, his work spoke for itself.

It took him half an hour to reach the forest, by which time he was sweating despite the low temperature.

He took a moment to check the coordinates again before setting off towards the compound his tablet assured him was located a short distance to the east.

He wasn’t in the least surprised when, shortly after, he found himself surrounded by troops, emerging from the trees, their automatic rifles trained on him.

‘I am expected,’ he said, speaking English. To hell with them, he decided; if they didn’t understand him that was their lookout. ‘And if I was going to have an escort it would have been nice to have it earlier.’

The commanding officer grunted at him, checking his face against a photo he pulled from the pocket of his jacket. It didn’t match, obviously – the passenger made a point of never wearing his real face to a rendezvous. To do so would risk blowing years of cover.

‘If you want me to prove who I am,’ the passenger suggested, ‘I’m only too happy to do so. Considering my mood, though, you might want to take it as read. If I were to offer an example of my credentials, I can’t guarantee you would all survive it.’

‘Let him through,’ called a voice from further into the trees.

An older officer appeared, his uniform marking him out as several ranks above the rest of the men.

He walked unsteadily towards the passenger. The stiffness of his limbs suggested arthritis and the Englishman noted one of his eyes was quite blind, a white, useless thing that appeared to have been boiled.

‘We are cautious,’ the old solider said, in heavily accented English. ‘This is not how we do things.’

‘Outside help?’ the passenger asked. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. My skills are rare. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I don’t know of another contractor in my line of work.’

‘This is true. And yet it is … uncomfortable.’

‘So is standing out here. Can we maybe carry on our conversation somewhere a little warmer?’

The old soldier nodded and the party retreated back into the woods, the passenger held at their centre, quite aware of the suspicious eyes and itchy trigger fingers that surrounded him.

The compound was only five minutes away. A rough collection of shacks that had clearly seen better days. The old soldier noticed the look of distaste on the passenger’s face.

‘We abandoned this place years ago,’ he explained. ‘But it serves our purpose today.’

Walking past the barbed-wire fences and along the overgrown mud track, the passenger was led to a central hut. The old soldier waved at the rest of the soldiers, commanding them to stay outside.

Inside there was no more furniture than a table, two chairs and a small log burner that was already alight. On the table there was a wooden crate and, beckoning for the passenger to take a seat, the old soldier reached into it. He pulled out a thin, card folder which he dropped onto the desk, then a half-bottle of Cheongju, a Korean rice wine that the passenger detested. He chose not to mention the fact as the old soldier placed two glasses on the table and poured him a measure. ‘It warms the bones quicker than the fire,’ the old soldier said, draining his own glass in one and then replenishing it. This was a man who liked to maintain a distinct level of liquid warmth, the passenger decided.

‘Is that for me?’ he asked, pointing at the folder.

‘It is,’ the old soldier agreed, ‘but first I have been asked to witness proof of your abilities.’

The passenger frowned at that. ‘I don’t think you want to do that.’

The old soldier shrugged. ‘It is my orders.’

The passenger sighed and got to his feet. ‘My reputation is well earned. I am not used to performing auditions.’

‘I understand. I am sure the high fee we are offering for your services will more than compensate for any personal insult.’

The passenger looked at him and, for one pleasing moment, he noted that the old soldier looked afraid. ‘It is not about personal insult. What I do is dangerous, and not just to me. I cannot be held responsible for your safety.’

The old soldier nodded sadly and drained his rice wine. ‘Why do you think they sent me? I am old. My usefulness is done. I have nothing left but medals. If my family could eat them, then perhaps they would be worth the efforts it took to earn them.’

‘You are looking death in the face, old man,’ the passenger explained.