‘What do you want?’ she demanded, her voice shaking. ‘I’m not going to write that article, so you might as well let me go.’
‘Oh, I know that, Miss Gavin. I know that. But that is no longer the issue. Nor, sadly, is letting you go.’
Without warning, he flicked a spray of water into her face.
Riley screamed as the hot liquid stung her skin. Her eyes were saved only by instinctively turning away a split second before the water hit her. She kept her head turned, but Fedorov continued relentlessly, repeatedly flicking droplets at her, content to aim them at the side of her neck, where it burned into the soft skin of her throat and just behind her ears where the tissue was at its most sensitive. Riley clamped her teeth together, struggling as small rivulets began to run down inside her clothing, searing across her upper body and down over her stomach. The effect was like a line of fiery little ants scuttling over her skin, leaving her instantly chilled as the heat diminished. She tried not to scream, but in the end, could not prevent a low, agonised moan from escaping.
Fedorov examined his scalded fingers, which were a vivid, reddened hue. One or two were showing signs of blistering, and he blew on them gently, turning his hand, his intense stare on Riley as she fought in vain against the tape holding her.
‘I can keep this up for a long time,’ he commented. ‘Hurting you slowly. Making you suffer. Or I can save us both a lot of unnecessary pain and effort.’ He moved round behind her and shunted the chair closer to the sink, making her recoil inwardly as his hips thrust against her. His stale breath washed over her as he leaned closer. Then, with slow deliberation, he placed a hand behind her head and forced her forward until she was staring down into the basin, the steam rising to envelope her face and hair.
‘No…please…!’ Riley gasped. She tried to resist, but the Russian was stronger than he looked. Her chest was pressing against the lip of the sink, and she knew that with one push, her face would be Suddenly he stopped. ‘Wait — I nearly forgot something.’ He stepped to one side and picked up a plastic bottle from beneath the sink. ‘A little… elaboration of mine.’ He unscrewed the top and dumped the contents of the bottle into the water.
The smell rose, harsh and acrid, and Riley gagged as her throat clamped shut against the familiar fumes.
Neat bleach.
Fedorov took hold of her once more, and began to push her face down to the water. ‘Now,’ he said softly. ‘Where were we?’
Vasiliyev barged through the front door of Pantile House and came face to face with Olek, one of the two tall security guards. The man was rubbing at his face with a more sullen expression than usual, and wincing. He had few conversational powers, but he knew what was expected of him and was unemotional in his work. It was Olek who had been sent to despatch the building’s supervisor, Goricz, and his family.
Vasiliyev noticed a nasty red weal across the man’s cheek. It was peppered with a line of blood dots showing where the skin had broken. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
‘I walked into a door,’ Olek replied sourly.
‘You should be more careful. Where is the boss?’
‘Upstairs. He’s been waiting for you.’
‘Why? I’ve been waiting for him to call me.’ Vasiliyev wondered what was going on. Fedorov liked to keep a tight team around him, yet he’d ordered Vasiliyev to wait at the hotel until he was needed. But that had been hours ago. It had been an ominous development, following on Fedorov’s earlier display of anger. In the end, the waiting had become unbearable and he’d come here to find out what was happening.
He turned towards the lift and found Olek right behind him.
‘Where are you going?’
‘The boss said to show you up,’ Olek replied. He had a nasty smirk on his face. ‘Roychev will be along in a moment; he can watch the doors.’
Vasiliyev shrugged, but felt a worm of unease in his belly. There was something going on here. Fedorov was unpredictable, mostly because he rarely took anyone into his confidence — not even Vasiliyev. But this didn’t feel right.
He stepped into the lift, and Olek followed him, punching the button for the fourth floor.
40
Ray Szulu cruised the last half mile towards Pantile House, eyes alert for problems. Traffic was light and easy this late in the evening, the same on the pavements. The fewer people the better, for what he was about to do.
He was driving a white, unmarked Ford Transit, as common as a London taxi. It offered total anonymity and had good vision front and sides. The back he wasn’t so worried about. He’d lifted the van half an hour ago from a deserted sales forecourt in Islington with a seizure notice on the front door. By the time anyone missed it, the van would be old news.
As he drew closer, he began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn’t help it; he was trying to convince himself that everything was cool, that he was okay with this. He could do it, no problem. So why, a niggling little voice wheedled in his innermost ear, was he acting like a virgin on her wedding night?
He gripped the wheel to stop the drumming, to cut out the voice. This, it was saying, was the stupidest thing he’d ever agreed to. Doing the surveillance job on the men and the building was one thing; it was easy money and entailed using his eyes, that was all. But this was going up another level. This amounted to direct action, which most definitely wasn’t his thing.
He breathed deeply, forcing himself to calm down. What was he worried about, anyway? According to Palmer, Riley Gavin was the one in the fat-fryer. She’d managed to get herself lifted off the street by some Russian mafia types, and Palmer was sounding like he was ready to waste the entire north side of London to get her out. He could probably do it, too. Palmer was like a one-man search-and-rescue squad.
Szulu smiled suddenly, seeing himself as a Black Knight to Palmer’s White. Gallant characters hadn’t figured much in his upbringing, but now he thought about it, being any kind of knight felt pretty cool. And, if he had to be one, it might as well be black.
He looked down at the glove box with a sense of satisfaction. Palmer had told him he had to create a diversion at a specific time, and to use his initiative. It was an acknowledgment that he actually trusted him to do something without being told what.
‘Be creative,’ the ex-army cop had said on the phone, in that lazy way he had of speaking. But beneath the calm, his voice had been anything but lazy. He’d sounded seriously pissed, and as cold as permafrost. ‘I need a diversion, and I’m relying on you to come up with something.’ He’d paused and added, ‘Make it loud. Just don’t kill anyone. You know what collateral damage is?’
‘Yeah, I know.’
After telling Szulu precisely when he wanted it, he’d disconnected.
Szulu grinned at the memory and reached down for the length of nylon chord hanging from the glove box. He’d make it loud all right. This one was right from the Ray Szulu manual of insurance scams. The original idea had been tricky setting up, but he knew it would work because he’d used it a couple of times already. And best of all, nobody would be able to spot his handiwork. Fortunately, the mechanism was easy to put together and had taken only seconds to rig up.
He slowed his speed and checked the street either side. Palmer had said there could be watchers out, so look for anyone deliberately not doing anything. Like hard men in suits, he’d added.
Szulu shivered, in spite of himself. He knew what they looked like and didn’t want to mess with them. He was just passing one of the doorways he’d used doing a recce of the place before. The building where the Russians had their base was along on the right, set back off a corner. Behind the building was a maze of narrow cross-sections filled with residential blocks and a few commercial properties. He’d taken a stroll earlier to see what was happening, but apart from a couple of small shops, some one-man-band businesses like printers and such, and a couple of pubs, there wasn’t much activity and hardly any through-traffic. Best of all, there were plenty of dark patches between the lights. Ideal.