NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) Page 19

  ‘You say he works for someone?’

  ‘Yes. I am told a man named Fedorov.’

  That name again - the one Koenig had mentioned. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A man you do not wish to meet,’ Natalya replied bluntly. ‘He is well known in the country I come from. Fedorov has many friends and contacts across Eastern Europe. He is not a man to cross.’

  ‘He’s one of these oligarchs?’

  ‘An oligarch? I don’t know for sure. Rich, certainly. Very rich. For that reason, maybe he pretends to be something he is not. But he is different. We have our career criminals, too, you know. They love money, like all crooks.’

  ‘Is he Russian mafia?’

  ‘Perhaps. Probably. Nobody knows. They are not always easy to identify, these people. They belong to impenetrable factions, hiding behind various identities, their loyalties changing all the time. Mafiya is an easy title to put on men like him, but not always accurate.’

  ‘What’s his full name?’ Her instinct for detail asserted itself, dulling the disappointment of discovering that Richard Varley was not what he seemed.

  ‘Ah, that I do know. He is called Pavel Ivanovich Fedorov. But he is not called Pavel by those who know him well. He uses the name Grigori. He does not care for Pavel, because it is from Latin, and means small.’

  ‘Great. A rich man with an ego problem.’

  Natalya gave a bark of laughter. ‘Tell me any man who has not. He was brought up by an uncle who was not successful with women due to his small stature. Because of this, he took out his frustrations on the boy.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘One day the uncle disappeared. Fedorov was sixteen. He reported to the police that his uncle had gone looking for work.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Later, Fedorov disappeared, too. When he returned, some years later, he was a different man. He was making money - doing what, nobody knows. But we can guess. He had moved up in the world and continued to do so. Now he has friends and wants more. It is said he is under investigation by the Interior Ministry in Moscow for illegal business practices and state fraud. This is very serious, but there are ways around it. He is looking for ways to make those investigations go away.’

  Riley remembered the analogy Natalya had used before, about exiled Russians. The boy going back home with the school prize. ‘Would that be enough, though?’ she asked. ‘Ruining Al-Bashir’s chances in the telecoms market?’

  ‘It would,’ the professor confirmed, ‘if it meant control would stay in the hands of local organisations. Better that than going to a westerner.’ She sighed as if recognising that some things could never change. ‘As I explained to you before, there are some sins that can always be forgiven if the price is right.’

  ‘What does this Fedorov look like? In case I should bump into him.’

  ‘I hope you do not, Miss Gavin, for your sake. But I think you will know him as soon as you do.’

  ‘How?’ Riley felt a thud in her chest. Even as Natalya said it, an image, unbidden, had begun to swim up from deep in her consciousness. Suddenly, she knew without a shadow of a doubt: she had met Fedorov – and the next words confirmed it.

  ‘Fedorov is short and becoming bald. He looks and dresses like an accountant, and always stays in the background, where nobody sees him. My friends say he is a man to miss in a crowd. But most of all, a man to avoid.’

  Riley switched off her phone. Her mouth was dry and she felt her heart pounding at the realisation that she had made a serious mistake. The colourless ‘associate’ was actually the boss. Which made Richard…what, exactly? According to Natalya, he was a soldier…a doer of deeds.

  But did it also make him a killer?

  *********

  38

  Riley spent the day in the hotel, confined as much by her own feelings of disquiet, as by Palmer’s advice to stay out of sight. The unusual attractions of room service palled rapidly after the first two orders, along with daytime television, the video selection and the view across the rooftops and back gardens of Maida Vale. When she opened the window, she could hear the steady boom of traffic along the Westway, reminding her that life was still going on out there, in spite of and no doubt ignorant of death threats, Russian killers and wounded cats.

  She called the surgery for regular updates on Lipinski, and found each one offering better news than the last, each report holding out more hope of a complete recovery.

  ‘I don’t know what you feed him on,’ said the receptionist at one point, ‘but that’s a hell of a tough cat.’

  ‘Polish meatballs, mostly,’ Riley told her, and thanked her before hanging up.

  Out of boredom, she soon found herself going over everything that Richard Varley had said, the files on Al-Bashir… and the threats uttered by the man she now knew as Pavel Ivanovich Fedorov.

  And Varley. She was still having trouble coming to grips with the idea of him being someone called Vasiliyev. It was all too alien.

  Then came thoughts of Helen Bellamy and the German reporter, Annaliese Kellin, and the part they had unwittingly played in this affair. And how she had come within an ace of sharing the same fate.

  ‘You okay?’ Palmer stood in the doorway. He’d just returned from a tour of the streets around the hotel. He was, she knew, unwilling to take for granted that the gunman who had come to Riley’s flat wouldn’t find some way of tracking her down if those were his orders.

  ‘Palmer, I’m going stir-crazy,’ she replied. ‘I need to do something. Can’t I put on a hat and go out for a walk?’

  ‘Maybe later, when it’s dark. We still don’t know what resources these people have got. All it needs is for someone to spot you. Shooting the cat was a warning. I doubt they’ll leave it at that. Keep this door locked.’ He glanced at her mobile on the bed. ‘Any news?’

  ‘You mean the cat? Yes, he’s fine. Indestructible, according to the vet.’ She paused, unsure how to begin telling him about Natalya’s call. She felt more than foolish already, and didn’t need to suffer more humiliation over having been duped so easily.

  ‘And?’

  ‘What ‘and’?’

  He rolled his eyes, and she told him about Richard Varley/Vasiliyev and his master, Fedorov.

  Palmer took in the news with little reaction. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he said evenly. ‘You weren’t to know. But it answers lots of questions. This was carefully planned and financed. They’re not here to fool around.’

  ‘Palmer?’ Riley got off the bed and faced him.

  He waited.

  ‘Do you have something I can use?’ She gestured at the room. ‘I feel naked.’

  ‘You mean a gun? No way. Forget it.’

  ‘No. Not that. Anything… I don’t know.’ She shrugged helplessly, unsure about what she was asking. ‘Something.’

  Palmer’s lips twitched. He reached into his jacket and took out a short black rod covered in hard foam. He gave a sharp jerk and it snapped into a tapered steel baton with a hard plastic tip. He pressed a release button in the handle and retracted it, then handed it to her. ‘Try it.’

  Riley was surprised by the weight. But it felt reassuring in her hand. She flicked her arm sideways, the way she’d seen Palmer do it, but nothing happened. She tried again, harder. This time she was rewarded with a satisfying click as the baton extended and locked out.

  ‘Wow,’ she muttered, amazed by the feel of it in her hand. ‘Cool or what?’

  ‘It won’t make you bullet-proof,’ he warned her. ‘So take it easy.’

  ‘I will.’ She tried a couple of practice swings. ‘Where do I aim for?’

  Palmer shrugged. ‘If you’re mad enough at the time, anywhere you can reach.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Then you run like hell.’

  The long afternoon blended with agonising slowness into the evening. Riley stood up from time to time, swinging the baton and getting a feel for its weight, snapping it out and back. Palmer was right: it wouldn’t make her bullet-
proof, but it might make all the difference if anyone came in here after her.

  She eyed her phone and the time. It brought thoughts about John Mitcheson; it was probably morning wherever he was. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. Months, actually. Should she give him a call, or would that seem too desperate? If she did, what would she say that wasn’t going to sound pathetic? In the end, she decided against it. Boredom was insufficient reason to go unearthing something better left to take its own course.

  In the end, she decided that enough was enough. She had to see the cat. And have a very strong drink or some fresh air, whichever came most readily to hand. She rang Palmer, but he wasn’t answering.

  She checked her watch. Nearly six o’clock. She threw on a jacket and pocketed the baton, then slipped out of the room, half expecting Palmer to emerge from a doorway like a shadow and kick her back inside. She made her way downstairs and out through the rear entrance, which opened onto a narrow back street lined with skips, dustbins and a couple of bikes chained to some railings.

  She decided to walk to the surgery, located on a quiet street in Westbourne Park. It wasn’t far and she needed to feel the stretch in the back of her legs and the firm pavement beneath her feet. Soft carpets and sprung floors were fine for a while, but there were limits to the amount of comfort she could endure.

  She arrived at the surgery and was ushered through to what the nurse called the convalescence suite, a room lined with cages, each holding a sick animal. The remainder of the space was heaped with an assortment of medical equipment, boxes of animal foods and pet paraphernalia.

  Lipinski was sitting up, wearing what looked like a backpack with lots of strapping holding it in place. He looked bored and restless. She knew how he felt.

  ‘He was lucky,’ the nurse told her, as Riley scrubbed the cat gently under the chin and he drooled over her fingers. ‘The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, so there was no internal bleeding. He’ll have a bald patch once the dressing comes off, but that will soon grow back.’ She eyed Riley cautiously. ‘The police said they’d be in touch. Sorry, but we had to report it.’

  Riley thanked her and wondered if they had already been to her flat to make enquiries. No doubt Craig Pell would have something to say when he found out, and she found herself smiling at the idea.

  After ten minutes of talking to the cat, during which time he veered from looking interested on hearing her familiar voice, to grumpy when he realised she wasn’t about to take him home, Riley decided she had better get back to her hotel room before Palmer began scouring the greater London area in search of her. She gave the cat a final rub along his flanks and said softly, ‘Never mind, chum. When you get out, you can compare bullet wounds with Szulu.’

  With that, she told him to get well soon and left the surgery. She decided to take a taxi, in case Palmer was busy tearing his hair out, and set out towards the nearby Tube station, where the chances of picking one up would be greater.

  She was only yards from the surgery when a large car pulled into the kerb ahead of her. A man jumped out and bent down to inspect a front wheel. He swore loudly and banged the wing, then stood up and looked around as if hoping a handy tyre depot would appear nearby.

  As Riley drew level, he looked at her then looked away again.

  Riley’s antennae began to tremble. There was something about the man. He was tall and muscular, with a bullish neck and cropped hair. The way he had looked at her was just a little too deliberate, too focussed. She gripped the baton inside her pocket, her heart-rate increasing fast, and began to step away.

  The rest happened very quickly. Riley heard one of the rear doors of the car click open, and from the corner of her eye, saw a second man emerging. This one was shorter and heavier. The first man turned in the same instance and stepped towards her, reaching out with big hands.

  Whipping out the baton, Riley flicked it open and slashed the first man across the face. She felt the impact travel through her wrist and lower arm, and the man cursed but kept coming. The baton fell away, her fingers stinging and unable to retain their grip. Before she could retrieve it, the second man was on her, scooping her up in his massive arms and bundling her through the door onto the back seat like a sack of laundry. Following her in, he landed on top of her with a grunt, smothering any further resistance.

  Riley tried to scream, to attract the attention of someone, anyone. She caught a glimpse through the open car door of a woman’s startled face, watching from the pavement. Then a large hand was clamped over her mouth, the doors slammed shut and the car surged away down the street.

  Frank Palmer tried Riley’s room again. He’d already been up once but got no reply, and the receptionist had confirmed that the key had not been left. He tried her mobile, but there was no connection. He tried to think where she might have gone. Back to the flat to get some clothes? No, he’d made sure she had sufficient for at least three days. What other priorities did she have?

  The cat. It had to be. He checked his watch. It was nearly seven-thirty. He went back down and got the porter to get him a list of veterinary surgeries close to where Riley lived. He remembered her saying that the place wasn’t far from the flat, which narrowed down the possibilities.

  Eventually, the porter came up with three names, and he began dialling. The first two had closed for the day, and were on voice-mail. He struck lucky on the third.

  ‘Miss Gavin left about an hour ago,’ the nurse confirmed, and Palmer instantly picked up something in the tone of her voice.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Well, it might be nothing, but one of our customers came in and said she saw a young woman being pushed into a car by two men right outside the surgery. We called the police, but they haven’t shown up yet. That’s why I’m still here. I hope she’s all right…’

  Palmer thanked her and disconnected. He swore long and silently. Supposing it wasn’t what the woman had thought? Maybe some friends messing around. An hour wasn’t long – Riley could have decided to stop off somewhere else, understandable after being cooped up in the hotel all day. But instinct told him it wasn’t that simple.

  He began to dial DI Pell’s number, then stopped. Pell wasn’t the sort to mess about; he’d do the right thing, which was to mobilise all the resources he could muster. Especially given the circumstances and his knowledge of Riley’s background from Weller. But going in with all guns blazing was the worst thing they could do. A blue light showing up within half a mile of anywhere Riley was being taken – if it had been her being lifted off the street – could only end one way.

  He dialled Ray Szulu, who was still watching Pantile House, and told him what he wanted.

  **********

  39

  By Riley’s reckoning, the journey couldn’t have lasted more than thirty minutes, but it felt like an hour. Once the man holding her seemed satisfied she wasn’t going to kick and scream, he let go of her, but made her lie down with her head pressed into the back seat. To make sure she complied, he held a gun across her neck, buried under her hair. It felt cold and greasy against her skin, and she tried to recall what Palmer had told her about safety catches and the sensitivity of trigger mechanisms.

  A stream of furious words in Russian and the occasional obscenity in English came from the driver, and Riley guessed it was the man she had hit with the baton. Eventually, the man holding her tired of it and said something short and sharp. The complaining ceased.

  When the vehicle stopped, Riley was dragged from the car and marched across a short expanse of concrete. She had no opportunity to escape. Her captor kept one arm across her shoulders, his other hand holding her face in a vice-like grip and pressed into his chest. To an onlooker, Riley decided grimly, they might look like lovers, and she felt as sickened at that dreadful irony as she was by the man’s proximity and the smell of his unwashed clothing.

  In the background, the car door slammed and the vehicle moved away.

  Seconds later, a door creaked and she caught a bri
ef glimpse of bright lights. When her feet echoed over tiled flooring, she knew instinctively where she was.

  Pantile House.

  The man let go of her face to palm the door open, and for the first time Riley managed to get a look at him. Her stomach went cold.

  It was Pechov.

  The lift hummed and the floor shifted. They were going up. The close atmosphere held nothing but the sound of the man’s breathing and the creaking of the lift mechanism. When it stopped, Pechov bundled her out into a short corridor. One of her shoes came off, but he forced her on, making no move to retrieve it. He stopped at a door and kicked it open, pushing her through. She caught the sharp tang of disinfectant and saw more bright lights, and a row of sinks and several cubicles with thin walls. A tall metal rubbish bin stood beneath a hand drier. An extractor fan hummed, giving out an intermittent clatter. A tampon dispenser was fixed to one wall. They were in a women’s washroom.

  A hard chair was positioned ominously in front of the sinks. Pechov pushed Riley into it. Yanking her jacket down off her shoulders, he produced a roll of gaffer tape, and in seconds, had her taped to the chair with her hands immobilised behind her back.

  When he was satisfied Riley couldn’t move, he took out a mobile and dialled a number. He spoke briefly, then hung up and looked at her with an evil smile. ‘You in big trouble,’ he breathed thickly, and took a toffee from his pocket. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, sucking noisily. ‘Boss is not happy man.’

  Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the washroom door. For a brief moment, Riley hoped that it might represent rescue; that someone had seen what was happening and had come to take her away from this.

  Then the door swung open and Grigori Fedorov entered.

  He murmured to Pechov, who nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Fedorov walked across and stood looking down at Riley. Up close, she thought he looked slightly ruffled, the collar of his shirt slightly grey. Or maybe it was the lights.