Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

Riley turned away and stepped through Mr Grobowski’s front door.

The first thing she saw was a woman in slacks and a blue jacket, kneeling on the floor. Beside her was a black case with the lid thrown open. It contained a variety of instruments, boxes and sterile packs, and a roll of medical gauze, ripped open with one end hanging loose.

But it was the cat which drew Riley’s gaze. Stretched out on the floor with its mouth open, it had a sticky-looking wet patch showing on its neck, the fur spiky and disturbed. There was no sign of breathing.

Riley dropped to her knees, a sob gathering in her throat. How could this animal be so long… and so thin, she thought distractedly, noting the length from battered nose to tabby tail. He’d always been such a bruiser. And with everything Mr Grobowski fed him, he should have died of over-eating, of a diet enriched by too many meatballs and other Polish delights, not… not this horror. She reached out to cradle him, certain her heart was going to tear its way out of her ribs. What evil bastard could have done this?

‘Don’t do that!’ The vet spoke sharply, reaching out to stop Riley touching the animal. ‘I need to get him to the surgery. He’s lost a lot of blood.’

‘What?’ Riley stared at the woman in confusion, wanting to tell her that her job was over, that she hadn’t come in time, that it was all too late. ‘I don’t understand.’

Then the cat opened one eye and saw her. It mewed, his mouth barely open but the sound surprisingly deep and resentful, protesting about the indignity of what had happened.

‘He’s alive?’ Riley was stunned.

‘He’s lucky.’ The vet replied pragmatically, pressing a pad against the cat’s neck and skilfully securing it in place with what seemed like several feet of bandage. ‘He’s built like a baby elephant, otherwise he’d have been dead. The slug wasn’t a big one, but it looks like it went through the fat behind his neck and nicked the scapula.’

‘The what? What does that mean?’ Riley tried to process her limited knowledge of anatomy into some sort of positive news. What the hell was a scapula? Wasn’t it what doctors used to hold down a patient’s tongue?

‘It’s the shoulder to you,’ the vet explained. ‘I won’t know how serious it is until I give him a thorough examination and an x-ray. If there’s no major damage or complications, he’ll come out of this with nothing more than a nasty scar and a bald patch to show his mates. Just hope it hasn’t hit the brachial artery.’ She finished off the bandaging with some adhesive wrap to hold it in place and jumped to her feet.

Mr Grobowski had heard the words and came rushing in to stand behind them. He moaned with relief, clearly having believed the worst had happened. ‘Is miracle! Lipinski…’

The vet gave them each a stern look. ‘Look, you two can do all that stuff later. Right now, we need to get him to where I can treat him. One of you hold the door, the other get my bag. My car’s outside. I’ve put a pressure pad on to stem the bleeding, but we can’t hang about.’ She looked first at the elderly Pole, but he was wringing his hands together, his face twisted with relief. She turned to Riley instead, indicating her black case. ‘Take a visiting card out of the lid and ring the surgery. Tell them what’s happened and that we’re on the way in. They’ll get the theatre cleared and prepped.’ She bent and scooped up the cat with great care, then added, ‘I’ll have to report this, you know. Shootings of any kind… the police have to be told.’

‘Of course.’ Riley grabbed a card and reached for her mobile, glad to be able to do something. The moment she got the chance, she was going to ask Mr Grobowski for a fuller description of the man who had done this, although somehow, that didn’t really matter. She already knew who was to blame.

‘Wake up, sweetie — it’s Donald.’ Brask’s voice penetrated the fog, jerking Riley awake. Dimly, she recognised the sound coming from the answering machine and rolled off the sofa, snatching up the phone while trying to shake off the lethargy of sleep. She checked her watch. God, she’d been out for three hours since warning Donald about the threats and telling him to get somewhere safe. It was probably a reaction to everything that had happened, but she felt guilty at having fallen asleep so easily.

‘Donald? Are you okay?’

‘Of course, dear lamb.’ His voice came through full and rich as usual. ‘I’ve got a simply huge man stationed at my front door, and another at the back, with orders to sacrifice themselves dearly for me. ‘

Riley felt a smile tugging at her lips. Donald knew a lot of people with backgrounds not unlike Palmer’s. He had assured her that he would get the best protection available.

‘How’s the cat?’ he queried solicitously.

‘The last time I rang, they told me everything was going fine and to call later this evening. They wouldn’t let me go round and wait, though.’

‘Quite right, too. They’re professionals, they’ll do what they have to do. Have you heard from Frank?’

‘No. I’m getting worried. You?’

‘Not yet. I’ll keep trying — I’ve got his number on automatic re-dial. But I’ve just received something off the wires which might interest you. That magazine, East European Trade?’

‘What about it?’ Riley stood up and walked on shaky legs to the kitchen, where she poured a large slug of orange juice. She had a raging thirst. ‘Didn’t I tell you, I’ve decided not to do that piece?’

‘You did, dear, you did. But if you’ve still got the magazine Varley gave you, you might want to take a closer look. It will give you an indication of how they work.’

‘Just a second.’ Riley found the magazine and opened it. ‘Okay, what am I looking at?’

‘There’s a piece about a man named Mustafa Tukel. He’s a Turkish government minister and one of their biggest ship-owners.’

Riley vaguely recalled the article, and flipped through the pages until she came to it. The photo showed a large man with a ready smile and a bushy moustache, posing against a background of a shipyard. The article was mostly about Tukel’s planned bid to build a new deep-water dock on the Black Sea coast. It would have massive implications for the local economy and would soak up business in the area like a sponge, regenerating the entire region. The article, as well as outlining Turkel’s plans, included some terse comments made by him about key members of the Turkish administration whom, he claimed, were trying to prevent him from winning the contract in favour of other, unspecified bidders. The comments had been highlighted in italics, she noted, for maximum effect.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s just been arrested on charges of dissent against the state.’

‘That’s serious, isn’t it?’ She recalled a writer who had been imprisoned on similar charges two years ago for criticising the Turkish administration, and was still in prison awaiting trial.

‘It is. There have been calls for him to lose his ministerial job, and his bid for the shipyard has been disqualified. Interestingly, the contract has now been awarded to a company based in the Ukraine.’

‘Why does this concern us?’

‘Because East European Trade is the only quoted source of the information against him.’

Riley sat back and stared in dismay at the magazine, the implications hitting home. ‘Another smear job?’ she said dully. It was what they were planning to do to Al-Bashir. Given enough credibility, an article about his wife’s lifestyle and a few carefully highlighted ‘suggestions’ or rumours would be enough to drive away his backers and sink his chances of ever winning the Batnev bid. Truth would be the first casualty.