Deadly Crossing (Tom Dugan 2) (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Berwick Street, Soho
Near Club Pyatnitsa
London, UK

Dugan sat in the back seat and fidgeted as he looked out at the night lights of Soho, concentrating on the neon marquee above Club
Pyatnitsa
. Beside him he heard the low squawk of Anna’s tactical radio, the volume lowered. He looked at his watch.

“How much longer?” he asked, not for the first time.

“From the sounds of the radio traffic, not long,” Anna said from the front passenger seat. “But remember Detective Inspector McKinnon is coordinating a citywide strike, so he’s got to ensure all the pieces are in place before he gives the go-ahead.”

“I know, I know,” Dugan said, “but it seems like we’ve been here all night.”

“Two hours, actually,” Harry said from behind the wheel. “Hardly any time at all as these things go, so don’t get your knickers in a twist, Yank.” Harry smiled at Anna. “He’s an impatient sod, isn’t he? I wonder if Lou is having to put up with this from the Russkis and the kid?”

“I suspect our Russian friends’ military background has made them a bit more accustomed to lengthy waits,” Anna said, “but I expect young Nigel is fit to be tied. He’s been beside himself ever since the kidnapping.” She looked over the seat back. “By the way, Tom, that was nice of you to square things for Nigel with the captain.”

Dugan shrugged. “It was pretty obvious he wasn’t going back to the ship, no matter what anyone said, and I didn’t want the ship to sail shorthanded. He’s just lucky personnel was able to find a replacement for a pier-head jump. Anyway, I figured I better do something, because Nigel’s obviously not Alex’s favorite person.”

“I don’t quite understand that,” Anna said.

“I suspect it’s a ‘dad’ thing,” Dugan replied. “Remember Alex had just learned about Nigel and wasn’t too happy about it to begin with, and then in the space of forty-eight hours, Cassie was taken and Nigel was the one who delivered the bad news. I’m sure Alex realizes it’s unfair to associate that with Nigel, but on a gut level it’s probably something he can’t control. I think it’s best just to keep them apart.”

“Which reminds me, Yank,” Harry said, “just how did you keep Kairouz away from our little party tonight?”

“With great difficulty, but ultimately with the truth. I pointed out that Gillian’s at her wit’s end, and he shouldn’t leave her to wait for word alone. He was obviously torn but had to concede the point.”

“Yeah, well, he’s probably just as well off at home,” Harry said. “It’s not like any of us are anything more than spectators at McKinnon’s show. We just have a bit better seats.”

Anna and Dugan nodded agreement. Detective Inspector McKinnon had made it abundantly clear they were to take no part in the raids. Dugan and the other ‘civilians’ were allowed to observe only if accompanied by an MI5 agent. He did provide them radios to follow the progress and agreed that when the girls were located they would be informed and could go straight to them. He also allowed them to choose their vantage points, and they’d elected to split up into two cars and position themselves outside Club
Pyatnitsa
and Arsov’s apartment building.

The radio squawked again, and Harry looked at Anna. “That sounds like it might be it. Turn up the volume.”

Anna did so just in time to hear, “—ecute. Repeat. Execute.”

Down the street, they watched as three uniformed constables exited an unmarked car and raced up the alley to seal the rear door of the club just as two patrol cars careened around the corner from a side street and skidded to a halt in front of the club. Six policemen boiled out of the cars and made a bee line for the front entrance of the club and pushed their way inside, followed shortly by the two policemen driving the cars, who stationed themselves at the front door to ensure no one entered or left.

“If all goes well, this is happening all over London,” Harry said. “Now it’s just a matter of sorting through the catch. That might take a while.”

Specialist Crimes Directorate 9 (SCD9)
Human Exploitation/Organized Crime
Victoria Block, New Scotland Yard
Boadway
London, UK

The gray light of dawn leaked between the slats of the blinds into the Spartan conference room, competing with the harsh glow of the fluorescent fixtures. One tube in a fixture in the far corner blinked on and off sporadically and emitted a barely audible but annoying buzz, a fitting complement to the sullen mood that permeated the room.

“Bloody fuck all,” McKinnon said. “Not only did we fail to find any of the girls, we uncovered nothing else of substance. One of the biggest operations in the history of the Metropolitan Police and we turn up nothing except a handful of immigration violations and a few minor offenses. I was sure if we hit them hard from every quarter, we’d turn up something to nail them with, at least.” He slumped in his chair and shook his head. “I’m not likely to ever be able to marshal this much support again.”

Across from him, Anna nodded sympathetically while Dugan and the Russians said nothing. It had been agreed that since they were there under sufferance, Anna would do all the talking. For that same reason, they’d excluded a quite agitated Nigel, but Lou and Harry were keeping him company elsewhere so the exclusion wouldn’t seem so obvious.

“What do you think happened, Inspector?” Anna asked.

“It’s clear as the nose on my face, isn’t it? Though thank you for not pointing out the obvious. Someone tipped the bastards off, didn’t they?”

“Perhaps it was the media campaign over the missing girls,” Anna said. “I’m sure they may have been expecting something.”

“Something, yes,” McKinnon said, “but they were far too well prepared. We hit them simultaneously at eleven in the evening, and two hours later when we started hauling people in for questioning, there were already lawyers here waiting for them. And we found almost nothing — a bit of marijuana, some Russians that had overstayed their visas and the like, but no hard drugs, no guns, no girls that will admit to being anything but thrilled with their employers, and this bugger Arsov’s a bloody ghost. Not only has no one seen him, no one even admits to knowing him.”

“What are you going to do?” Anna asked.

McKinnon ran both his hands through his thinning hair and then clasped them behind his neck while he stared down at the table as if considering his reply. Finally he lifted his head.

“Whatever I can, which admittedly isn’t much. We’ll detain everyone guilty of any offense as long as legally possible. We caught a number of the girls engaged in sex in the back rooms, and for those clubs we can charge the managers with ‘keeping a brothel.’ We probably can’t make those charges stick in the long run, because the johns will have to admit to paying for sex, and that’s unlikely to happen. We may get the visas revoked for the girls that are supposed to be students or nannies, which only means they’ll move them elsewhere.” He shrugged. “I can tie a knot in their knickers for a few days or perhaps a week, but after that it will be back to business as usual.”

“You said there was no sign of Arsov,” Anna said, “even at his flat or Club
Pyatnitsa
?”

“There were clothes at his flat and toiletries, that sort of thing. Nothing at all in the way of papers or anything to indicate he’d lived there. The place was leased by a shell company that’s another dead end. These buggers are smart.”

“Then who was running the club?” Dugan asked, earning him a look from Anna.

“A bloke named Nazarov,” McKinnon said. “He’s been in the country a couple of years and is generally known by some of our undercovers as the man in charge. This Arsov is a relatively unknown quantity. If he is pulling the strings, he is doing so through Nazarov.”

“Then we must question this Nazarov,
da
?” Borgdanov said. “If you have him, we must make him talk.”

McKinnon stiffened. “We don’t do things that way here, Mr. Borgda—”

“It is Major Borgdanov, Inspector,” Borgdanov said.

“Very well, ‘Major’ Borgdanov. We can’t very well just beat the information out of him, now can we?”

“Of course not,” Borgdanov said. “I know many other ways that do not leave marks. We could—”

“Your point is well taken, Inspector,” Anna said, cutting Borgdanov off. “I think perhaps you and I should continue this discussion in your office.” She shot a pointed look at Dugan and the Russians. “Alone.”

McKinnon nodded and rose without a word. He walked to the door and held it open for Anna and then followed her out into the corridor.

As the door closed, Dugan looked at Borgdanov. “Not too subtle, Andrei.”

Borgdanov shrugged. “I do not know what means ‘subtle,’
Dyed
. But I do know you will make no progress with
Bratstvo
bastards with nice questions and lawyers. I think we tried Anna’s way and did not work. I think now we try our way.”

Beside him, Ilya nodded.

“Aren’t you forgetting your promise to Anna?”

“
Nyet
,” Borgdanov said. “I promised I would not kill Arsov in UK, and Nazarov is not Arsov. And besides, we do not plan to kill Nazarov.”

“And if we do, we take him outside UK,” Ilya said. “We would never break promise to Anna.”

Chapter Thirteen

Container Ship Kapitan Godina
En route to Jacksonville, Florida

Cassie sat on the floor with her back against the steel side of the container, bracing herself against the constant roll of the ship and clutching a large plastic bucket as she fought down the gorge rising in her throat once again. She lost the battle and hung her head over the bucket as her stomach spasmed, but there was little left to eject, and she endured yet another round of painful, mostly dry heaves. The episode passed, and she slumped back against the wall and closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, she would find it had all been a bad dream. But that didn’t happen.

The others slumped beside her, each girl clutching her own bucket, the odors rising from the open pails combining to produce an oppressive miasma in the dead air of the container. Cassie judged it was near midday, because the temperature in the container had risen steadily since the first bit of light began leaking through the holes high up on the container walls. It wasn’t much light, barely enough for her to make out the other girls only a few feet away from her. Tanya was the worst off — the seasickness had hit her almost immediately, and she’d vomited on the container floor before she could make it to one of the buckets. The blond girl, Karina, seemed least effected, and as Cassie looked at her, Karina nodded and produced a wan smile.

“I think we will survive,
da
?”

“I … I guess so,” Cassie said, “but where are they taking us?”

Karina shrugged. “It makes no difference. Everyplace is the same. Only the accents of the bastards they sell us to changes.”

Cassie’s lower lip started to tremble, and Karina reached across Tanya and gave Cassie’s leg a reassuring pat. “But for now we cannot think of that. We must try to figure out how long we will be in this box.” Karina passed her bucket over Tanya’s legs. “Here. Hold my bucket so it does not turn over. I want to check something.”

Cassie took the bucket and held it on the floor beside her own with her free hand, and watched Karina pull herself up and turn on the flashlight she had jammed in the pocket of her jeans.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” Cassie asked.

“I go to count the food they give us. Nazarov said to eat only one box each every day. It means if I count meals, I know how long they think to keep us here. If we know this, we can count water and see how much we have for each day. Maybe if there is little extra, we can wash a bit,
da
?”

Cassie nodded, encouraged, and followed the light as Karina’s figure faded into the gloom toward the far end of the container. She saw the light moving around the boxes lashed in the corner and then saw it illuminate Karina’s hand as she tore open one of the cartons. Then the light played over the water jugs in a rack along one wall and bobbed back through the darkness toward her.

“Is enough food for maybe ten days,” Karina said as she resumed her place on the floor. “Assuming they would only put in whole cases, I think maybe our trip is seven or eight days. There is plenty of water — fifteen jugs.” Karina held the flashlight out to Cassie. “Here, Cassie, hold light for me.”

“Just a minute,” Cassie said and transferred one of the cumbersome buckets to between her knees so she could hold it with her legs against the ship’s motion. “Okay,” she said and took the light.

“Hold it on my hands,” Karina said, and Cassie watched as the Russian girl opened a package marked MEAL - READY TO EAT.

“How can you eat?” Cassie asked, surprise in her voice.

The mention of food propelled Tanya away from the wall and over her bucket in an episode of dry heaves. Karina reached out with her free hand and patted Tanya’s back until her friend finished retching and slumped back against the wall.

“I am searching for crackers or biscuits,” Karina said. “Something light to start. And we must drink water, or we will become dehydrated.”

Tanya groaned. “What does it matter? It is hopeless.”

Cassie saw Karina shake her head as she continued to rummage through the contents of the MRE. “There is always hope, no matter how dim. And we must keep ourselves strong to take advantage of any opportun — Aha!”

“Did you find biscuits?” Cassie asked.

“No, but I have the solution to something else that has been concerning me.” Karina held up a packet of toilet paper.

Holding Warehouse
516 Copeland Road
Southwark, London, UK

Arsov held the phone to his ear and listened to the attorney with a growing sense of relief.

“… and six girls have immigration violations — two Russians and four Ukrainians. They’re subject to deportation, but I can file appeals—”

He cut the lawyer off. “On the contrary. Use all your contacts to expedite their deportations; then get me their names and flight information. I’ll take it from there. Understood?”

The lawyer confirmed his understanding, and Arsov scribbled a note on the pad in front of him. The girls would be met by
Bratstvo
soldiers when they arrived in their homelands and shuttled right back into the system, after any refresher training needed. It was the quickest way to get them back to income-producing status. They could no longer sell the girls in the UK, but the world was a big place, and the
Bratstvo
served many markets.

“What of the club managers?”

“As I told you previously, Mr. Nazarov and three others are being charged with ‘operating a brothel,’ but the charges are unlikely to hold up unless the clients are willing to testify they exchanged money for sex. However, the authorities are holding the managers pending a bail hearing, stipulating that as foreign nationals they represent a flight risk. I’m pressing for a hearing this afternoon, so we should have them out by this evening at the latest.”

Arsov was silent a moment. “Don’t press so hard. Tomorrow afternoon will be fine.”

“Yes… but don’t you want me to get them out as soon as—”

“Do we have a bad connection, or are you just slow?”

“Ah… no… no, I understand,” the lawyer said. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Or the next day. Whatever is convenient. Is there anything more?”

“No, not unless you—”

“Goodbye.” Arsov hung up.

He sat back in the squeaking chair and put his feet on the battered desk. All in all, things were going much better than he had hoped. The raid would impact revenue, of course, but not as badly as he feared. It would slow, but not stop for a week or two, and then he could start ramping things up again. Better still, with Nazarov out of the way for a couple of days, he could continue his plan. He had already set up the Cayman Islands bank account in Nazarov’s name, and he just had to plant a bit more evidence before he alerted St. Petersburg as to the full extent of the problem and his suspicions about Nazarov. Perhaps he would pick the least competent of the other club managers presently in custody as well. After all, Nazarov would undoubtedly have had an accomplice. He smiled. The bosses in St. Petersburg would be pleased that he’d come to London and uncovered these irregularities so quickly. Perhaps he would be in line for yet another promotion?