Джеймс Паттерсон - Revenge

“I had to,” said Dmitry, as though such things were not beyond dispute. “I had to make sure that we had the place to ourselves.” He gestured at the burned-out buildings to Shelley’s left. Through their blackened skeletal ruins Shelley could see the silvery gleam of the river, and beyond that a distant mosaic of lights from blocks of luxury flats on the far bank. In those flats people lay in bed or sat watching TV. Or perhaps they sat by their windows, enjoying their moderately expensive view of the Thames, oblivious to what was taking place on the other side of the water.

“Can’t tell a lie, Dmitry, it doesn’t half make me nervous seeing all these guns,” said Shelley.

Dmitry pulled a mock-doubtful face. “Oh, I doubt that very much. You are Captain Shelley of the SAS. A few guns shouldn’t worry you.”

“Tell you what, then,” said Shelley, “how about you holster those sidearms, just as a show of good faith?”

“Sounds fair,” said Dmitry, pushing his Makarov into the front of his jeans. He tilted his head backward and Sergei did the same. Karen, however, did not. Her black-gloved hands remained crossed, the gun held in front of her.

“Your wife doesn’t seem to want to cooperate,” said Shelley, speaking to Dmitry but directing himself to Karen.

“Awright, hero?” she said. “You know who I am, then?”

“I know exactly who you are,” said Shelley.

“Good. That’s nice of you to remember,” she said. She moved her right arm away from her body so that Shelley could see for himself that it had never fully healed.

“You had to learn to shoot with your left,” he said, saw the look of fury that passed across her face and immediately regretted his words, knowing that to antagonize her was a bad move.

Meanwhile, Dmitry was looking from one to the other, Shelley to Karen and back again, like a man who had just made a delightful discovery, and who knows? Maybe he had. “You know each other, it seems,” he said. Shelley caught the glint of a gold tooth.

“Yeah, you could say that,” replied Shelley.

“We had a bit of business years back, love,” said Karen without taking her eye off Shelley.

“Oh,” said Dmitry, rearing back. “You weren’t . . . you know . . . were you?”

She gave a dry laugh. “Not likely. It was all business.”

“Unfinished business, I think, by the looks of things,” roared Dmitry, enjoying his own joke. “Don’t you think, Sergei?”

“Yes, boss,” said Sergei.

“Well, I shall look forward to hearing all about this business later, Karen. Now, Captain, shall we begin with the part where you show me the color of Mr. Drake’s money.”

“First Susie comes by my side,” said Shelley.

“Suit yourself. Mrs. Drake? Please do as our friend asks.”

Susie shook herself free of Sergei’s restraining arm then stepped forward without a backward glance. Gratefully she took a place by Shelley’s side and they greeted one another with their eyes.

Next Shelley loaded the banking app he’d been given by Drake, a strange, unfamiliar icon on his handset. It was already primed for the first phase of the transfer. “Here,” he said to Dmitry, handing him the phone, “input your details.”

“Tsk,” said Dmitry, smiling, as he took the phone and began to tap away. “It’s like living in the future, where everybody has jet packs and water comes in pills. Now we just press a button and his millions become our millions.”

Shelley looked up to see Karen and Sergei watching him. Every nerve ending, every cell felt alive. It was as though electrical currents ran through his arms and to his fingertips, ready to draw his weapon if anything untoward took place. There was something about this situation that was wrong, something just slightly off-key. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“There,” said Dmitry, handing back the smartphone. “I have taken the liberty of entering the amounts. Perhaps you would like to enter the password.”

Shelley looked at the phone’s readout and then raised his eyes to meet an impish grin from Dmitry, who had entered the full £20 million.

“Forgive me,” said Dmitry, “my idea of a little joke. By all means stick to the agreement.”

You had to admire him, unfortunately, Shelley thought. The guy had balls and a sense of humor. But you didn’t get to head up the London section of the Chechen Mafia by being a likable bloke.

Shelley put through the transfer and prayed Dmitry would continue to play nice.

CHAPTER 59

“THE TRANSFER IS made,” said Shelley.

Dmitry looked over to Sergei, who had produced his own phone. Sergei nodded to confirm that the money had arrived. “Ten million, boss,” he said.

“Then we are halfway there,” said Dmitry delightedly.

“Good,” said Shelley. “Susie, start walking back to the car.” Susie moved off and Shelley began walking backward, holding the phone aloft as though it were a detonator.

Dmitry, looking supremely unconcerned, called to him, “So you don’t need my bank details again, then?”

“No, mate, I don’t need your bank details again. I’ll do the transfer when we reach your barrier at the other end. You can let the guys know and they’ll let me through. You might want to check that none of them have itchy trigger fingers while you’re at it.”

“And what if I have changed my mind?” asked Dmitry innocently.

“Then there will be bodies,” said Shelley, “and you know what you said about bodies being bad for business.”

“True,” agreed Dmitry, his eyes up and to the left, as if the thought was occurring to him for the very first time. “Yes, true. But only if the body in question is that of a millionaire’s wife. But the body of an ex-soldier? Maybe not so much.”

What is he getting at?

Behind him, he heard Susie say, “Shelley . . .”

“I think perhaps the police might ask fewer questions about that,” continued Dmitry. “Don’t you think, Captain?”

“Shelley,” repeated Susie. There was a note of distress in her voice that he couldn’t ignore, and he turned to find out what she wanted, only to see that the men at the far end of the road, the three guys who were supposed to be waiting for the second phase of the transfer, had left the Transit behind and were advancing toward them.

Shelley turned back. “Stay with me,” he whispered to Susie.

“Why? What’s going to happen?” she replied in the same whisper.

Shelley shifted his hand to the grip of his SIG. He did it slowly, deliberately, not to get anyone overexcited, but at the same time wanting to show his discomfort at the turn of events. “What’s going on, Dmitry? I thought you were keeping up your end of the bargain.”

“I am. The bargain was that I would exchange Mrs. Drake for twenty million. These men are going to escort Mrs. Drake to a place of safety, and I in return will get my twenty million. I am definitely upholding my end of the bargain.”

“But you won’t get your twenty million,” said Shelley, holding up the phone to make his point.

“Oh,” smiled Dmitry. “But I will.”

Shelley was aware of everything. He felt the cold snap in the air. He felt his own nerve endings, every single one of them raw and on high alert. He felt Susie at his side, the men behind advancing, Karen’s eyes on him, a look on her face that he dared not decipher for all the imminent triumph he saw there. He felt his SIG and saw the light from the Cherokee headlights and the mist that bubbled around the Chechens’ feet. He saw death, treachery, and deception.

He saw a double cross.

“Shall I tell you how it all began?” asked Dmitry. “This whole thing?”