Gray Salvation (22 page)

‘Hang on a second.’

Ellis called Bury over and explained what she’d just heard. ‘Send an armed unit to check it out, and bring the farmer in for questioning.’

She returned to her call. ‘The police are on it, but we’ve already ruled out a sniper as a viable option.’

‘I’m just passing on the information,’ Gray said. ‘No need to shoot the messenger.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh. There’s a lot going on here at the moment.’

She considered telling Gray about Thompson’s ordeal, but decided it could wait until they got back, giving Sarah a little time to heal, both physically and emotionally.

‘I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done,’ she said.

‘Andrew’s safe, that’s the main thing. You can owe me one.’

The call ended, and Ellis put the phone back in her pocket. She had one last look around the room, then went to retrieve her car.

A lot had been resolved in the last twenty-four hours, but if Harvey were correct, President Milenko remained in grave danger.

Chapter 27

27 January 2016

Ivan Zhabin dialled the number on the estate agent’s website and stared out of the apartment window as he waited for the call to connect. The view was underwhelming, but at least the area was quiet and the room was relatively clean, though much smaller than he was used to. It was certainly better than some of the dumps he’d had to stay in throughout his career, but he still craved his expansive apartment on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, with spectacular views and a living room the size of a basketball court.

‘Parry and Mason,’ the chipper female voice said, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Hello, I’m calling with regards the property for sale on the Ashcroft development.’

‘Certainly, sir. Can I take some details, please?’

Zhabin told her his name was Alfred Baume, spelling it out for her, and that he was a manufacturer from Frankfurt looking for a London property ahead of opening his UK branch.

‘We could show you around at two this afternoon, if that’s convenient.’

‘Sorry,’ Zhabin said, emphasising the German accent, ‘but I will be in meetings for the next three days and have to fly home on Thursday. Would it be possible to arrange for an evening viewing? Say, tomorrow at seven?’

This was the third estate agent he’d contacted, and the other two had refused his request. They were obviously confident of shifting their properties during normal business hours, but he hoped this smaller firm was willing to go the extra mile for a sale.

It was a tense few moments as he was put on hold, but the woman came back to the phone and said her colleague could accommodate him and would meet him in the lobby at the agreed time.

‘And is the waterfront apartment still available?’

‘It certainly is,’ she assured him.

‘Excellent! Tomorrow at seven, then.’

Zhabin hung up.

From what he’d seen of the property listing, he’d have to take the shot at an angle of about thirty degrees, but it was still well within his comfort zone. The weather forecast for the next day called for overcast skies with a slight chance of rain. Not ideal conditions, and when he factored in the early sunset, a night shot would make it a little more difficult. That said, Viktor Milenko was no longer a young man, and wouldn’t be bounding up the stairs to the hotel. He should have plenty of time to get his sights on the president of Tagrilistan.

With the arrangements made, he had more than twenty-four hours to do with as he wished, and only one thought crossed his mind. He opened a new browser window and searched for red-light areas in London. The results told him his best chances of finding a woman were in King’s Cross and Soho, so he searched both areas using the online maps.

An hour later, he decided on Soho, but there would be a lot of preparation before he could go and enjoy himself. He put his suitcase on the double bed and unzipped the top compartment, then removed the hidden panel to reveal his make-up kit. Inside the small bag were the false beard and prosthetic nose he used to disguise his features.

He applied the nose first, using alcohol to remove the natural body oils that would prevent the Pros-Aide prosthetic glue from adhering to his skin. Next, he used a Q-tip to apply the adhesive to both the foam latex and his skin, and once it had cured, he carefully stuck the new nose on top of his own. Once he was satisfied with the look, he used a small brush to finish sealing the edges to his face with spirit gum.

It took twenty minutes to get to this stage, and he then began the more laborious chore of applying layers of prosthetic make-up to match his own skin colour.

Zhabin eventually studied himself in the mirror and thought the transformation was remarkable, even though it was something he’d done many times. The final touches included a thick, black beard and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

Gone was the forty-eight-year-old with the chiselled looks, and staring back at him was a man in his sixties with a nose that suggested years of alcohol abuse. Zhabin topped off the look with a well-worn trench coat and fedora, and the figure reflected in the full-length mirror looked to be a complete stranger.

With the disguise complete, Zhabin returned to his laptop and searched for hotels in the area. He quickly eliminated anything above three stars, then narrowed it down to the seediest joint available. He dialled the number and got through to a surly receptionist. She spoke in a clipped tone, her words barely audible over the television show blaring in the background. Zhabin explained that he needed a room for a couple of nights but didn’t have a credit card, and asked if he could pay cash. He was told that he could, though he would have to show a passport. He assured her that wasn’t a problem and booked a room in the name of Ferrera. It was one of three false passports he carried that bore the image of him dressed as he was now, though none of them was of good enough quality to facilitate international travel. They were perfect for this type of thing, though, as he never used them in their supposed country of origin, and he doubted the receptionist would be able to spot a fake Venezuelan passport from the real deal. Once used, he would discard it, as he had done with many others over the years.

Zhabin put a small bottle of make-up remover in his pocket, then walked down the stairs and out into the street. He took the Tube to King’s Cross and walked to the hotel he’d booked earlier. It was a miserable-looking place, but ideal for his purposes. There was an alleyway leading to the back of the four-storey building, and Zhabin took it. He passed dumpsters full of rubbish as well as piles of empty cardboard boxes until he found what he was looking for.

The emergency fire exit snaked down the side of the building, with a gantry on each floor. It was just what he was hoping for, but more importantly, there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras.

Satisfied with his escape route, Zhabin retraced his steps and arrived at the Tube station, where he took the Underground to Piccadilly Circus. Once he emerged into the early evening throng, he followed the route he’d memorised back in the hotel, up the narrow pavement of Great Windmill Street and on to Brewer Street.

He soon found the narrow alleyway he was looking for, and strolled past tables full of revellers braving the elements so that they could smoke as they drank. No-one gave him a second glance as he walked down the well-lit side street, looking left and right for the hidden flight of stairs that would lead up to his night of pleasure. He soon saw the sign that simply said ‘Models’ and walked up the narrow staircase.

He knocked on the door and it was immediately answered by a woman who looked to be in her sixties. After giving him the once-over, she stood aside to let him in. Zhabin found himself in a small hallway, and the old woman took a seat behind a rickety desk and picked up a well-thumbed copy of
Hello
magazine. Three small wooden chairs were lined up next to her, each one occupied by a call girl.

The first two were instantly dismissed. One had bright red hair, which Zhabin found distasteful, while the second was carrying too much weight for his liking. The third, though, was more to his tastes. She looked to be about thirty, and though he would have preferred someone a bit younger she ticked a lot of his boxes.

Zhabin smiled at her, and the girl got to her feet.

‘Sixty quid,’ the old woman said.

Zhabin pulled out a roll of notes, counted out three twenties and handed them to the aging receptionist, then gestured for the girl to follow him.

‘You do it here, darling.’

Zhabin turned to the old lady. ‘I’m sorry, but I am worried about hidden cameras and such. It would do my reputation no good if people learned that I was in such a place.’

‘There’s none of that going on here,’ the woman said.

‘Quite, but I prefer to do these things in familiar surroundings. My hotel is quite close by.’

The receptionist looked at the brunette Zhabin had chosen, and the younger woman shrugged her shoulders.

‘Okay, but it’ll be two hundred if you take her off the premises, and she has to be back in an hour.’

Zhabin still had the roll of money in his hand, and he began counting. ‘How much for the whole night?’

‘Five hundred,’ the old woman said without hesitation.

The price wasn’t a problem, but Zhabin made an appropriate grumbling fuss as he handed the woman a wad of notes.

‘Have her back by nine in the morning.’

Zhabin’s prize disappeared through a door and returned a minute later wearing a heavy overcoat and carrying an umbrella. He led her back downstairs and out onto the main street, where he hailed a taxi.

Fifteen minutes later, they strolled into the Egremont Hotel, where the receptionist lived up to Zhabin’s expectations. He’d pictured a twenty-something with piercings and tattoos, and was right on the money.

‘I called earlier,’ he said, and handed over the Venezuelan passport, while his escort took a seat on an ancient leather sofa and thumbed through a leaflet.

Zhabin was surprised how quickly the registration process went, and assumed it was so that the girl could get back to watching whatever reality TV show he’d interrupted. It also explained why she hadn’t bothered asking about his lack of luggage, which most guests tended to carry with them.

Armed with his room key, he gestured for the prostitute to follow and walked her up two flights of stairs. The room he entered was about right for the price. A double bed with a sorry-looking duvet, plus a writing desk and built in wardrobes. The light switch was a dimmer, and Zhabin set it to halfway.

The girl went into the toilet and locked the door, and Zhabin guessed she was administering some chemical fortitude to see her through the night ahead. It didn’t matter to him, as long as she performed her duties.

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, Zhabin had stripped naked and was lying on his side, gently stroking himself. He hadn’t even learned her name. No doubt, any name she gave would be false. He asked anyway.

‘Liz,’ she told him, unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor. She seemed quite impressed with his body, he noted. Not what she expected, given his elderly looks.

‘Lie on your back,’ Liz said, shucking off her bra and stepping out of her thong. She reached into her handbag and produced a condom. She had it on him in seconds, and as Zhabin lay back she straddled him and fed him inside her.

She writhed gently, moaning, and Zhabin wasn’t sure if she was showing signs of genuine pleasure, or was just very good at her job. He was swayed towards the latter, because after just a couple of minutes, he was close to bursting.

‘I want to be on top,’ he said, and gracefully twisted and threw her underneath him. Liz didn’t object as he moved above her, his hands next to her head.

Zhabin gazed at her face, but she had her eyes closed as she ground beneath him. As he neared his own sweet climax, he moved his fingers under the pillow and found the wooden ends of the garrotte. With each surge of his hips, he eased it towards him, sliding the thin metal wire under her head until it was in position at the back of her neck.

Zhabin worked his hips faster, until the moment of glorious release finally neared.

But the true pleasure was yet to come.

With practised dexterity, he let go of the garrotte and crossed his hands over, then grabbed it again and pulled the wire tight across the girl’s larynx. As with the others, he would look her in the eye while he stole her life, heightening the sensation building in his groin.

Liz’s eyes opened instantly, but instead of her hands going to her throat to relieve the pressure, they went straight to Zhabin’s face.

It wasn’t what he’d expected.

A thumb pressed deep into his eye socket while her other hand tore at his beard, her long fake nails gouging three lines into his face. He jerked his head backwards and increased the tension on the wire, suddenly fearful of losing control of the situation. Hands grasped for his face, but he managed to keep himself just out of reach.

Zhabin could no longer see into her eyes as she squeezed them shut, as if to increase her reach, but the thrill had already gone out of this encounter. He needed to end it quickly, but the woman was a fighter. It obviously wasn’t her first violent confrontation, and she was fighting him with all she had. What was supposed to be an evening of sweet pleasure was quickly turning sour. Her body bucked underneath him, like a rodeo bull on steroids, and she managed to get a knee into his side with enough force to knock him off balance. As he fell to his side, Liz was able to reach his face, and her claws dug deep into his cheek once more. She grabbed hold of his beard and yanked, pulling half of the false hair away from his face, despite the strong adhesive he’d used.

He had to regain control of the situation, and that meant maintaining his grip and seeing the job through. The woman was beginning to weaken, having gone more than thirty seconds without a breath. Her exertions began to take their toll, and her struggling finally ceased as her hands went to her throat, trying to claw away the wire.

Zhabin watched her eyes close and felt her body go limp, but he kept the garrotte taut, just to be sure. A red line began to form where the thin wire had penetrated the skin, but he kept the pressure on for another thirty seconds.

When he finally let go, he was panting and sweating like he’d just run a marathon. Thankfully, she hadn’t been able to alert anyone by crying out, so he had plenty of time to compose himself before leaving.

He crawled off the body and removed the condom, which he put in a plastic zip-lock bag, then quickly dressed, stepped into the bathroom and looked at his face. There were deep scratches on both cheeks, and his beard was hanging off on one side. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stick it back on, so he got the make-up remover from his coat and spent fifteen minutes taking off the disguise. His face stung where the solvent dripped into his wounds, but there was little he could do about the pain. Instead, he was more concerned about getting back to the apartment Bessonov had lent him without anyone seeing the wounds.

When the false nose had been removed, Zhabin put the prosthetic in another plastic bag along with the false facial hair and solvent, then returned to the bedroom.