Avenger (13 page)

“This information from Tom is a game changer,” said Reigns.

She and Morgan were facing the general across his desk. Following the briefing in COBRA, Reigns had dragged a very reluctant Morgan “down to the dungeon” to observe the Intelligence Section. As a result of Rodgers’s debrief on the Grenville case, Reigns had initiated an immediate search of Intrepid’s database, which included access to almost every intelligence and law-enforcement network in the world. They were searching for one name in particular: Voloshyn. She told Morgan that the experience of seeing analysts at work, witnessing all the effort that went into providing him with information in the field, would be good for Morgan’s “professional development.” He had acquiesced because he enjoyed being around her. Three hours later they were back in Davenport’s office.

“We got literally dozens of hits, including photographs, physical descriptions and a criminal history,” said Reigns.

“Splendid. What information have you come up with?”

“Darja Voloshyn: born in 1980, Simferopol, Ukraine. Known to have used a number of aliases, including Dashenka Vitko, Dashechka Voytko, Dashunya Varga; clearly using her actual initials. According to an Interpol Red Notice issued on February fifteenth 2005, she was wanted by the Judicial Authorities of the Ukraine for aggravated robbery, misappropriation of property by means of abuse of authority, homicides committed in other specific circumstances in collaboration, and fraud – forgery of travels documents … the list goes on. She has a number of lesser charges to her name dating back to the late nineties when she was still in her teens – drugs, petty theft, that kind of thing – but there was also a charge of robbery with violence against a young male, which resulted in her being incarcerated in a juvenile justice facility for twelve months, all before her eighteenth birthday. However, despite the Red Notice, nobody has ever managed to track her down. In 2005, Voloshyn simply went off the grid.”

“And a year later she was with Grenville when Peter Fleming was on his trail,” Davenport observed. “But hang on, didn’t you say that the name on the passport of the young woman who flew out of Hong Kong to Taipei was Yovenko?”

“That’s correct, sir,” replied Reigns. “It is inconsistent with Voloshyn’s pre-2005 practice of basing aliases upon her own initials, but there’s no reason why we should rule her out just for that.”

“Tom and Peter’s original report into Grenville’s kidnapping and murder referenced complicity among local officials in Belize, and their apparent involvement in other criminal activities,” said General Davenport. “I suppose, with the passport scam they had operating, it wouldn’t be a problem to get a passport in any name.”

“For sure, and on the flip side, until now there’s also been nothing concrete to connect Voloshyn to the Night Witch. However, we ran a check on a list of members of the Russian 588th Night Bomber Regiment, the actual Night Witches,
and we found a Major
Dahlia Voloshyn, a highly decorated pilot with the regiment. She earned the title Hero of the Soviet Union, was awarded the Gold Star Medal, the Order of Lenin and three Orders of the Red Star. She was also Darja Voloshyn’s great-grandmother.”

“How very interesting,” Davenport replied. “Clearly, the granddaughter has latched onto her grandmother’s war-time gallantry, identified with it and clung to it; a childhood hero, mentor perhaps, and despite her eventual corruption of the ideal, an imagined version of herself.”

“Most definitely,” said Reigns. “And the parallels between Darja Voloshyn’s criminal record and those crimes attributed to our Night Witch are substantial, particularly with regard to violent tendencies, including sexual violence against both men and women. And then we hit what appeared to be a dead end.”

“Which was?”

“Darja Voloshyn was killed in a car accident in Poland in 2007.”

“Damn! So where on earth does that leave us in terms of the Night Witch – back to square one?” said the general.

“Not exactly, sir,” Morgan began. “The physical description of Voloshyn that we accessed from the Ukraine Ministry of Internal Affairs is interesting. She’s listed as six foot tall, athletically built, some tattoos and with a prominent birthmark down the right-hand side of her face. Now, generally, that as good as matched the body of the girl pulled from the car by Polish police at the time of the accident. Their initial identification was based on the ID they found at the crash site – passport, driver’s license, credit cards – all of which belonged to Darja Voloshyn. However, when the body was returned to her family in Ukraine, her mother was adamant that it was not her daughter’s. For a start, there was no facial birthmark, which nobody seems to have checked against the photo ID she was carrying, and the tattoos were different. Fingerprinting eventually confirmed that the dead girl in the accident was not Voloshyn at all, but a missing Romanian girl named Oana Saguna, who bore a striking resemblance to Darja Voloshyn and, of particular interest, came from a very similar background: broken home, minor drug offences, fell into crime, and then vanished around the age of seventeen. She was drunk at the time of the accident, twice the legal limit.”

“The profile is very typical of girls who are targeted by traffickers, sir,” said Reigns. “They’re young and vulnerable, and have usually run away from home to escape domestic violence, abuse, or even just to search for a better life. Predators are constantly on the look out for them.”

“And you think, at some point, this young girl, Miss Saguna, came into the circles frequented by Voloshyn?” asked Davenport.

“You recall I mentioned earlier that when women become involved in trafficking they tend to operate at the middle-management level, and are mostly involved in the trafficking of girls for sexual exploitation? When I was an analyst with Interpol, I led the team responsible for compiling the Blue Notice that was issued in relation to the Night Witch. The profile we’d developed of the Night Witch was that she was most likely late twenties to early thirties tops, possibly Ukrainian, and a victim herself. All of which we know fits perfectly with the profile of Darja Voloshyn. So, yes, I believe Voloshyn knew Miss Saguna, personally or through her connections and, based on their physical similarities, saw an opportunity to make herself disappear.”

Davenport nodded. “I see.”

“Added to that, everything about the woman I saw in Hong Kong fits the psychological and physical profile we’d put together – her strong physique, authoritative voice, the statement hairstyle and outwardly confident demeanor – they’re like an armor that conceals her actual personality. Deep down, at her core, she’s been damaged, most likely when she was very young. And as she matured, she rebelled against whatever it was that damaged her – drugs, abuse, rape. It was clearly traumatic. So much so that when she eventually escaped, she reinvented herself in order to survive. So if we consider the age, physical descriptions, ethnic origins and so on, and we compare Voloshyn’s criminal history to the Witch’s reported appetite for violence, it’s highly probable that the Night Witch and Darja Voloshyn are the same person.

“I think Grenville gave her a start as far as money was concerned – in fact, I’m sure she managed to coerce quite a healthy nest egg out of him before doing away with him. But then I think she underestimated the extent of the interest that followed his disappearance. It shocked her and she needed a way to distance herself from further unwanted attention. So she used her connections in Poland. They targeted Oana Saguna, filled her full of alcohol and drugs, and put her behind the wheel of that car. It was an accident arranged to make it look as though Voloshyn had been killed, nothing more than a botched attempt to bury her past and move on.”

“At the expense of an innocent young girl’s life,” said Davenport. “What’s our next move?”

“Our current thoughts are Belize,” said Morgan. “We know from Tom’s recollections that Voloshyn inveigled Grenville down to Belize back in oh-six, and both Grenville and Peter were killed down there. We also know that the crew Beth saw in Hong Kong all dispersed on Belizean passports. Now, as far as this job is concerned, Beth’s been blown. So she’ll remain here in London for now and follow any leads she can to find Voloshyn’s latest identity. Meanwhile I’m going to get myself down to Belize via Guatemala as soon as possible. I’ll aim to take a room at the Paradise Palms Resort – it was the last place Tom and Peter had a lead with that bar manager, Vasquez. It’s still operating, so it seems the most appropriate place to begin.”

“Very well,” said Davenport. “Excellent work, both of you. Best you get started—”

The door to his office opened and Mila Haddad entered.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you all need to see this.”

Haddad crossed the room and, taking up a remote, turned on the large digital TV screen set upon the wall to the right of the general’s desk. As the screen came to life, she looked straight at Morgan, her face full of concern.

He fixed his eyes on the screen. BBC World News was leading with a story coming out of Hong Kong.

“Wait, isn’t that Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Kowloon?” Reigns asked, already knowing the answer. Morgan didn’t respond.

“It appears that a member of the hospital staff opened fire within the Intensive Care ward, killing at least three people …”

Mrs Jolley entered the room.

“Sir, I have Assistant Commissioner Kwong on the line for you from Hong Kong.”

The girl woke with a start and the shock of it made her catch her breath. The room was dark, almost black, but for a sliver of light beneath the door in the corner. The silence and cold were frightening. She had little recollection of where she was or how long she’d been there. Hours? Days? She couldn’t remember. Had she taken something, or been given something? All she knew was that her head was throbbing, the left side of her face felt twice its usual size and her mouth was dry as sand, with a distinct taste of blood. She took a deep breath that made her head throb even more and tried to roll onto her back, but one of her wrists, the left one, wouldn’t budge. She tried to pull it free but winced in pain as it stayed rigid and immovable.

Her mind’s eye teased her with flashes of memory: a rustle in the mangroves, a sudden splash, a putrid stench, a snap, then falling, screaming, running. Panic set in as she pulled and pulled and pulled again, trying to free herself, but the rattle of handcuffs against a metal bed frame reminded her of where she was and what had happened, and all she achieved was taking another layer of skin from her already bleeding wrist. The pain made her stretch and her entire body unwound gratefully, her long, slender legs reaching as far as they could before she felt her toes wriggling beyond the end of the mattress. There were no sheets, blankets or pillows, and when the coarse fabric and stitching of the old mattress rasped against her skin she realized she was naked.

Her eyes filled with tears. She dropped her face back on to the mattress and began to sob.

There was a time, she remembered, when she’d been important, when she had moved in the much-feared circles of the
Zmajevi
and was the main girl of Drago, their
Šefa
, chief of the Dragons. Drago was much older than her, she didn’t know exactly how much, and he was cruel, but at least he wasn’t her depraved, alcoholic father. All she knew was that Drago’s money, and the clothes and drugs he gave her, made her life with him bearable; back then, she was somebody. She was beautiful, envied even. She’d wielded power over men with her flawless skin, white like porcelain, and perfect platinum hair that fell dead straight all the way to her waist. And, of course, because she belonged to Drago. She could walk into any nightclub she wanted, wearing little more than lingerie, stilettos and a leather jacket, and crowds would part to make way for her.

But that was long ago. Drago had been arrested and now, without his protection, she was back to being a nobody, just another girl no one knew or wanted. Now her skin was red and sore from too many hours spent in the sun and living rough during her days on the run. Her lips were cracked and tasted of blood, and her feet were blistered and raw. Wondering if she’d make it to her nineteenth birthday, she sniffed back tears and sank her face deeper into the musty fabric of the mattress, pulling pointlessly against the cuffs.

The door crashed open. She recoiled into the fetal position, back against the wall at the head of the bed. The sudden burst of light forced her to avert her eyes until slowly, reluctantly, she turned back to face the shadowy outlines gathered around the bed. There were four of them looking down at her, maybe more – she couldn’t be sure because all she could see were silhouettes; her eyes were still adjusting to the glare of the light from outside. However many there were, they were all taunting her in gutter-level Russian and Polish. She instantly remembered the man leading them: he was older than the others, bald and big, with the face of a boxer, all smashed and flat. There was a tattoo of three triangles on his left cheek and dozens of thick scars that looked like they’d been slashed into the skin of his tattooed forearms. She didn’t know what any of it meant but it terrified her. Their proximity, their words, their eagerness; all of it. She knew what was about to happen. They were describing it to her in excruciating detail.

“Jovana?” A woman’s voice carried into the room from somewhere outside. It was soft and soothing, calling for her. “Jovana?”

Oh my God!
she thought.
I am saved
.

“Ah, Jovana. My sweet little girl.” The comforting warmth of that voice broke through the clamor of the men, and their foul taunts fell silent.

Jovana’s vision was clearer now and she looked up to see a woman, tall and beautiful, stepping up to the edge of the bed and then sitting down on it, very near to her.

“Are they not treating you well, my darling?”

Jovana shook her head nervously, not knowing what to say. She remained curled up and trembling at the head of the bed, eyes darting across the faces of the men still standing around her, leering at her hungrily.

“There, there,” the woman said quietly. “I’m here now and everything is going to be all right. Godek, you and your beasts must stand back. Can’t you see you’re upsetting her? Hasn’t she been through enough already? Somebody bring me a glass of water for her.”

Godek and his men – all muscle-bound, in tightly fitting T-shirts and covered in tattoos and markings similar to their leader’s – shuffled back obediently and leaned against the walls. One went off to another corner of the room. She heard the squeal of an old tap being turned and a rush of water. The man returned, handed the woman a glass, and rejoined the others.

Now it was just the two of them, two women – like a mother comforting her frightened daughter.

“Take this, darling,” the woman said, her voice full of caring and compassion. “You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

Jovana took the pill she offered without a second thought and drank down the small tumbler of water gratefully.

“There, that’s my dear girl.”

The woman was wearing a short halterneck dress in a bright tropical print. She reached out and ran her slender fingers slowly along Jovana’s bare calf, exploring it tenderly for minutes, then over her thigh and hip as far as her torso. Jovana’s skin reacted to the gentle caress, coming to life under the touch of those soft fingers.

“You really should not have run away, my darling,” the woman said, speaking to her as if she were a child, making everything alright again. “I have been so looking forward to meeting you. You see, I’m going to give your life back to you; all of the clothes and the money. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my darling?”

Jovana nodded weakly, gazing up into the woman’s stunning gray-blue eyes.

The woman stood up. At a click of her fingers, Godek stepped forward. Twisting Jovana’s fettered hand roughly, he fumbled with a key and unlocked the handcuffs. Jovana’s right hand shot straight to her bloodied and bruised left wrist and she rubbed it, relieved beyond words to be released. Then she felt her body slowly beginning to relax, melting into the mattress, the tension and fear slipping away. She was free.

“Stand up now,” the woman ordered. “Stand close to me so I can see you properly.”

Still frightened, Jovana didn’t move. Instead her eyes remained fixed on the woman, who was now standing over her. To Jovana, huddled against the bedhead with her arms wrapped protectively around her legs, the woman looked like an Amazon. Easily six feet tall with striking features, tanned skin and short white-blonde hair, she commanded the room. The men hadn’t made a sound from the moment she’d entered. Jovana watched as the woman’s hand reached out for her, long fingers splaying open impatiently, invoking her obedience.

“Now, girl. On your feet.”

Jovana acquiesced, peeling herself away from the wall. She shuffled to the edge of the bed and allowed her bare feet to drop to the rough floor. She felt drowsy. The woman took her hand and guided her from the bed until she was standing up straight. Jovana’s legs were unsteady, just inches from the woman, and she realized that she was almost as tall and not dissimilar to look at. Without any more soothing words to calm her fears, the woman proceeded to scrutinize every inch of Jovana’s body and face, turning her around, lifting her arms, pulling her hair, examining her teeth and feeling her breasts, as though she was considering the purchase of an animal. Jovana’s nakedness heightened her sense of exposure and vulnerability. She could feel the eyes of the men crawling all over her like ants on her skin as the woman continued the examination. She was feeling dizzy and bewildered, as though she was observing what was happening around her but not participating. Finally, she felt the woman’s splayed fingers upon her face and she was pushed back on to the bed.

“She’s perfect, Godek,” the woman said to the leader. “Absolutely perfect. I want her cleaned up, well fed, rested and looking a million dollars by the end of the month. Understood?”

Godek grunted his acknowledgment. The woman was clearly in charge and Jovana’s heart instantly filled with hope as she listened. Was this to be her savior after all?

“Thank you! Thank you!” Jovana mumbled from the bed, her speech slurred and almost incomprehensible. “I’ll do anything you want. Just tell me.”

“Yes, you will, my darling, starting right now,” the woman replied without emotion. “And I expect you to make this worth my while. I get bored so very easily if I’m not enjoying myself. Someone get me a chair and a cigarette.”

Uncertain what was happening, Jovana watched anxiously as a sumptuous, expensive-looking chair she hadn’t noticed before was dragged from a corner and positioned in the center of the room, facing the bed. The woman sat down, draping one leg lazily over a heavily cushioned armrest and fixing her gaze directly upon Jovana. One of the men placed a cigarette between her full red lips and lit it. The others crowded around the bed, laughing and taunting Jovana, ogling her. Then they began removing their clothes.

“OK, I’m ready,” said the woman, blowing out smoke and getting herself comfortable. She waved a hand and the men closed in around her. “Tonight and tonight only, she’s all yours. You can do whatever you wish to her, so make the most of it. I want her to know exactly what’s waiting for her the next time she even thinks about escaping.”