The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (41 page)

“Get me into the house.”

Josyp thought and nodded once, quickly, as Stevan continued. “Thanks for the gun, but I’ll do without it.”

“I’ll open the back gate and keep the police at the front of the house for you. The only thing I ask is that you keep it away from the children.”

Stevan looked at him, horrified at Josyp even thinking that he would let children see. He nodded at him curtly. “Agreed. Get him in the study at six and I’ll do the rest.”

Both men walked quickly back to their cars, Josyp to leave for Ershov’s mansion, and Stevan to doze for an hour before the call came.

At five-fifteen Stevan’s alarm buzzed and he pressed a button, sliding the window down to let a blast of icy air wake him up. Why hadn’t Josyp called yet? He pressed-on the radio and Radio Essex cut through the darkening December sky, bringing him up to date with traffic and weather in the area. It could prove useful when he headed for the airport. He yawned and lifted the armrest, pulling a sandwich from its interior and was just taking a bite when the car-phone rang.

He seized the handset urgently. “Yes”

The gruff voice that answered belonged to the heir apparent. “He’s going in at 5.55 to take a call from Moscow. It will be ten minutes long at least. The back gate is open.”

The call ended abruptly and Stevan knew that it the last time he’d ever hear that voice, although Josyp had no idea. He threw the sandwich quickly onto the passenger seat and gunned the engine, spraying a trail of grass and ice in his wake. Pulling left onto the High Road he followed its curves and slopes into Burial Park; one mile from Alik Ershov’s expensive gated home. He drove the last mile slowly, lights dimmed, until he could make out the high, wide shape of the open back-gate into the grounds. Josyp had thoughtfully included a floor plan with the rifle, so he knew that the dimly-lit room beside the pool was the study that he’d been in only nine days before.

He parked the car in a nearby copse, and moved quickly and silently across the grass and through the open gate, stopping every few seconds to look around for police or family. There was no one. Josyp had kept to his word. They were all at the front. It was in both their interests to dispatch Alik quickly and anonymously.

He reached the window outside the room and checked his watch. 5.55. As predicted, the door opened and the room’s light brightened slightly, as he heard the heavy sounds of a man moving around inside. He gave Alik a moment to settle down and make the call.

As soon as he heard the familiar voice speaking Russian, he lifted the already open window a sliver and eased himself in silently. Alik was seated in his large leather chair behind the desk, with his back towards him.

Stevan hesitated for a moment, choosing between common sense and desire. Desire won. He grabbed quickly at the chair with one hand, swinging it around and cutting the call easily with his other, the look of shock in the Vor’s eyes was worth the riskier face-on kill.

Before the older man could call out, he clamped both hands around his neck and squeezed. Squeezed the life out of him for Kaisa, the affectionate child who had hurt no one until they’d destroyed her. And for Irene Leighton, a helpless, innocent mother that he’d made them tattoo for the pathetic honour of the Vors. And then ordered them to kill, viciously and publically. Trying to stir up political unrest in a newly peaceful country, its war-torn-past too much like Stevan’s own, to ever want it revived.

Stevan watched as Alik’s eyes widened frantically, and then reddened more by the second, filling with small, bloody dots as he wrung his hands tightly around his neck. He could feel the sinews in the Vor’s neck stretch and tighten, and the satisfying crack as his hyoid-bone broke. His search for air grew wilder, as he rasped and wheezed and finally quietened beneath his grip.

All at once the writhing and retching stopped, and Ershov’s body fell back limply, against the expensive seat in his dark study. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the wall clock, beating in time with Stevan’s softly exhaled breath.

Stevan looked down coldly at the man, feeling nothing but calm. Then he smiled once and slipped out of the room the same way that he came, disappearing quickly into the night. Back to Kaisa and out of the game forever.

***

It was the Friday before Christmas and for the first time in five years Craig was really looking forward to the holiday. He swung his chair around to face the window, relaxing, and he gazed out at the Lagan, always reflecting the seasons in weather and activity.

The afternoon light was dimming and a soft snowfall had covered the Harland and Wolff cranes like icing. It made them look festive, like two giant yellow Christmas trees. The last shards of winter-sun shone across the river, and he could just make out Stormont in the distance, reminding him sadly of Irene Leighton and her orphaned son. His eyes were pulled back to the river by the happier sound of a party-boat starting early, its seasonal lights twinkling to the sound The Pogue’s ‘Fairy-tale of New York’ and he smiled down at the giggling revellers dancing on the deck.

They’d completed the files for the prosecutors and they’d had a few days’ rest; now he was getting bored. So bored that he’d just called Harrison’s office and asked to be put back on the rota. But not until after Christmas.

After a moment more spent staring at the water he wandered out onto the main floor, searching for some banter. Just then his phone rang and he gestured Nicky to transfer the call, answering it quickly. It was London. He clicked on the speaker and Yemi’s deep, clear voice rang across the room.

“Hi Yemi, you’re on speaker. Fire ahead.”

“I thought you would all like to know, Alik Ershov is dead.”

Craig looked at Liam, shocked. “What! How did it happen?”

“Like something out of the S.A.S. handbook, that’s how. They came in through an open back-window last night and strangled him, while our people were at the front. Clean get-away.”

“Who wanted him dead?”

“Hundreds. It would be quicker to ask who didn’t. Look, I have to go to a meeting, but I just thought you’d like to know. Keep in touch, Marc. And Merry Christmas everyone.”

The line cleared and Liam’s next words earned him another human rights course. “Excellent job! Saved the courts a fortune.”

THE END

Thanks for reading this Crooked Cat book. If you enjoyed it, why not leave a review and recommend it to your friends?

Have a look at our other titles:

http://www.crookedcatbooks.com