The Scioneer Part 8

Pechev hung up the receiver and allowed himself the luxury of one more chess move a black bishop takes white knight a before making another call. He leaned back in his chair and waited while the phone rang out.

'Phineas, it's Lyubomir.'

If Pechev's company had been a stationery supplier, a chain of estate agencies, a management consultancy firm, or anything equally dull and above board, then Phineas Gage would have been head of human resources and administration. As it was, Gage carried a set of knives in his briefcase and had been known to kill the employees with them if they didn't get the job done. On occasion, Pechev had been forced to rein him in, so exacting were his standards. Once, during a business meeting, a low-level dealer had had the temerity to answer one of Gage's rhetorical questions with a smart remark. Gage had pinned the dealer's hand to the table with a quartering knife and insisted he remained in the room, bleeding on the carpet, until the meeting was over, fifty minutes later.

'How can I help you, Mr Pechev?'

'This thing with Gorski, the scientist, it is out of control.'

'How so?'

'The men I put on him a Vidmar and Delia a it seems they have both turned rogue.'

'Really? I'm surprised. Vidmar has always been a good employee and Delia: stupid but loyal, at least.'

'I get the impression that Vidmar has been sampling the goods. Delia a who knows? They've both been sold a story about a recipe book.'

'Meaning?'

'All the formulae for our scions.'

'Ah.'

'Yes, quite. I'd like you to make the call.'

'Of course. How much?'

'Oh I don't know. A hundred apiece?'

'For Vidmar, yes, but Delia...? No, you're right. A hundred each. Nice and simple. I'll get on it.'

'Thank you Phineas.'

'Anything else Mr Pechev?'

'No, that is all. Give my regards to Marusya and the boys. I will talk to you soon.'

Gage hung up, went upstairs to his office and consulted the latest version of the company telephone tree. Such a high turnover of staff these days, he thought to himself, enforcing wasn't what it used to be. He unwound his flexi-specs and placed them on the end of his nose. He had two phone-calls to make initially a Golubev and Kask a who in turn would make two phone-calls a Lebedev and Shehu, and Rebane and Morozov a and so on, until everybody in the tree was aware that there were one hundred thousand cred bounties out for Vidmar and Delia. It was a simple way of controlling the amount of shared information, should the Mets ever decide to poke their noses into Pechev's business. Gage would have to make sure those branches below the targets were fully aware of the situation. He started punching the numbers into the phone.

Lek had insisted that they eat, realising when his stomach began to protest in the beautox parlour that he hadn't had anything since the Mash-Up hash-brownie at ten o' clock, before his meeting with the main man. Was that really this morning? he asked himself. It seemed like another world away, another age, when he was still a company man, still a rat on the wheel for Pechev. He was starving and Crystal admitted she was too, never having managed to get the corned beef sandwich she had promised herself at lunchtime. She stared at the cut on her thumb and smiled. They pulled over at Mr Au's a an all-you-can-take-away-and-eat Vietnamese noodle bar on the Wandsworth Road and filled four poly-boxes with cao lau egg-noodles and crispy dog. In front of them, a Samoan gent had brought his own plastic-lined thermo 'bag-for-life' and was lifting tureens of com tam rice and bahn cuon rolls and pouring them straight in, while Mr Au himself looked on disapprovingly and cursed his ill-thought out business plan. Lek and Crystal paid and left, and cruised around the streets before parking up next to The Fallen Googler Monument on the Long Road corner of Clapham Common to dine in the romantic ambience of the Proto's overhead door-light.

Retro AM was playing cla.s.sic love songs from the turn of the Millennium. Crystal plugged in the in-car s.h.i.+sha and they smoked an easy two-apple hookah while they ate their noodles, reminiscing about the times they had spent on the Common in the spring, wondering if they would ever have the chance again to stroll through the fields of daffodils without fear for their lives. They looked forward to making plans for a new life too. Lek spoke of visiting Krakow, 'perhaps', although he was sure it was the first place on the mainland that Pechev would look for him.

'I've always liked the sound of Prussia,' said Crystal, and Lek felt a frisson of desire for her as her lips pouted around the place-name. 'Yes, PRussia,' she murmured again, with a wicked glint in her eye.

It may not have been the best meal ever, but they savoured every morsel as though it were their last, and there was an awkward silence when they both realised simultaneously that perhaps it was.

'Whatever happens...' Crystal began.

'Don't say that.'

'What?'

'Don't say whatever it is you were about to say.'

'You don't know what I was about to say.'

'You're right. I don't, but I didn't like where it was going,' said Lek.

Crystal ignored him and took his hand in hers. 'Whatever happens, whether we get to the station, make it to the mainland, whether we make it out alive or not, I want you to know that I love you Lek Gorski. I do love you.'

She leaned over the gearstick to hold his face in her warm hands and was about to kiss him, when the pa.s.senger window exploded behind Lek's head and showered them both in broken cubes of security gla.s.s....

Chapter 23.

Vidmar wasn't able to focus on anything but the trail of phosph.o.r.escence floating in the warm evening air. He forgot about the Enzyme parked up on double yellows near the beautox clinic and loped down the high streets of the West End, moving almost against his will through the crowds of late-night shoppers, diners and theatre-goers as though he were being dragged along by an invisible force. The Thursday Night Trafalgar Square Bird and Rodent Market was in full swing and crowds of tourists were taking digisnaps of the caged canaries and budgerigars, while thin Asianos picked out the best brown rats for the stock pot. There had been a public hanging at the gates to Downing Street a The Prime Ministers wanted to send a message to Arabia that the UK would not bow to Persian terrorists, and the mossy pavement was littered with half-eaten meat-sticks and empty popcorn bags. Vidmar didn't see any of this, lost as he was to the scents he had gleaned from the Proto. 'Gorski, Gorski, Gorski...' he mumbled to himself over and over again, as he covered the distance between the city centre and Battersea Dogs' Home at an easy trot, hardly breaking a sweat, drool pouring from his open mouth. Here he stopped, called to his caged cousins to have faith in mankind, and sniffed the air again, before heading south to Clapham.

Zevon hefted the empty fire-extinguisher which he had used to break the car-window once more and barrelled it into the shocked face of Lek Gorski, simultaneously breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious. Crystal screamed and frantically tried to start the Proto, fumbling with the keys and the auto-steering lock. It was no use, for just as she heard the motor kick into life, she saw the brute wheel his arm high above his head as though he were bowling a cricket ball, and bring the extinguisher cras.h.i.+ng down on the bonnet. The biorg died with an audible pop and the engine fought to turn over, misfired and gave up the ghost. She screamed again when she saw the gruesome face of Roma Bruce leering at her in the light of the streetlamps, and she cowered beneath the dashboard. Roma calmly opened the unlocked door, reached inside and grabbed a handful of Crystal's pink bob. She wrenched her upright with a vicious twist of her wrist, and as Crystal tried to pull away, sighed softly in her ear, 'Make it easy for me, Barbie-doll. You can keep your tat bling, keep your piece of s.h.i.+t car, you can even keep your wannabe-chulo score there,' she nodded towards Lek, 'I just want your money.'

Ronnie had jumped on to the roof of the car and was smas.h.i.+ng his fists into the steel, pounding dents above Crystal's head, while his twin brother went to work on the back doors and the boot with a crowbar. Crystal sobbed, her tears leaving tracks in the fresh face-paint. She tried to say something but no words came out. Roma grabbed her chin and twisted Crystal's face towards her own. 'I can't understand a f.u.c.king thing you're saying,' she remarked coolly.

'Leave it Roma, look at this! We got plenty,' said Zevon, holding up the stack of hundredacred bills he had pulled from Lek's pocket. 'There's got to be at least two grand here,' unable to disguise the pure joy in his voice.

'Such a pretty face,' said Roma, and gave Crystal a lick with her long lupine tongue, before drawing back a fist and sucker-punching her in the side of the head.

Dahlia Ortega watched as the woman's body slumped against her boyfriend's and then she loped away with the rest of the gang across the Common.

Cesar stepped out of the Reincarn8 Gentlemen's Club with one of the barmaids in tow. He whispered something in her ear, slapped her backside and sent her back inside. Then he turned and walked straight over to Domino on the opposite side of the street.

'What's up Cesar? You want some business? Empire State?'

'No chico, I'm cool. I was just wondering if you've seen Vidmar yet this evening?'

'No way. Don't expect to neither. The word's already out. Vidmar is persona non grata round these parts. Seems he upset the big man today. There's already a hundred K on his head.'

'John Lennon's ashes! The big man just points a finger, and one of you guys pulls the trigger...'

'Not me, man. I only sell the s.h.i.+t. What I would give for that kind of money though. I'd be out of this mug's game in a heartbeat.'

'Good for you. You're a smart kid, Dom. Stay safe.' And he patted Domino on the shoulder with a ma.s.sive hand and strode off into the night.

In his thick fog of unconsciousness, Lek dreamt of a better life. He was in Paris, wandering through the cobbled back streets of Montmartre, holding hands with Crystal. He wore a cream linen suit and a boater and Crystal looked beautiful in a vintage red and white polka dot dress and huge sungla.s.ses. They were smoking Gauloise cigarettes and laughing at the cherry blossom floating on the air. People were smiling at them as they walked by. In a heady romantic haze, Crystal suggested they stop at one of the cafes on the Seine and take in the ambience. An accordionist who looked just like Vidmar, even down to the ragged scar, drifted by their table and tipped his beret.

'C'est Monsieur Vidmar,' said Crystal.

'Je ne savais pas que tu sais parler francais,' murmured Lek.

'Moi, non plus,' laughed Crystal. At the table opposite, Delia was reading love poetry from a small black spiraled notebook. He pointed his pen directly at Lek's face and gave a wink.

The waiter arrived with their coffee and croissants. Lek noticed as he lowered the tray that he was missing a finger from his right hand. He tried to see the man's face, but he was silhouetted against the morning sun, and Lek had to keep blinking to try and recognise him. 'Ca sert a rien', he told himself with a shrug.

For no reason, Crystal suddenly slapped him around the face.

'C'est pour quoi ca?!' Lek exclaimed, but she only slapped him again and shouted something at him, holding her tiny coffee cup up to his nose.....

Chapter 24.

Vidmar smelt the presence of Crystal's car long before he could see it, but when it finally appeared in his line of vision on the corner of the Common, it seemed bright enough to light up the night sky, s.h.i.+ning like a beacon in his bloodhound eyes. His senses came flooding back to him and in that moment he knew exactly what he needed to do - find Gorski; get the recipe book; don't make the same mistakes as Delia. He unclipped his Bertruzzi from its holster and stealthily approached the Proto. When he was close enough to see that it was battered and bleeding biorg fluid, he panicked, a.s.suming that somebody else had beaten him to the prize. Then he saw a woman in the front seat. On second glance, he realised that it was the woman: Purcell, wearing a pink wig and thank Ringo, she was slumped against a... younger, better looking version of Gorski; but Gorski nonetheless. The relief was palpable. He crept forward, circling around the other side of the car, all the time trying to piece together what must have happened to them. A crash? A gangland hit? Without thinking, he slipped the pistol back into the holster, and it was in that split second that he became suddenly aware of a huge presence standing next to him, breathing heavily and yet making no sound. Vidmar spun around and his face met the concrete fist of Cesar Pitres. The swinging uppercut lifted him clean off the ground, and Vidmar was dead before his body smashed into the back wheel arch of the Proto.

In a burnt-out Credibus shelter on Trinity Road, Arid s.h.i.+vered in the warm evening air and wished he hadn't let himself slip into addiction. His mother would be wondering where he was. Dinner would be waiting for him. He had an essay to write. His scratched a spot on the back of his neck and noticed for the first time the fine bristles of hyena-hair growing above the collar of his vest. 'Were they there this morning?' He pulled out his blade and touched the tip: what was he doing? He was not a boy, and not yet a man, unsure of himself and trying to find his way in the world. He only wanted to be part of the gang, to get high and laugh at nothing and everything. One thing he did know - he was no killer. As Arid came to his senses and stood up to leave, Osaze stepped into the bus shelter, glowing with pride. A tall sinewy man stood behind him. His dark skin was covered in a thin golden fuzz, which obscured the perma-tatts on his chest and arms. He wore golden earrings, eyebrow bars and a lip stud. Even the oversized muscles of his jawbone had been pierced and when he opened his mouth to speak, Arid saw that his sharp teeth were also gold-plated.

'So, you have come to do your duty with your hyena brothers. Good. I like to meet all the new recruits before a rumble. Osaze has faith in you. I have faith in you. Tell me blood-brother, are you ready to fight?'

Arid swallowed hard and lied, 'I am, Yakuba'.

Cesar took a moment to gather his thoughts. His heart was pounding: he had never killed a man before, but he told himself that desperate times called for desperate measures. He curled his hand around the lapels of Vidmar's scarred suit and lifted him off the ground as though he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. Cesar popped the boot and slung the body inside. 'Family and friends', he said to himself, under his breath, 'Not many of the first lot left, I'd better look after the others.' He tore his eyes away from the pulped b.l.o.o.d.y mess that had once been Vidmar's face, closed the boot and stepped around to the pa.s.senger window. Lek was still out cold, but the sound of Vidmar smas.h.i.+ng into the bodywork had woken Crystal, who was staring around, wild-eyed. She screamed again when she saw Cesar's orange eyes watching her.

'It's ok, it's ok. I'm a friend,' he said, and Crystal realised who he was.

'You're...you must be Cesar? Lek's told me a lot about you.' And she offered a hand over the top of Lek's unconscious body.

'He said you were a beauty,' said Cesar, with a half smile.

'He said you were a beast,' she replied, 'and his best friend'.

'Yes. I am. Both, I suppose. I wish I could stay and help you, but I've just... done something. Vidmar's dead.'

'How did you know where to find us?'

'I've been keeping my eye on Lek all day, on and off, but I should probably make myself scarce now. You should too. You've got to get to the station. Get out of this place.'

'I've got to wake him up first.'

'Give him a whiff of this,' Cesar said, handing over a tiny brown bottle from his pocket. 'It's Animal - amyl nitrite. It'll perk him right up, chica. You should get some ice on that s.h.i.+ner too. It's doing nothing for your image.'

'Thank you. Really, thank you.'

'You're welcome, beauty.'

And with that, Cesar turned and padded off across the Common. Crystal watched him go. As she looked out of the smashed window, she realised there were other people out there in the darkness, and not just the odd stranger in the night, intent on walking the dog, or loved-up couples taking an evening stroll. There were groups of people loitering in the shadows. Gangs of young people. In a flash, it hit her - full moon. And only fifteen minutes to electricurfew.

Chapter 25.

Self preservation. It was a concept that Lyubomir Pechev understood completely. He looked at the myriad lights across the city and thought about Lek Gorski. 'Where are you Doctor?' he asked aloud. 'Trying to make your getaway, no doubt'.

In the weeks following his own attempted escape from the tyranny of Taloquan, Pechev was forced to learn how to play the piano again without the use of his middle finger. He sat for many hours in the company of his kidnapper, awkwardly stretching his right hand across chords which had once come so naturally to him. And while he struggled to consciously override his muscle memory, he fought to hold on to his memories of the past, of his time in Kalinovka, and of his ident.i.ty. Burdened by the tide of new information his young brain was absorbing, he found in time that the mental images of his place of birth, his home, his parents, even the memory of his real name were proving harder to recall. By the time he was ten, these things had slipped from his grasp entirely and it seemed on the surface that he had accepted his fate and succ.u.mbed to Stockholm Syndrome, mistaking a lack of abuse from his captor as an act of kindness.

In truth, a fire still burned within him, and Lyubomir Pechev refused to let it go out, such was his desire to escape. Though he lived a life of relative luxury, a life which many children in Russia could only have dreamed of in 1997, he dedicated his days and nights, locked in his room, to meticulously planning his next flight, dismissing schemes which would require too many leaps of faith. Fleeing from the house was one thing, surviving on the outside was another. In six years, he had never been off the estate grounds, but he placed enough faith in his own intelligence and instincts to believe he could stay alive on the streets of Moscow. Whenever he had the chance, he studied roadmaps, Metro-plans, and even read guides to the city. He also made a point of committing to memory every telephone conversation, every sc.r.a.p of written information, name and number which Taloquan in his ignorance let slip while in Pechev's company. He watched how ruthlessly Taloquan did business, listened to him hammering down the price he paid for Latvian and Lithuanian girls, and squeezing every cent from the men who bought them. Pechev soaked up his captor's mannerisms and the language he used.

On the sixth anniversary of his kidnapping, Taloquan presented Pechev with an antique chess set and over their first game, informed the boy that his true parents were dead, confirming that his mother had indeed died of hypothermia in a snow bank on the day he had been taken. As for his father, he had devoted the rest of his life to alcoholism following his wife's death and his precious Aloysha's abduction, until three years later when he was found floating in the Volga, twenty miles from his hometown. Pechev neither showed nor felt emotion, so far removed was he from his own past, but the glint of humour in Taloquan's eyes as he imparted the news only served to steel his resolve.

His plan was simple. He needed only to wait for the right circ.u.mstances. Like all criminals who had reached a certain level of success, Taloquan was paranoid and employed as few staff as possible through fear of being killed in his sleep by an unknown chambermaid, or hacked to death on the croquet lawn by a junior gardener. As it was, there were only three loyal employees who lived on site: the chef, the housekeeper, and a man named Boris who seemed to do everything else, from feeding the hunting dogs to slopping out the prost.i.tutes' cells. They knew Taloquan's background and business, and were clearly paid enough to keep their mouths shut.

On a hot afternoon in August, when both the chef and housekeeper were shopping in the city, Pechev decided he could wait no longer and seized the best opportunity he had been given in months. From his piano stool, he could see Boris chopping firewood near the stables. Taloquan was tapping away at his computer when Pechev began to purposely hit wrong chords in his interpretation of Schuman's Trout Quintet. He feigned annoyance at the piano and stomped on the foot-pedals in a petulant manner. Taloquan eventually looked up from his work.

'What's the matter?'

'I think the pedals have become disconnected. The notes are dying off. Can't you hear it?' and again, Pechev hit a couple of disharmonious chords, knowing that his master knew nothing about the workings of his own musical instrument. He bent down and began hammering the pedals with his fist.

'In the name of Allah,' cried Taloquan, 'Be careful boy! That thing is worth more to me than you are!' and with a sigh of exasperation, he stepped away from his stinkwood desk and knelt down to examine the problem for himself.

In a flash, Pechev picked up the bronze bust of Lenin from the bookshelves and brought it down with a sickening crack on the back of Taloquan's head. When he checked for a pulse and found none, his own heart rate didn't change. With precise movements, he ticked off the items he needed from the room and from about Taloquan's person - wallet, cash-clip, keys, revolver. His own bag was in his cell, already packed with clothes and his all important birth certificate. Pechev took a moment to set a CD of 'The Greatest Piano Concertos EVER' playing on the stereo and left the office, remembering to lock the door behind him. He retrieved his bag, moved silently through the house and opened the front door, only to find Boris stamping the mud from his workman's boots on the gravel of the driveway. He stared at Pechev with simple eyes, but the boy could take no chances: he drew the revolver from his pocket and shot Boris through the forehead. In for a penny, in for a pound.