Stephen Leather - Dead Men

The American held up a hand to silence him. ‘Did you track my phone?’ he asked eventually.

Merkulov shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Yokely. ‘Now, here’s the million-dollar question, Viktor. Who is paying this Salih?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Merkulov. ‘I really do not know. But money is no object to whoever it is. Everything I ask for, Salih pays.’

‘And you have worked for him before?’

‘I have supplied him with information, yes.’

‘And we can assume that he intends to assassinate me and Charlotte Button?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not a name I’ve heard before.’

‘He keeps a low profile.’

‘Even so, I know most of the men who kill for money. The serious players, anyway.’

‘Hassan Salih is a serious player,’ said Merkulov, ‘but he uses many names. I’m not even sure that Salih is his real name.’

Yokely picked up a chair and placed it in front of the Russian, then sat down facing him so that their knees were just inches apart. ‘But you don’t know who wants me dead?’

Merkulov smiled thinly. ‘From what I’ve heard, a lot of people would like you dead.’

Yokely chuckled and patted the Russian’s knee. ‘You’re right, of course. But most of those who would wish me harm don’t have the resources to hire a man like this Salih.’ The American folded his arms. ‘How does this end, Viktor? How do we play it?’

The Russian glanced anxiously at the two men behind Yokely. One was holding a machete now and the other was tapping a pair of bolt-cutters against his leg.

‘This Salih, there’s no way he can kill me, Viktor,’ said Yokely. ‘I know that for a fact. Do you know why I know that for a fact?’

Merkulov shook his head.

‘Because I’m going to die a very old man. Every fortune-teller I’ve ever been to has told me so. Everyone who has read my palm has said I have a lifeline that goes on for ever.’ Yokely splayed the fingers of his right hand and held it out to the Russian. ‘Do you read palms?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Merkulov.

Yokely stared at it. ‘Long, long lifeline,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘No accidents, no illness, just my three score and ten plus a healthy bonus. Probably die in my sleep.’ He grinned at the Russian. ‘So, hand on heart, I can tell you I’m absolutely one hundred per cent certain that this Salih will do me no harm.’

‘You are a lucky man, Mr Yokely.’

‘Yes,’ said Yokely. ‘I am. And what about you, Viktor? Are you lucky?’

‘Until today I thought I was. But apparently I was overoptimistic.’

‘It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said Yokely, clapping. He folded his arms again and stared at the Russian for a full minute. At first Merkulov held his eyes, but eventually dropped his own to the muddy concrete.

‘I’m in two minds as to what I should do, Viktor,’ said Yokely, eventually. ‘Part of me wants to watch these guys cut you up and feed you to the pigs. But part of me thinks that you could be useful to me.’

‘It is a dilemma,’ agreed the Russian.

‘I would like to know who’s paying Salih,’ said Yokely, ‘and wants me dead. Seems to me that you might be able to find out.’

‘I could do that for you, yes.’

‘But can I trust you? That’s the question.’

‘I could give you my word.’

Yokely chuckled. ‘I’m not sure that your word would be enough,’ he said. ‘And I’m not the type to issue threats. They always seem such a waste of time. Like bluffing in poker. Do you play poker, Viktor?’

‘No.’

‘I used to, but I wasn’t that great a player because I refused to bluff,’ said Yokely. ‘I figured, what’s the point? You either have the best hand or you don’t. If you don’t have a good hand you might as well fold at the start. Thing is, you can’t play like that for long because once your opponents realise that you never bluff, they fold whenever you want to bet. So you can’t win. Now, life, that’s different. If people know you never bluff, they have to take you seriously. They have to believe you will do what you say you will. And a threat is a sort of bluff, isn’t it? If I threaten you and don’t follow through, then it weakens me. You can see that, can’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Merkulov.

‘You know what I can do to you, don’t you, Viktor? And that I can get to you anywhere in the world? Even in Russia? There’s quite a few guys in Moscow owe me favours. And I can get Mr Putin on the phone if I really want to. So there’s no hiding-place, not really.’

‘I will help you,’ said Merkulov. ‘I will get you the information you want.’

Yokely reached into his trouser pocket and took out a pound coin. ‘Heads or tails, Viktor?’

‘What?’

‘Heads or tails?’

Merkulov swallowed nervously. ‘Heads.’

Yokely tossed the coin high into the air, watched it rise and fall, caught it with his right hand and slapped it on to the back of the left. He slid away his hand to reveal that the coin was heads up. ‘You see, Viktor? It’s your lucky day, after all.’ Yokely turned to the men behind him. ‘Give Mr Merkulov his clothes. He’ll be working with us for a while.’

Shepherd walked Button out to the waiting minicab. ‘Well, she’s all primed,’ said Button. ‘If you can’t get her to open up after that, you never will.’

‘Were those tears real?’

‘I can empathise with someone losing a child, Spider. I’m a mother, remember?’

‘You were good in there,’ said Shepherd.

‘Surprised?’ She shivered.

‘Frankly, yes. I’ve never seen you in an undercover role before.’

‘I didn’t sit at a desk when I was at MI5. Do you think they’d have allowed me to head up SOCA’s undercover unit if I didn’t know what I was doing?’

‘I was trying to pay you a compliment.’

‘Well, you failed miserably,’ she said. ‘Now, give me a brotherly peck on the cheek and I’ll be out of here. She might be watching.’

She turned her cheek and Shepherd brushed it with his lips. ‘Take care, yeah?’

‘Always,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget that the microphones are on.’ She climbed into the back of the minicab and he waved as the car drove off.

Shepherd went back into the house. Elaine was pouring more wine into her glass. ‘Do you want to sit in the front room?’ said Shepherd. ‘The sofas are more comfortable than those wooden chairs.’

‘Sure,’ said Elaine. She got to her feet unsteadily with her glass. Shepherd picked up the bottle and they went into the sitting room. ‘It’s funny being in your house because it’s a mirror image of mine,’ she said, dropping into one of the sofas. The television was still on, the sound muted. A news programme. Three men in suits were being grilled by an overweight presenter with thinning hair.

Elaine half watched the screen as she sipped her wine. ‘I had the BBC asking me a couple of years ago if I’d meet the men who killed Robbie. Can you believe that?’ She slipped off her shoes and drew her legs underneath her.

‘Journalists are parasites, most of them,’ said Shepherd. ‘They don’t care about the people they write about, or the effect their stories have on them.’

‘It wasn’t just journalists. That black archbishop was part of it – Desmond Tutu. They were making a series where they were bringing together people from both sides and getting them to talk while he sat there and looked all sympathetic. I told them to go screw themselves.’

‘Who exactly did they want you to talk to?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We never got that far,’ said Elaine, ‘but I didn’t want to talk to any of them. There’s not one of the bastards expressed any regret for what they did. What was I supposed to do? Forgive and forget, shake the hands of the men who blew Robbie’s brains across the kitchen floor?’ She swigged her wine. ‘Fuck them – fuck them all. I hope they rot in hell for what they did to Robbie and Timmy.’