A. Zander - Moscow City

“All of them? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Ashansky. “Their corpses were scattered all over Kowloon.”

“You think they found Vitsin?”

“There was no sign of him, but the body of some old professor of his was mixed in with a load of dead KGB.”

“You mean FSB?”

Ashansky shrugged. “Same difference.”

Varndon fished his umbrella out of his coat as a few raindrops started to fall onto the pavement. “What was the professor doing there?”

“He’d been hiding the boy in the basement of some café. They must have followed him there and taken Vitsin.”

“But now they’re dead.”

“Now they’re dead. And the boy is missing.”

Varndon took a piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Ashansky. “This message came through to the Consulate today. And it was addressed to us both.”

Ashansky held the paper under Varndon’s umbrella to keep it away from the rain. I have Vitsin. I want to make a deal. Meet on the last ferry to Macau tomorrow. Come together. No weapons. Any sign it’s more than the two of you and I’ll happily hand him over to the Russian embassy. Harper.

Ashansky screwed up the note and put it in his pocket. “Looks like little Mishka is playing a new game.”

“I don’t like it. He’s acting like he’s got nothing to lose.”

Ashansky laughed. “Believe me, he’s got plenty to lose. When he is tied to a chair and I allow Gershov to demonstrate some of his more creative skills with a razor blade and a blow torch, he will know he has plenty to lose.”

“How many men can you get for tomorrow?”

“As many as you need.”

“Good. The FSB will have another team out here in 48 hours. We need to finish this before they have chance to react.”

“Oh, and I got someone to pay a visit to little Mishka’s flat in London yesterday.”

“And?”

“Turns out he has been visiting a rather expensive head doctor.”

“Really. Get someone over there. I want to see his files.”

“I’m way ahead of you.”

They reached the main road and Ashansky put his hand in the air. One of the black Mercedes pulled up in front of them and Gershov emerged onto the pavement and opened the door for his boss. He eyeballed Varndon, who held his gaze.

“Just remember that Harper is mine,” said Ashansky.

“He would have been yours already if your help was more efficient.” Varndon didn’t flinch as Gershov snarled in his direction. “I’ll be in contact tomorrow. Don’t bring these people to the Consulate again. We’ve got standards to keep up.”

Tamara Wainwright put her spectacles down on the table and rubbed her eyes. The front door slammed and she watched her last patient of the day meander down the path and cross the road. She felt sorry for the man as he disappeared down the street and round the corner. His voice had cracked with emotion throughout the whole hour. Resisting the urge to walk over and put an arm round him was hard, but there had to be a line. Physical contact invited confusion into the relationship in a male patient’s eyes. She had seen him on the evening news a few weeks before. He was the head of a major company and a regular talking head on the television. This was not a man many would guess was being bullied by his own staff and his wife and teetering on the edge of a breakdown. His issues would take time to resolve. She just hoped that he had time.

“Sigmund, here Sigmund.”

She took a tin of dog meat from the cupboard, scooped the contents out into a bowl and placed it on the floor. “Come on Sigmund.” She waited for the familiar sound of the dog bounding down the stairs into the kitchen, but it didn’t come. She stopped what she was doing and listened.

“Sigmund?”

A cold draught blew on her ankles as she walked through into the lounge. She stopped as she saw the open French window at the end of the room. The air blew on her face and her skin tingled. She stepped out and looked around for the dog. Its toys were scattered around, some half-buried in the mud. She felt the moisture of the grass on her bare feet as she walked through the foliage archway. A faint whimpering came from one of the bushes to the side of the flowerbed. She dropped down to her knees and pushed aside the leaves and branches. The dog’s front paws lay limply on the mud and it recoiled at her touch. She pushed the branch aside a bit more and caught sight of the dog’s blood-soaked stomach.

“My God, Sigmund.”

She placed her had on the mud and as she lifted it, the red liquid dripped down her wrist and onto her white blouse. She sprung to her feet, holding her hand out in front of her. As she backed up away from the dog, a hand covered her mouth and an arm grabbed her around the chest. She kicked her legs as she was carried back into the house, but the grip was too strong. A second man in a balaclava followed them back into her treatment room and closed the door. She hit her head on the wall as she was thrown onto the couch. The man who had grabbed her closed the curtains and flicked on a small table lamp. She thought about bolting for the door as the two sets of eyes looked at her, but knew there was no chance she would get away.

“Give us files on Matt Harper,” said the second man, handing her a USB stick and pointing towards her computer. The Eastern European accent was thick and menacing. The thought of handing over the details of a patient made her feel sick to her stomach. The man stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her over towards the computer. She typed in her password, her fingers shaking and leaving sticky, red fingerprints on the keys. She plugged in the USB and pulled up the folder with all her patient files.

“Everything on Matt Harper,” said the voice over her shoulder. “Now.”

She transferred over some of his basic details and paused as she looked at the files with the details of their sessions. His thoughts. Her thoughts. Everything they had had discussed. She felt her head snap back as he grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard. “Everything!” She placed the cursor over the files and dragged them onto the USB. The man waited for them to copy and grabbed it out of the computer. She stared at the screen as they spoke to each other in a language she didn’t understand. They fell silent as a knock at the front door disturbed their conversation. She held her breath and braced herself to be hit or worse as they whispered behind her back. She breathed out as they bolted for the door and ran back through the lounge and out into the garden. She staggered over to the curtain and pulled it back. The bullied CEO stood on her doorstep, looking slightly embarrassed. She noticed his forgotten umbrella sitting on a side table, picked it up and staggered unsteadily towards the door.

“Tamara, my God,” he said, as she stood in front of him, her hair bedraggled and her hands bloodstained. “What happened?” She dropped the umbrella and hugged him, holding on tight and not letting go.

Harper watched as the last security guard switched on his headlights and drove off down the mountain. The temperature was dropping fast so he zipped up his jacket and walked back towards the monastery. The clouds hung low around the Lantau peak and he could feel them caressing his face. They would be safe here, he thought. Safer than in the city anyway. He made his way round to the back of the building and opened the door. Vitsin sat in the far corner, his gaunt face lit by flickering candlelight.

“How are you feeling?” said Harper.

“My leg still aches a little from the crash, but I’m okay.”

“That’s good. Here, I got this for you.” He handed him a bottle of water.