Джеймс Паттерсон - Revenge

Except today Sofia was absent. Everything else was normal—the smell of dirty carpet tiles, ancient cigarette smoke, instant coffee, and a cluster of cardboard Christmas tree air-fresheners that dangled from her terminal—but in her place sat the Skinsman, his hands interlocked across his chest, head cocked to one side, watching a television mounted on the opposite wall.

It was a strange sight, enough to prompt a derisive snort from Sergei’s companion that coincided with a sudden lull in the TV volume. In response, Grandfather’s eyes slid from the screen to the visitor. For a moment they gleamed with malice and Sergei didn’t like to think what the old man was imagining. Instead he simply greeted Grandfather with a respectful nod and then hustled his guest—oblivious to the malevolence of the old man’s gaze—through the reception area without introducing him, escaping through a second door to an administrative area and more offices.

“Wait here,” he told his visitor, and a moment later he was inside one of the offices, taking a seat opposite Dmitry, who sat at a desk.

In contrast to Dmitry’s home set-up, the office was sparse, desk bare but for an open laptop and two smartphones. Dmitry wore a Harley Davidson T-shirt, one that best displayed his tattooed and muscly upper arms, the way he liked, and his spectacles dangled at his chest.

“Have you been keeping an eye on the internet, Sergei?” he asked glumly.

Sergei thought he knew what was coming, but even so. “It’s a big thing to keep an eye on, Dmitry.”

“Yes, but if you were hoping to see footage of a stupid hooker blowing her brains out, where might you look?”

Sergei shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Dmitry. I’ve never been tempted to look before.”

“The dark web, have you heard of that?” sighed Dmitry.

“I don’t think I have, boss.”

“That’s where you go for the bad stuff, my friend. Cocaine by post, child porn, and bitches blowing their brains out. Instead of ‘dot com’ they use ‘dot onion,’ did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know that, Dmitry.”

“In the onion is where I found it. I’ve watched the bitch’s brains go all over our studio,” he waved his hands around, “over and over again. Well done for managing to clean it up, by the way, you did a good job. But it doesn’t change the fact that this film is in . . . the public domain.” He chewed over the words. “It is possible, is it not, that somebody might see it and put two and two together? A nosy policeman. Somebody who knows the girl or who saw her picture in the papers?”

Sergei made noncommittal noises, sensing that whatever the decision, Dmitry had already made it.

“There is no doubt about it,” continued Dmitry, “we must be cautious as always, and cautious in this case means closing the studio.”

“I see,” said Sergei. “Alexander will be unhappy.”

“Alexander is in Grozny and need not know immediately. Besides, he’ll be even more unhappy if the operation is crawling with cops. No, my mind is made up, and you know me, Sergei: when my mind is made up then that is what we must do.”

Sergei understood Dmitry’s reasoning. Admitting failure was bad. But if it was discovered that they were neglecting to admit their failure, maybe even caught trying to cover up that failure, then that was really bad, no matter how you tried to justify it.

“Can I leave that to you? Can I leave that to you and my beloved wife?” said Dmitry, savoring the satire of the words “beloved wife” as though they were a sip of fine wine.

“You can, Dmitry,” replied Sergei.

“Good, good. Now, this other matter. This informant. Have you brought him?”

“He’s outside now, boss, looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

Gold glinted as Dmitry smiled. “Then by all means bring him in. Let the squealer start squealing.” He snapped his laptop shut, stood, and then came around from behind the desk. “Perhaps this Emma Drake did us a favor, eh, Sergei?”

Maybe , thought Sergei as he got up to go to the office door.

“Oh, Sergei,” said Dmitry from behind him. “Your wallet.”

Sergei turned to see Dmitry lifting his wallet from the seat where it had slipped out of his back pocket. As Dmitry picked it up it flipped open and he saw inside, his brow clouding briefly before his smile returned and he handed it back.

“Thank you,” said Sergei. He pocketed the wallet and then turned, opened the office door, and beckoned his visitor inside. “This is my boss, his name is Dmitry,” he said.

“Please, sit,” said Dmitry, indicating a chair. “Sergei has told me much about you. You used to be in the Parachute Regiment, is that right?”

“That’s right,” said the new arrival. He took a seat and sat with his knees together and his shoulders square.

“Good, good.” Dmitry gave him an askance look, just for comic effect. “Are you sure that our operation has no interest in you? Perhaps it is you that we should be taking as a prize, and not this other man, yes?”

The new arrival sneered. “Nah, I don’t think so. As far as I know my lot never had any argument with the Russian Mafia.”

Dmitry’s smile froze. His eyes flicked to Sergei, who cleared his throat. “The Chechen Mafia,” corrected Sergei.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” said the guest. “The SAS, on the other hand . . .”

Dmitry threw up his hands and made a disgusted spitting noise. “Ah, the SAS, they think they’re the Avengers, Bourne, and Bond all in one. They’re like Tom Cruise going round the world and doing good, all at our expense. And you can give us an SAS man, can you? So that we may exact a little payback?”

“Oh yes,” said Corporal Johnson, ex–Parachute Regiment. “Too fucking right I can.”

CHAPTER 22

JASON HAD QUITE enjoyed his job. No, in fact, he’d really enjoyed his job. Apart from the antisocial hours it pretty much ticked all the boxes. Those boxes being, one, he got to smoke a lot of weed, and two, he got to see loads of naked girls (and not just naked, but “doing stuff”).

Also great was the fact that the girls mostly looked upon him as a kind of “big brother” figure, which meant they were always dead nice to him and there was never anything sexual to make things awkward.

Jason and another guy, Dan, split the duties between them. Dan was a bit more full-on with the girls; he’d had a couple of relationships, well, if you could call them relationships, but Jason had never gone that way. Never exchanged so much as a kiss with one of them. The whole “big brother” thing was important to Jason. He prided himself on it. He liked to think that the girls relaxed more around him as a result. And because of that he got to see even more “stuff.” Win–win.

These weren’t unattractive girls either. Most “normal” cam girls just filmed the shit on their laptops, in between baby feeds and arguments with their other half.

This operation was different. For a start, his Russian bosses called it a “studio”—studio! ha!—and secondly they claimed to offer superior quality. Not just picture and sound quality, either, but the most beautiful and willing girls—beautiful, willing girls who would do practically anything the punters asked, providing the price was right.

And Jason, being a man of small or, to be perfectly honest, zero ambition, could quite happily have kept that particular job for the next, oh, until-he-retired number of years. He was as happy as a clam in that job.

And then it all came crashing down around his ears, when poor old Faye blew her brains out, live on camera.

He’d been first on the scene, and he knew that the brief glimpse he’d had of the room—splattered with blood, gobs of brain matter, and weirdly bright skull fragments sliding down the walls—would stay with him forever.