Spider's Web: A Collection of All-Action Short Stories (2 page)

‘It is real,’ said Shepherd.

Tankov flicked the licence through the air and it hit the wall behind Shepherd. ‘Seaank. ̵rch him again,’ he said to his companion. ‘Make sure he’s not wired.’

‘Why would I be wired?’ asked Shepherd.

Tankov threw the wallet at Shepherd; it only just missed hitting him in the face.

The Scotsman walked up to Shepherd and ripped open his shirt. He stepped to the side and pointed at Shepherd’s exposed abdomen. ‘Satisfied?’ he growled.

‘Check his trousers. I want to be sure he’s not wired.’

‘He’s not wired,’ said the Scotsman.

‘Humour me,’ said Tankov.

The Scotsman scowled at Tankov, then unzipped Shepherd’s trousers and prodded his boxer shorts.

‘Is this some sort of sex thing?’ asked Shepherd.

The Scotsman grabbed Shepherd’s scrotum and squeezed. ‘You think this is funny?’

Shepherd winced. ‘I just want to go home,’ he said.

The Scotsman released his grip and stepped back. ‘He’s not wired,’ he said to Tankov.

‘I’m an environmental health officer,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

Tankov chuckled. ‘Is everything that comes out of your mouth a lie?’ he said. He bent down and peered at Shepherd with cold, hard eyes, as grey as gunmetal. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘I know everything.’

Shepherd said nothing.

‘Your name is Simon Powell and you’re a cop,’ said Tankov, saying each word slowly and precisely, as if relishing passing the information to him. He grinned triumphantly. ‘See?’ he said. He looked over at the other man. ‘See the fear in his eyes? Do you see it?’

The Scotsman nodded. ‘I see it.’

Tankov jabbed his finger at Shepherd’s chest. ‘I know everything,’ he said.

‘So you can let me go and we can both get on with our lives, can we?’ said Shepherd. The Russian didn’t know that he worked for MI5, nor did he know his real name. And Simon Powell wasn’t an alias he’d ever used.

The Russian frowned. ‘What?’

‘If you know everything then there’s nothing I can tell you so you might as well let me down.’

The Russian’s frown deepened and he turned to look at the other man again. ‘He thinks we’re going to let him go?’ he said.

‘Looks like it,’ said the Scotsman.

The Russian laughed. ‘Do you think he’s really that stupid?’ He moved his face closer to Shepherd’s. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ he said.

Shepherd flinched as the man’s rank breath assailed his nostrils. ‘You’re a very successful assassin, you’ve never been caught, so no, I don’t think you’re stupid.’

‘So you do know me?’

‘Viktor Tankov,’ said Shepherd. ‘Former Russian military, now freelance.’

‘And you admit you’re a cop?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be any point in me denying it, does there?’ said Shepherd.

‘Told you,’ said the Scotsman.

‘Do you know how many men I’ve killed?’ Tankov asked Shepherd.

‘A dozen,’ said Shepherd.

‘A dozen?’ Tankov looked over at his companion. ‘A dozen in my first year as an independent contractor.’

‘I’m guessing you try to keep a low profile,’ said Shepherd.

‘Those that need to know, know,’ said the Russian. ‘Most of the time no one realises that a killing has taken place. Car accidents. A helicopter once.’

‘A helicopter?’

‘Stefen Grabosky. Remember him? One of the steel oligarchs. Richer than God.’

‘That was an accident,’ said Shepherd. ‘I remember that. It was in California. San Francisco. Metal fatigue, they said.’

Tankov chuckled. ‘The Americans couldn’t find their backsides in a darkened room,’ he said. ‘Helicopters are dangerous at the best of times. It doesn’t take much to have them shake themselves apart in mid-air. Remove a washer here, loosen a nut there. Add a little something to the fuel or the oil. And when they come down hard there isn’t much left to examine.’

‘And you rigged it? You killed Grabosky?’

The Russian nodded enthusiastically. ‘For a quarter of a million dollars,’ he said.

‘But who would want a steel oligarch dead?’

The Russian tapped the side of his nose. ‘The quarter of a million buys more than just the job,’ he said. ‘It buys my silence.’

The Scotsman chuckled. ‘It’s not as if he’s going to tell anyone, is it?’

The Russian laughed. ‘That is true,’ he said. ‘That is very true.’

‘Must have been someone with money to burn,’ said Shepherd.

‘My clients are all rich,’ said Tankov. ‘How else could they afford my fees?’

‘But even so. A quarter of a million. That’s a lot.’

The Russian shrugged. ‘You get what you pay for,’ he said.

‘You can get someone killed for twenty grand in London.’

Tankov snarled. ‘That’s like saying you can buy a car for a thousand pounds so why pay a hundred grand for a Bentley. You get what you pay for. You want the best, you have to pay for it.’

‘Dead is dead,’ said Shepherd. He arched his back, trying to take the weight off his aching arms.

‘As you’re going to find out, sooner rather than later,’ growled the Scotsman.

‘What I mean is that it doesn’t matter how much you pay, the victim only dies once,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s not about the death, it’s what happens afterwards,’ said Tankov. ‘That’s what they pay for. If you want a death to look like an accident, I can do that. Or I can make it look as if someone else was responsible for the death. Or I can make a body disappear so that no one ever knows what happened.’

‘You’ve done that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Of course,’ said the Russian. ‘Dismembering bodies au ging bodnd getting rid of the parts is one on my specialities. I always give the client a photograph, as proof.’

‘They don’t trust you?’

‘It’s not about trust,’ said Tankov. ‘It’s about being a professional. They pay for a job, they need to know that the job has been completed as promised.’

‘So you take a photograph of the body?’

‘Exactly.’ Tankov folded his arms across his barrel chest.

‘So they don’t trust you. If they trusted you, they wouldn’t want a photograph, would they?’ Shepherd looked over at the Scotsman. ‘What do you think?’

‘He doesn’t think,’ said Tankov. ‘It’s nothing to do with him. And it’s nothing to do with you, either. It’s between me and the client.’

‘And how do the clients find you?’ asked Shepherd.

Tankov frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Presumably you don’t advertise in the papers. So how do these clients hire you in the first place?’

Tankov tilted his head on one side and then slowly smiled. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘You think if you can keep me talking I won’t kill you.’ He chuckled and looked over at the Scotsman. ‘That’s what he’s thinking. He wants to keep me talking.’

‘So just kill him,’ said the Scotsman. ‘Kill him and have done with it.’

Tankov reached into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. ‘I think I’ll gut him like the pig he is.’ He waved the blade under Shepherd’s chin. ‘That’s what they call the cops in England, isn’t it? Pigs?’ He grinned savagely. ‘You know what they call the cops in Russia? Trash. Garbage. That’s what you are. Garbage.’

‘I thought you were a professional,’ said Shepherd.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Professionals kill for money. Who’s going to pay you for killing me?’

‘You I will kill for free.’

‘But killing me is pointless. I’m doing my job, that’s all. If you kill me someone else will take over. And if you kill him someone will take over from him. This isn’t personal, Tankov. You’re just a job for me.’

‘A job that will be the death of you.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘We’re the same, you and me,’ he said. ‘You do what you do for money. So do I. We’re two professionals. Your job is to kill people. My job is to stop you. You’re going to kill me because I’m doing my job.’

‘And you think that’s unfair?’ said the Russian.

‘I’m long past the stage of worrying about what’s fair and what’s not fair. Life isn’t fair, I know that. Good people get hurt and people get away with doing bad things. I’m just saying, there’s zero profit in you killing me.’

‘It would shut you up, for a start,’ growled the Scotsman.

‘I’m just saying. You killed this Grabosky character. You killed him for money. But if you kill me, you get nothing.’

‘Think of it as …Rkilt as 17; Tankov frowned and looked over at the Scotsman. ‘What’s that phrase I heard? Latin or something. Means you do something for free.’

‘Pro bono,’ said the Scotsman.

Tankov nodded. ‘That’s it. Pro bono. I’ll kill you for pro bono.’

‘Then you’re no different from any other gangbanger with a gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘Professionals don’t kill for anything other than cold, hard cash.’

Tankov waved the knife under Shepherd’s chin. ‘You talk too much.’

‘And what about the guy who paid you to kill Grabosky? How much did he pay you?’

‘I told you. A quarter of a million dollars.’

‘So how’s he going to feel when he hears you’ve done the same thing for free?’

‘He won’t know. No one will. No one’s ever going to find your body.’ He pressed the knife against Shepherd’s throat. ‘But first you need to tell me how much you know.’

‘That could take some time,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got an eidetic memory.’

‘A what?’

‘An eidetic. I remember everything I’ve seen or heard.’

The Russian grinned. ‘Then you won’t have any problems telling me what you know about me, will you?’ He pressed the knife harder against Shepherd’s throat and it punctured the skin. Blood dribbled down the blade.

‘Your name is Viktor Tankov, you served in the Russian military in Afghanistan in the late eighties, just before they pulled out. You made a bit of a name for yourself in Chechnya in the late nineties and you went freelance in 2001, just after 9/11.’

Tankov nodded. ‘I should have gone independent sooner, but I did not know how,’ he said. ‘I was a soldier, I was used to following orders.’ He pulled the blade of the knife out and Shepherd felt blood trickle down his neck. ‘How did you know I was in the UK?’

‘The Border Agency was watching for you.’

‘I did not travel under my own name.’

‘The face recognition system spotted you,’ said Shepherd.

‘But I flew in through Dublin and came over on the ferry.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘So why wasn’t I arrested?’

‘We’ve nothing on you,’ said Shepherd. ‘You never leave forensic evidence, there are no witnesses, and like you said, most of the time there isn’t even a body.’

‘So the British cops have nothing? No evidence against me?’

‘That’s why I was put on the case.’

The Russian laughed harshly. ‘That didn’t work out so well for you, did it?’

Shepherd said nothing. He could still feel blood trickling down his neck.

‘If you have no evidence against me, how did you know who I was?’

‘We cooperate more with the Russians these days. The SVR notified us.’

Tankov nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what evidence do they have?’

Shepherd said nothingjussaid no.

Tankov pressed the knife against Shepherd’s throat again. ‘What evidence do they have?’ he repeated.

‘Circumstantial,’ said Shepherd.

‘Circumstantial?’

‘You’ve been in places where killings have taken place. That plus your background.’

‘But nothing definite?’

‘You’re one of several names they gave us. They wanted me to follow you, find out what you were up to.’

Tankov nodded. ‘And what about London? Do they know why I’m here?’

‘No,’ said Shepherd.

Tankov stared at Shepherd. ‘Are you lying to me?’

‘Why would I lie? I don’t care, Viktor. I’m just a cog in the machine. I gain nothing by lying to you. And if I tell you everything I know, you’ve got no need to kill me, right?’

Tankov drew the knife slowly down Shepherd’s throat, scratching the skin but not piercing it.

‘I’m not lying,’ said Shepherd quickly.

‘So they don’t know who my target is?’

‘If they do, they didn’t tell us,’ said Shepherd. There was no risk in lying to the Russian, he clearly didn’t know how much Shepherd knew. The first rule of interrogation was never to ask a question that you didn’t know the answer to. Tankov might well be one the world’s most efficient assassins but he was a lousy interrogator.

Tankov took the knife away and looked at the Scotsman. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s your call,’ said the Scotsman.

‘We can go ahead,’ said the Russian. ‘If they don’t know the target …’

‘Who is the target?’ asked the Scotsman.

‘A journalist. Ella Mirskiv.’

‘A woman?’ said the Scotsman.

‘A target,’ said Tankov. ‘Man or woman, it makes no difference. She has been writing stories that damage my client and he wants her taken care of.’ He looked back at Shepherd. ‘Did they mention her? Ella Mirskiv?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘You are sure?’

‘I already said, I’ve got a photographic memory. I don’t forget anything. Can I ask you something?’

‘What?’

‘How did I show out? How did you know I was a cop?’

‘You were recognised, in a restaurant where I was meeting a contact. One of the waiters had come across you when you were a cop. He saw you watching me and tipped me off.’

‘But he wouldn’t have known my name,’ said Shepherd. ‘I never use my own name when I’m undercover.’

‘Ron here knew you,’ said Tankov, jerking a thumb at the Scotsman. ‘He was with me when my boys pulled you in. Said he recognised you.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Thanks for that, Ron.’

‘Pleasure.’

‘I don’t know you, do I?’ Shepherd asked the Scotsman.

‘You put away a group of my pals a while back,’ said the Scotsman. ‘Drugs.’

‘So much for your photographic memory.’ The Russian laughed.

‘You’re going to go ahead?’ asked the Scotsman. ‘You’re still going to take out this Ella Mirskiv?’

‘Why not? I’ve been paid in advance.’

‘Big money?’ asked the Scotsman.

‘The usual. A quarter of a million dollars.’

‘Is this one an accident or does she disappear?’

The Russian smiled. ‘This one has to be seen to be an assassination,’ he said. ‘The client wants a bullet in the face, a warning to others.’