NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (25 page)

‘Great. A rich
man with an ego problem.’

Natalya gave a
bark of laughter. ‘Tell me any man who has not. He was brought up by an uncle
who was not successful with women due to his small stature. Because of this, he
took out his frustrations on the boy.’

‘What
happened?’

‘One day the
uncle disappeared. Fedorov was sixteen. He reported to the police that his
uncle had gone looking for work.’

‘Oh.’

‘Later, Fedorov
disappeared, too. When he returned, some years later, he was a different man.
He was making money - doing what, nobody knows. But we can guess. He had moved
up in the world and continued to do so. Now he has friends and wants more. It
is said he is under investigation by the Interior Ministry in Moscow for
illegal business practices and state fraud. This is very serious, but there are
ways around it. He is looking for ways to make those investigations go away.’

Riley
remembered the analogy Natalya had used before, about exiled Russians. The boy
going back home with the school prize. ‘Would that be enough, though?’ she
asked. ‘Ruining Al-Bashir’s chances in the telecoms market?’

‘It would,’ the
professor confirmed, ‘if it meant control would stay in the hands of local
organisations. Better that than going to a westerner.’ She sighed as if
recognising that some things could never change. ‘As I explained to you before,
there are some sins that can always be forgiven if the price is right.’

‘What does this
Fedorov look like? In case I should bump into him.’

‘I hope you do
not, Miss Gavin, for your sake. But I think you will know him as soon as you
do.’

‘How?’ Riley
felt a thud in her chest. Even as Natalya said it, an image, unbidden, had
begun to swim up from deep in her consciousness. Suddenly, she knew without a
shadow of a doubt: she had met Fedorov – and the next words confirmed it.

‘Fedorov is
short and becoming bald. He looks and dresses like an accountant, and always
stays in the background, where nobody sees him. My friends say he is a man to
miss in a crowd. But most of all, a man to avoid.’

Riley switched off
her phone. Her mouth was dry and she felt her heart pounding at the realisation
that she had made a serious mistake. The colourless ‘associate’ was actually
the boss. Which made Richard…what, exactly? According to Natalya, he was a
soldier…a doer of deeds.

But did it also
make him a killer?

*********

Riley
spent the day in the hotel, confined as much by her own feelings of disquiet,
as by Palmer’s advice to stay out of sight. The unusual attractions of room
service palled rapidly after the first two orders, along with daytime
television, the video selection and the view across the rooftops and back
gardens of Maida Vale. When she opened the window, she could hear the steady
boom of traffic along the Westway, reminding her that life was still going on
out there, in spite of and no doubt ignorant of death threats, Russian killers
and wounded cats.

She called the
surgery for regular updates on Lipinski, and found each one offering better
news than the last, each report holding out more hope of a complete recovery.

‘I don’t know
what you feed him on,’ said the receptionist at one point, ‘but that’s a hell
of a tough cat.’

‘Polish
meatballs, mostly,’ Riley told her, and thanked her before hanging up.

Out of boredom,
she soon found herself going over everything that Richard Varley had said, the
files on Al-Bashir… and the threats uttered by the man she now knew as Pavel
Ivanovich Fedorov.

And Varley. She
was still having trouble coming to grips with the idea of him being someone
called Vasiliyev. It was all too alien.

Then came
thoughts of Helen Bellamy and the German reporter, Annaliese Kellin, and the
part they had unwittingly played in this affair. And how she had come within an
ace of sharing the same fate.

‘You okay?’
Palmer stood in the doorway. He’d just returned from a tour of the streets
around the hotel. He was, she knew, unwilling to take for granted that the
gunman who had come to Riley’s flat wouldn’t find some way of tracking her down
if those were his orders.

‘Palmer, I’m
going stir-crazy,’ she replied. ‘I need to do something. Can’t I put on a hat
and go out for a walk?’

‘Maybe later,
when it’s dark. We still don’t know what resources these people have got. All
it needs is for someone to spot you. Shooting the cat was a warning. I doubt
they’ll leave it at that. Keep this door locked.’ He glanced at her mobile on
the bed. ‘Any news?’

‘You mean the
cat? Yes, he’s fine. Indestructible, according to the vet.’ She paused, unsure
how to begin telling him about Natalya’s call. She felt more than foolish
already, and didn’t need to suffer more humiliation over having been duped so
easily.

‘And?’

‘What ‘and’?’

He rolled his
eyes, and she told him about Richard Varley/Vasiliyev and his master, Fedorov.

Palmer took in
the news with little reaction. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he said evenly. ‘You weren’t
to know. But it answers lots of questions. This was carefully planned and
financed. They’re not here to fool around.’

‘Palmer?’ Riley
got off the bed and faced him.

He waited.

‘Do you have
something I can use?’ She gestured at the room. ‘I feel naked.’

‘You mean a
gun? No way. Forget it.’

‘No. Not that.
Anything… I don’t know.’ She shrugged helplessly, unsure about what she was
asking. ‘Something.’

Palmer’s lips
twitched. He reached into his jacket and took out a short black rod covered in
hard foam. He gave a sharp jerk and it snapped into a tapered steel baton with
a hard plastic tip. He pressed a release button in the handle and retracted it,
then handed it to her. ‘Try it.’

Riley was
surprised by the weight. But it felt reassuring in her hand. She flicked her
arm sideways, the way she’d seen Palmer do it, but nothing happened. She tried
again, harder. This time she was rewarded with a satisfying click as the baton
extended and locked out.

‘Wow,’ she
muttered, amazed by the feel of it in her hand. ‘Cool or what?’

‘It won’t make
you bullet-proof,’ he warned her. ‘So take it easy.’

‘I will.’  She
tried a couple of practice swings. ‘Where do I aim for?’

Palmer
shrugged. ‘If you’re mad enough at the time, anywhere you can reach.’

‘What then?’

‘Then you run
like hell.’

The long afternoon
blended with agonising slowness into the evening. Riley stood up from time to
time, swinging the baton and getting a feel for its weight, snapping it out and
back. Palmer was right: it wouldn’t make her bullet-proof, but it might make
all the difference if anyone came in here after her.

She eyed her
phone and the time. It brought thoughts about John Mitcheson; it was probably
morning wherever he was. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. Months, actually. Should
she give him a call, or would that seem too desperate? If she did, what would
she say that wasn’t going to sound pathetic? In the end, she decided against
it. Boredom was insufficient reason to go unearthing something better left to
take its own course.

In the end, she
decided that enough was enough. She had to see the cat. And have a very strong
drink or some fresh air, whichever came most readily to hand. She rang Palmer,
but he wasn’t answering.

She checked her
watch. Nearly six o’clock. She threw on a jacket and pocketed the baton, then
slipped out of the room, half expecting Palmer to emerge from a doorway like a
shadow and kick her back inside. She made her way downstairs and out through
the rear entrance, which opened onto a narrow back street lined with skips,
dustbins and a couple of bikes chained to some railings.

She decided to
walk to the surgery, located on a quiet street in Westbourne Park. It wasn’t
far and she needed to feel the stretch in the back of her legs and the firm
pavement beneath her feet. Soft carpets and sprung floors were fine for a
while, but there were limits to the amount of comfort she could endure.

She arrived at
the surgery and was ushered through to what the nurse called the convalescence
suite, a room lined with cages, each holding a sick animal. The remainder of
the space was heaped with an assortment of medical equipment, boxes of animal
foods and pet paraphernalia.

Lipinski was
sitting up, wearing what looked like a backpack with lots of strapping holding
it in place. He looked bored and restless. She knew how he felt.

‘He was lucky,’
the nurse told her, as Riley scrubbed the cat gently under the chin and he
drooled over her fingers. ‘The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, so there was
no internal bleeding. He’ll have a bald patch once the dressing comes off, but
that will soon grow back.’ She eyed Riley cautiously. ‘The police said they’d
be in touch. Sorry, but we had to report it.’

Riley thanked
her and wondered if they had already been to her flat to make enquiries. No
doubt Craig Pell would have something to say when he found out, and she found
herself smiling at the idea.

After ten
minutes of talking to the cat, during which time he veered from looking
interested on hearing her familiar voice, to grumpy when he realised she wasn’t
about to take him home, Riley decided she had better get back to her hotel room
before Palmer began scouring the greater London area in search of her. She gave
the cat a final rub along his flanks and said softly, ‘Never mind, chum. When
you get out, you can compare bullet wounds with Szulu.’

With that, she
told him to get well soon and left the surgery. She decided to take a taxi, in
case Palmer was busy tearing his hair out, and set out towards the nearby Tube
station, where the chances of picking one up would be greater.

She was only
yards from the surgery when a large car pulled into the kerb ahead of her. A
man jumped out and bent down to inspect a front wheel. He swore loudly and
banged the wing, then stood up and looked around as if hoping a handy tyre
depot would appear nearby.

As Riley drew
level, he looked at her then looked away again.

Riley’s
antennae began to tremble. There was something about the man. He was tall and
muscular, with a bullish neck and cropped hair. The way he had looked at her
was just a little too deliberate, too focussed. She gripped the baton inside
her pocket, her heart-rate increasing fast, and began to step away.

The rest
happened very quickly. Riley heard one of the rear doors of the car click open,
and from the corner of her eye, saw a second man emerging. This one was shorter
and heavier. The first man turned in the same instance and stepped towards her,
reaching out with big hands.

Whipping out
the baton, Riley flicked it open and slashed the first man across the face. She
felt the impact travel through her wrist and lower arm, and the man cursed but
kept coming. The baton fell away, her fingers stinging and unable to retain
their grip. Before she could retrieve it, the second man was on her, scooping
her up in his massive arms and bundling her through the door onto the back seat
like a sack of laundry. Following her in, he landed on top of her with a grunt,
smothering any further resistance.

Riley tried to
scream, to attract the attention of someone, anyone. She caught a glimpse
through the open car door of a woman’s startled face, watching from the
pavement. Then a large hand was clamped over her mouth, the doors slammed shut
and the car surged away down the street.

Frank Palmer tried
Riley’s room again. He’d already been up once but got no reply, and the
receptionist had confirmed that the key had not been left. He tried her mobile,
but there was no connection. He tried to think where she might have gone. Back
to the flat to get some clothes? No, he’d made sure she had sufficient for at
least three days. What other priorities did she have?

The cat. It had
to be. He checked his watch. It was nearly seven-thirty. He went back down and
got the porter to get him a list of veterinary surgeries close to where Riley
lived. He remembered her saying that the place wasn’t far from the flat, which
narrowed down the possibilities.

Eventually, the
porter came up with three names, and he began dialling. The first two had
closed for the day, and were on voice-mail. He struck lucky on the third.

‘Miss Gavin
left about an hour ago,’ the nurse confirmed, and Palmer instantly picked up
something in the tone of her voice.

‘What is it?’
he said.

‘Well, it might
be nothing, but one of our customers came in and said she saw a young woman
being pushed into a car by two men right outside the surgery. We called the
police, but they haven’t shown up yet. That’s why I’m still here. I hope she’s
all right…’

Palmer thanked
her and disconnected. He swore long and silently. Supposing it wasn’t what the
woman had thought? Maybe some friends messing around. An hour wasn’t long –
Riley  could have decided to stop off somewhere else, understandable after
being cooped up in the hotel all day. But instinct told him it wasn’t that
simple.

He began to
dial DI Pell’s number, then stopped. Pell wasn’t the sort to mess about; he’d
do the right thing, which was to mobilise all the resources he could muster.
Especially given the circumstances and his knowledge of Riley’s background from
Weller. But going in with all guns blazing was the worst thing they could do. A
blue light showing up within half a mile of anywhere Riley was being taken – if
it had been her being lifted off the street – could only end one way.

He dialled Ray
Szulu, who was still watching Pantile House, and told him what he wanted.

**********