He hands me a glass of Scotch and slides the ice bucket toward me.
“Are you a sailor?”
“Not really.”
“Shame. With me it's flying. You ever see that episode of The Twilight Zone where William Shatner looks out of the window of a plane at 20,000 feet and sees a gremlin tearing off pieces of the wing? They made it into a film, which was nowhere near as good. That's how I feel when I step on a plane. I'm the only person who knows it's going to crash.”
“So you never fly?”
He turns over both his palms, as if revealing the obvious. “I have a motor yacht.”
The Scotch burns pleasantly as I swallow but the aftertaste is not like it used to be. All that morphine has deadened my taste buds.
Aleksei is a businessman, accustomed to cutting deals. He knows how to read a balance sheet, to manage risk and maximize profit.
“I might have something to trade,” I announce.
He raises his hand again, this time pressing a finger to his lips. The Russian steps from the companionway looking as if he's been trapped in an ill-fitting suit.
“I'm sure you understand,” says Aleksei apologetically as the bodyguard sweeps a metal detector over me. Meanwhile, he issues instructions via a radio. The engines of the boat rumble and the ice shudders in my glass.
He motions me to follow him along the companionway to the galley where a narrow ladder descends to the lower deck. We reach a heavily insulated door that opens into the engine room. Noise fills my head.
The engine block is six feet high with valves, fuel cocks, radiator pipes, springs and polished steel. Two chairs have been arranged on the metal walkways that run down each side of the room. Aleksei takes a seat as if attending a recital and waits until I join him. Still nursing his drink, he looks at me with an aloof curiosity.
Shouting to be heard above the engines, I ask him how he found Gerry Brandt. He smiles. It is the same indolent foreknowing expression he gave me when I saw him outside Wormwood Scrubs. “I hope you're not accusing me of any wrongdoing, Inspector.”
“Then you know who I'm talking about?”
“No. Who is he?”
This is like a game to him—a trifling annoyance compared to other more important matters. I risk boring him unless I get to the point.
“Is Kirsten Fitzroy still alive?”
He doesn't answer.
“I'm not here to accuse you, Aleksei. I have a hypothetical deal to offer.”
“A hypothetical one?” Now he laughs out loud and I feel my resolve draining away.
“I will trade you the diamonds for Kirsten's life. Leave her alone and you get them back.”
Aleksei runs his finger through his hair, leaving a trail in the gel. “You have my diamonds?”
“Hypothetically.”
“Then hypothetically you are obliged to give them back to me. Why should I have to trade?”
“Because right now this is only hypothetical; I can make it real. I know you planted the diamonds in my house to frame me. Keebal was supposed to get a warrant but I found them first. You think I saw something that night. You think I can hurt you somehow. You have my word. Nobody else has to get hurt.”
“Really?” he asks sarcastically. “Do not attempt a career as a salesman.”
“It's a genuine offer.”
“A hypothetical one.” Aleksei looks at me, pursing his lips. “Let me get this straight. My daughter is kidnapped and you fail to find her. She is murdered and you do not recover her body. Then people try to extort two million pounds from me and you fail to catch them. Then you steal my diamonds and accuse me of planting them on you. And on top of it all, you want me to forgive and forget. You people are scum. You have preyed on my ex-wife's grief. You have taken advantage of my good nature and my desire to make things right. I didn't start this—”
“You have a chance to end it.”
“You mistake me for someone who desires peace and harmony. On the contrary, what I desire is revenge.”
He moves to stand. The negotiation is over.
I feel my temper rising. “For Christ's sake, Aleksei, I'm trying to find Mickey. She's your family. Don't you want to know what happened?”
“I know what happened, Inspector. She's dead. She died three years ago. And let me tell you something about families—they're overrated. They're a weakness. They leave you or get taken from you or they disappoint you. Families are a liability.”
“Is that why you got rid of Sacha?”
He ignores me, pushing open the heavy door. We're outside now. I can hear myself think. Aleksei is still talking.
“You say to trust you. You say trust the deal. You have no idea, do you? Not a clue. You're like the three wise monkeys all rolled into one. Now let me make a deal with you—hypothetically speaking, of course. You return the diamonds to me and then step back. Let people work things out for themselves. Market forces, you see, capitalism, supply and demand, these are the things I understand. People reap what they sow.”
“People like Gerry Brandt?” With a flick of my wrist, I grip his forearm. He doesn't flinch. “Leave Kirsten alone.”
His eyes are narrow and dark, with something toxic behind them. He thinks I'm some dumb plod, barely off the beat, whose idea of subtle interrogation is a nightstick and a strong right arm. That's how I'm acting.
“You know what a Heffalump is?” I ask.
“Winnie-the-Pooh's friend.”
“No, you're thinking of Piglet. Heffalumps and Woozles are the nightmare creatures that Pooh Bear dreams about. He's afraid they're going to steal his honey. Nobody can see them except Pooh. That's who you remind me of.”
“A Heffalump?”
“No. Pooh Bear. You think the world is full of people who want to steal from you.”
The sky is gray and the evening air damp and heavy. Away from the throb of the engines my headache finds its own rhythm. Aleksei walks me to the gangway. The Russian is close behind him, swinging his left arm a little wider because of his holster.
“Have you ever thought of getting a normal job?” I ask.
Aleksei contemplates this. “Maybe we should both do something new.”
Then it dawns on me that he's right, we're not so different. We both screwed up our relationships and lost our children. And we're too old to do anything else. I have spent two-thirds of my life putting criminals away, most of them small-timers and lowlifes. Aleksei was what I was working toward. My ambition. He's the reason I did the job.
As I step onto the gangway the Russian follows, two paces behind. The rope handrails are looped between brass posts. He closes the last step and I feel the warm metal of the gun brush the short hairs at the base of my skull.
Aleksei explains: “My employee will go with you and collect the diamonds.”
In the same instant I fall over the side, plunging toward the water. Reaching up in midair, I grab onto the rope railing and hang on as my body swings through an arc, tipping the gangway on its side. The Russian plunges past me.
Swinging my good leg onto the dock, I climb to my feet. Aleksei is watching the Russian flailing his arms as he tries to stay afloat.
“I don't think he can swim,” I point out.
“Some people never learn,” says Aleksei, unconcerned.
I take a life buoy from the pylon and toss it into the water. The Russian hugs it to his chest.
“One last question: How did you know where the ransom was going to surface? Somebody must have told you.”
Aleksei pulls back his lips in a grimace but his eyes are empty. “You have until tomorrow morning to return my diamonds.”
34
Ali is asleep. Tubes flow into her carrying painkillers and out of her carrying waste. Every few hours they add another bag of liquid morphine. Time is measured by the gaps between them.