To

Mark Smith & Jock Serong

For responding to a message on Twitter and believing my idea had legs

Praise for Shadow Lives

‘A hugely impressive accomplishment. A deeply researched and thrilling story about some incredibly complex geopolitics, with a great deal of warmth as well. And it’s bloody funny!’

Ben Hobson

‘A prescient thriller giving us the hero we need for our troubled times.’

James Phelan

‘The most nail-biting, gut-wrenching, thought-provoking rollercoaster thrill ride of a book I’ve read in years. I inhaled it in one voracious gulp.’

Bram Presser

‘Shadow Lives moves at breakneck speed from the first page to its stunning conclusion. White’s characters are astutely drawn and utterly believable. He had me ducking and weaving through a plot thick with international crime and intrigue. I couldn’t put it down.’

Mark Smith

One

Snowflakes Gently Nestled

Kharkiv, Ukraine, 2019

A late-evening stroll with a beautiful woman on my right arm; had it not been colder than a bare-arsed Inuit after an Arctic dip, I might’ve actually been enjoying this. I’d accepted assignments in far-flung locales before – the farther flung, the higher the asking price for my services – but I’d grossly undervalued the weather surcharge to sufficiently cover spending three days in Kharkiv during the winter months.

Ten days earlier, I’d made the fateful decision to answer the phone. A British internet magazine I’d never heard of wanted me, Matt Latham, intrepid foreign correspondent, to travel to Ukraine to interview some Russian billionaire I’d also never heard of. My reporter’s instincts alive and kicking, the first question I asked was, ‘Why?’ The answer had something to do with philanthropy, orphanages … truth be told, I had little interest in their answer. My next question would determine whether rubber soles would meet the road. Like a near-broke punter sidling up to a hooker, I meekly asked, ‘How much?’

Needless to say, the offer was more than generous. But I’d lost the warm feeling of seeing more than two zeroes in my bank account – and before the decimal point, thank you – long before I lost the feeling in my toes on this midnight rendezvous. The blunt reality of Kharkiv being an active warzone with sporadic firefights between Ukrainian nationalists and pro-Russian activists quickly swept away the euphoria of my windfall. I’d also need to recheck the definition of ‘intrepid’. Though, nothing for it now. And my luck had held so far.

In the distance, our destination, the nightclub’s red neon lights twinkling in the frigid Arctic air. All I could think of was getting inside the club. Getting warm. Getting through the interview. Then, in the morning, getting out of this town and back to the safety and comparative warmth of London.

Katya Fomina had been an unexpected surprise. My employers had arranged for a guide to meet me at the airport, a reporter flown in from Kyiv who would also act as my interpreter for the interview. They failed to mention she was the embodiment of splendour, a vision summoned forth by the gods. In her mid-twenties, with long blonde hair and smouldering blue eyes, Katya quickly erased my initial dour impressions of Ukraine.

‘Is not far now, Matt. You look cold. You not dress well for Ukrainian winter.’

Quite the understatement. With hands buried deeply in pockets and collar flipped up, I pulled my navy-blue pea coat around me so tightly it threatened to tear apart at the seams. My shoulders were hunched up near my ears, my chin tucked tightly into my chest and the scarf I’d hastily bought more for effect than warmth. My genitals had long since retreated into my pelvic cavity. I figured it’d be well past Groundhog Day before they reappeared – and then if they saw their shadow … I began to wonder if, towards the end, while traipsing blindly across the Antarctic, Scott had similar thoughts: ‘So unbearably cold, where are those bloody dog teams? Come to think of it, has anyone seen my balls?’

‘Matt? Sure you okay?’

‘Yeah. As long as my toes don’t break off, I’ll make it.’

We trudged on along the icy pavement, each step breaking through the thin top layer of ice and sinking into the sludge below. Hard-packed snow coated with a dull-black grime thrown up by passing cars lined the roadway. The club was just five blocks from the Metro station but I felt as if we’d trekked across half of Siberia. Boarded-up storefronts lined the deserted streets. Traffic was non-existent. Even the locals knew better than to be out in this weather. I’d given up hope of catching a ride – we’d more chance of flagging down a dog sled than a taxi.

As if to add to my misery, fat snowflakes the size of twenty-cent coins began floating to earth.

Katya turned and smiled.

‘Don’t worry. After interview, back at hotel, I show you old Ukrainian remedy to ward off cold.’

Not even the low-wattage sodium street lights could mute her beauty. The tip of her button nose had turned red from the cold. I watched her brush a wisp of golden hair from her face and thought back to that morning.

Sunlight bursts into the room as Katya slowly spreads the hotel curtains. I catch a glimpse of her silhouette, lithesome and naked, before being blinded by the sun’s rays reflecting off snow-covered rooftops. I shut my eyes tightly, cursing the sun’s unwanted intrusion. When next I open them, Katya stands at the foot of the bed, arms by her side. Her visage is difficult to read, contemplative, like a predator eyeing its prey, but with a hint of sadness. Without a sound, she begins a slow, cat-like crawl forward and straddles my body. Delicate hands pin my arms to the mattress as she slowly lowers her face towards mine. Her hair cascades down, tickling my nose, cheeks, eyelids. I shut my eyes and pretend to put up a struggle. With her face hovering centimetres above me, I feel the full length of her petite body connect with mine. A frisson of pure electricity races wildly from head to toe. I open my eyes, knowing I’ll immediately fall headlong into two shimmering pools of the deepest blue.

A passing car sprayed my jeans with an icy slush, shaking me from my reverie and dousing the inner warmth the memory of Katya generated. But my resolve to get this interview over with and to hurry back to the hotel increased three-fold. Perhaps Groundhog Day would come early.

From across the street, pulsating music radiated from the club’s entrance. The club itself was a converted warehouse. A neon sign attached to a makeshift overhang flashes the name in big red Cyrillic letters, Клуб Кремля – Klub Kremlin. The only colour illuminating this monochrome street. Several groups of Kharkiv’s youth huddle together at the base of the steps leading to the entry. A fire burned in a 44-gallon drum next to the steps, and beside it a bouncer the size of Andre the Giant checked the wannabe partiers for suitability. The neighbourhood was a Russian stronghold in this embattled city. The fragile border with an encroaching Mother Russia just thirty kilometres to the north.

My limited research turned up very little of interest in the life of the man we were meeting: Arkady Igorovich Voronin, middle-aged billionaire; unmarried. A rider of Daddy’s coat-tails to the top of the family import-export business. A semi-recluse who rarely left Eastern Europe. From the few photos I found of him online, he appeared trim, athletic but not muscled, always impeccably dressed but never smiling. Either he was only ever photographed leaving funerals or money truly didn’t buy happiness. Not to say he hadn’t led an interesting life, and with some dubious ties to the Russian military apparatus to boot. But as I was only being paid to do a fluff piece on his philanthropic pursuits, the juicier segments of his life had nothing to do with me. Perhaps another day, another employer … and, more importantly, for another pay cheque.

We waited for an SUV to pass before crossing the road. A young boy gazed out from the back window, his face an impassive mask. His sad eyes seemed to bore into mine and a pang of guilt for a life I’d left behind pulsed through me.

Then the memory slipped from my grasp just as blithely as Katya slipped her arm free of mine. She seemed suddenly tense, nervous.

‘Matt, are you coming? Voronin is waiting. I must hear the man speak. I need answers.’

‘Wait. What?’

The pulsing continued. Not from guilt – perhaps – but from my cell phone.

‘You go ahead. Let me take this call.’

Katya hurried across the road. I watched her hair bounce free from inside her white ski jacket, consternation replacing desire. What did she mean by ‘answers’?

The caller ID on the screen was not one I recognised. Before I could answer, a blinding light seared the screen’s image into my retinae. A thunderous roar sounded as the pavement lifted and rolled beneath my feet. The hairs on the back of my hand turned black and withered before my eyes as the blast’s shock wave knocked me to the ground. And as I lay on the frozen footpath beginning to lose consciousness, a million shards of glass, twinkling with all the colours of the rainbow, rained down through the falling snow.

My eyelids flutter in defiance of my commands, a warning I should have heeded. The coppery taste of blood coats my tongue.

How long was I unconscious? Longer than a second; shorter than a lifetime. Though my expiration date now loomed quite large. I cautiously took stock. I saw a world tilted on its axis. Smoke billowed into the ink-black sky from what was once Klub Kremlin. The right side of my face: numb, frozen to the ground. The left side: hot enough to grill a steak. I felt disassociated, like a fog had descended and only I’d been enveloped. The sole audience member in the theatre, trapped in my front-row seat, doomed to witness the remainder of this horror show.

Coughing up bloody phlegm caused an eruption of pain and a blinding starburst of white light. My brain reacted and meekly drew the curtain on act two.

I woke, sometime later, for act three.

Firehoses snaked across the road. One had a pinprick-sized hole and spouted a thin geyser of water into the air. Emergency vehicles had parked haphazardly. The night sky flashed red, blue, white. People in uniform rushed back and forth. The only sound I could hear was a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I’d ask for a refund to this lousy play but the theatre is scattered across two city blocks.

I noticed a man in a dark blue uniform and fluorescent yellow jacket kneeling beside a broken body, a jumble of Cyrillic lettering on his back. He checked for a pulse. Waved a beam of light from one pupil to the other. Then he deftly closed the eyelids and moved on to the next body.

As he stood, I made out the tattered remains of a once-white ski jacket now emblazoned with streaks of crimson. One arm lay adrift from the body in a shallow black pool. An arm that’d been laced through mine just moments earlier.

I lay still in the slush and muck, ten metres from her, paralysed; whether from pain, fear or shock, I couldn’t be sure. Blood mixed with bile burned my throat and oozed from my lips. One final effort to raise my body, to reach Katya, acted as an internal circuit breaker.

Fuse blown, all systems shut down. The house lights dimmed as the curtain closed on the final act of this macabre play. A solitary spotlight highlighted a ghost-white upturned hand into which snowflakes gently nestled.

Two

My Name Is …?

Six Days Later

The shrill burst of a Slavic language erupted from behind a moment before forceful arms wrestled me back to bed. I stared up at two indignant faces. Female. Harsh. Both women were dressed in nurse’s uniforms. To judge from their frowns, I’d committed some unspeakable act; perhaps their continued employment was dependent on my remaining horizontal in a supine position.

My head hurt like hell and the left side of my face felt as if I’d fallen asleep atop a stove. Above the bed, a metal rod extended outward from the wall like a forlorn towel rack. Hanging from the chrome appendage swung a half-full bag of a clear liquid. I followed the progress of the tube from the bottom of the bag to its terminus in the back of my hand. To the side, against the wall, was a chipped, free-standing porcelain sink. The chips appeared older than I felt. A square mirror hung crookedly on the wall above the sink. That I was in a hospital was certain. The ‘where’ and ‘why’ were proving elusive.

And, I realised, there was another small matter.

What in the hell was my name?

Polished metal arms affixed to each side of the bed were raised by the nurses and snapped into place, securing me like an out-sized baby in a gigantic cot. With a wag of one stubby finger, the more substantial and marginally taller of the women admonished me with another burst of Russian. Or was it Ukrainian? Bulgarian? Either way, I understood not a word.

‘English?’

My question elicited a look of confusion from one stern face to the other. She repeated the same phrase, this time with an extra dose of gusto.

‘English. I’m not deaf!’

The effort of spitting out the words brought on a searing pain that knifed through my skull. I nestled back into the soft pillows and hoped for the wave of nausea to pass. Overhead, a bare fluorescent tube surrounded by a dull yellow ceiling swam in and out of focus. Patches of flaking paint in differing shades from bygone days marked the years like the trunk of a tree.

The shorter of the two’s eyes disappeared as her face attempted a smile, making fissures appear in the copious amount of make-up plastered to her face. A vision of Humpty Dumpty after the fall sprang to mind. Next, a gold tooth appeared, flanked by two black stumps in the gaping maw of her mouth. I preferred the dour version of Nurse Dumpty much better.

‘Ach … ahh?’

Her eyes roamed the bed covers then the ceiling in search of … understanding? A word? Spackling?

‘Doktor. Soon.’

Again, the rictus smile, followed by a firm pat on my knee and a look of pride on her face that she’d bested her colleague by recalling those two words of English.

The nurses waddled off to the swishing sound of synthetic stockings rubbing together, creating, I imagined, enough static electricity to resuscitate some poor bastard in cardiac arrest.

Left alone, I surveyed my surroundings. Five beds – in addition to mine – lined the walls of the spacious room, three to a side. Beyond the ward’s entrance, additional beds, some filled with patients, lined the corridor. On the wall dissecting the beds a television hung precariously. To each side of the television were full-length windows; their raised Venetian blinds allowed in a stream of sunlight that warmed the room. Outside, a steam cloud curling from a squat maintenance building quickly dissipated into a clear, cobalt-blue sky.

A patient rose from the bed across from mine and ambled towards the television. His hospital gown gaped open in the back and he scratched a hairy buttock as he fed coins into the small box below the monitor. Seconds later, images appeared on the screen and I discovered a new appreciation for the term ‘pay TV’. Though, trying to focus on the screen brought on a fresh wave of vertigo so I shut my eyes in hopes of regaining my equilibrium.

The television’s images were replaced by those in my mind, bursting forth with an intense clarity. Walking along an icy footpath. In Kharkiv. To a nightclub. Klub Kremlin. An explosion. A neon sign swinging back and forth, partially attached to what remained of the club’s awning like a child swinging from a playground’s monkey bars. Bodies scattered among the rubble. Severed limbs waiting in vain for a reunion with their owners. Rivulets of blood winding through the snow. I still had no recall of the circumstances that placed me there. At that particular location. At that point in time.

Then, an even more painful image burst into focus. The body of a young woman lying motionless on the pavement.

Katya.

Her blonde hair, streaked with blood, splayed out around her prone form. There was an ugly lump of torn skin, blood and exposed bone where her left ear should’ve been. Her right arm, severed above the elbow, lay close by in a pool of blood, her left lay almost serenely above her head at a slight bend, mimicking the position in which she’d slept the night before.

Katya had been my lover, that much I remembered. But for how long, I could not say. Nor could I say how, or even when, we met.

‘Mr Latham? Can you hear me? Mr Latham?’

I assumed the words, spoken in English, were directed towards me. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep, but when I opened my eyes, the sun had dipped below the hospital’s power plant, bathing the room in shadows.

‘Latham? Is that my name?’

A tanned face hovered above mine, crow’s feet sprouting from the corners of piercing black eyes. Thick black hair, swept back from a high forehead, was flecked with grey above both ears. The man’s face featured a thin, aquiline nose, the prominent bridge delineating a sharp downwards turn. Stubble covered his cheeks and appeared more by design than disregard.

‘Your name is Matt Latham. Your injuries are from an explosion outside of the Klub Kremlin. Do you recall why you were there, Mr Latham?’

‘No … I’ve no idea. It’s all still very hazy. Can you tell me what happened to Katya? I … I can’t remember her last name.’

I was afraid I already knew the answer but asked with fresh hope.

‘Was this the young lady who accompanied you to the club?’

‘Yes. Is she alive?’

‘No. I’m sorry. She didn’t survive the explosion.’

The words sliced through like a fresh stab wound. Tears pricked my eyes for a young woman I could barely recall. Something deep inside must remember more than my mind was willing to allow.

‘Thirty-seven people died in the blast, Mr Latham. Are you sure you cannot recall why you were attending the club?’

‘I told you already, I can’t remember anything about last night. I don’t know this club or its location. I don’t even know where I am.’

Raising my voice in frustration did a number on my headache. White spots swam before my eyes.

‘Perhaps this will help. You are in the Kharkivska Hospital. Kharkiv, Ukraine.’

Even with the additional information, the puzzle pieces refused to align.

‘All I remember is receiving a phone call right before we reached the club. Katya went ahead while I took the call. Was someone able to retrieve my phone?’

‘No. I assume it was destroyed in the blast.’

And with it, any chance of piecing together who I am from the listing of contacts. Or why I was at that club. Hell, why I was even in this city. All I had was a name.

I peered up at the doctor, who stared pensively towards the windows. A tuft of chest hair sprouted from his neatly ironed, unfastened, blue dress shirt. Over the shirt, he wore a white jacket that appeared a size too small for his broad shoulders.

‘Doctor, what’s wrong with me? How long will I be here?’

‘We will see, Mr Latham. Your body has undergone severe trauma. I must attend to other patients now. I trust you understand.’

And with that, he strode from the room.

I tumbled back into a troubled sleep, but now with a name – Matt Latham – to taunt my memories.

I next awoke, having drifted in and out of consciousness, to find the room dark but for the glow of the hallway lights shining through the ward’s open door.

‘Are you in pain, Mr Latham? You groan in your sleep.’

A gentle countenance appeared above mine: female, mid-sixties. Her short, reddish-grey hair accentuated her round face. Her sparkling blue eyes conveyed a look of warmth and caring.

‘We have been concerned for you, Mr Latham. I am Dr Yastremska. I hope you understand my English, I do not get much practice.’

‘It’s fine. And call me Matt. How long have I been here?’

‘Today is Thursday – well, for few more hours. We keep you in coma for six days to allow brain time to heal. You first awoke this morning, when nurses find you out of bed.’

Six days? A spasm of fear wracked my body, the contraction almost strong enough to jerk my catheter tube free. I’d experienced memory loss after a solid night of drinking, but six days?

‘I need you to be straight with me. My condition. How bad?’

‘You have fractured skull, plus bleeding and swelling of the brain. You must remain very still for few more days before free of danger. The burns to your face and hands are … how you say? Super—’

‘Superficial?’

‘Yes, thank you. They will heal in time and not leave scars.’

‘Can I see? Do you have a mirror?’

‘If you insist.’

She drew a compact from her pocket and reluctantly flipped it open.

Bandages completed circles around my skull both north to south and east to west. Dishwater-blond hair, unkempt and greasy, stuck through them at odd angles. The right side of my face sported an ugly purple bruise that stretched from temple to jaw. Skin, pink and blistered, encircled patches of yellow oozing pus. A strip of blood-encrusted gauze was plastered at an angle above my left eye. Concentrating on my reflection’s washed-out turquoise eyes in the dim light caused them to water and my reflection turned into a colourful mosaic.

‘You are very lucky. Others, not so.’

A look of greater concern drifted across her face for thirty-seven poor souls beyond her help.

I remained more concerned about me.

I handed her back the compact.

‘What about my memory? I remember very little of what happened. Nothing of who I am.’

‘Memory should return as swelling of brain go down, yes? But it will take time, Mr Matt. How long …?’

She waggled a hand back and forth, the universal sign for, Who the hell knows?

‘Rest is best medicine for you.’

Although rest was what Dr Yastremska prescribed, it was the last thing I felt like doing. Somewhere out there in this gloomy, snow-covered city was an identity I needed to reclaim. I thought of asking for a telephone to call my embassy, but which one? Knowing English to be my native tongue only eliminated half the countries on the planet.

‘Please, Mr Matt. I see you struggle with your mind. You must rest. I give you something now to help you sleep.’

The medication sent a chill the length of my left arm. I felt its effects within seconds as my head began the all too familiar drifting-into-outer-space sequence. My voice sounded foreign, my words slurred, as I asked one final question.

‘Doctor, will I see you again tomorrow? Or … or the other doctor that vis— visited earlier today?’

With an all-too-easy welcoming embrace, my mind succumbed to the onrushing chemical wave, slowly slipping below the surface to begin a long descent into oblivion.

Dr Yastremska’s voice was barely audible over the chasm that quickly separated us.

‘Other doctor? It is only I that has been on duty in this ward today.’

Three

Short Straws & Floodgates

‘Ból.’

Dr Yastremska was correct, my memory slowly began to return, and with it the half-dozen words of Polish I’d once learned, dredged up from the depths of my memory along with the knowledge I’d once worked in Krakow. What that work could be was anyone’s guess, but the Polish word for ‘pain’ seemed to translate into Ukrainian well enough. I chose to ignore why I happened to know that particular word. And each time I recited the word with a look of utter despair, a comforting shot of morphine followed.

Ten days since the explosion at Klub Kremlin and I was restless as a caged animal. Earlier today, they’d unravelled the bandages covering my head. And judging by the look of glee on the nurse’s face, what lay beneath was either in satisfactory shape or unwrapping presents provided her greatest joy in life. Scans determined the bleeding on the brain had stopped, and the accumulated blood and swelling had begun to dissipate. Even the burns I’d suffered felt like a mild sunburn – if I’d been sunbathing on Mercury. Searching for answers to the myriad questions creating a backlog in my brain now consumed all my waking hours.

Yesterday, Dr Yastremska shared the news that the authorities had determined – although who these authorities were remained a mystery – that I was of Australian descent and that a man from the embassy in Kyiv would be arriving today to deliver my new passport. The fact that I was Australian came as a surprise. I wondered if it was true or if the English-speaking diplomats in the capital had met over drinks and the Australian representative had drawn the short straw.

Not that I was opposed to being labelled Australian, it’s just that I had no memory of ever having lived there. A few childhood memories had sprung to mind over the past few days, fleeting images of densely populated third-world cities seen through imposing wrought-iron gates, but nothing further. Just random snapshots in search of a photo album.

After a week, the deadly blast at Klub Kremlin ceased to dominate the airwaves. The only news station the room’s television picked up had moved on to other, more captivating and immediate topics: Russian troop movements at the Ukrainian border; frantic scenes in the Ukrainian parliament; another scandal brewing for the American president; an endless tide of Syrian refugees pouring into Europe; EU politicians shaking fists at one another and appointing blame; and ragtag rebel soldiers on the outskirts of Donetsk firing their weapons at anything that moved. Deep in my subconscious, I knew that I should be aware of these stories, but it was like watching events unfold for the very first time.

Vitali, a swarthy, overweight, middle-aged Ukrainian with a cyst in his neck the size of a golf ball – and who happened to possess a smattering of English – kept me up to date on new developments.

‘Club filled with Russians. They say bomb planted by Ukrainian nationalists. Russians threaten reprisals. Is bad.’

That part I could figure out.

He went on to explain that Russian separatists, wishing to be reunited with the Russian Federation, controlled Ukraine’s easternmost provinces, including the city of Kharkiv. The European Union–backed Ukrainian government in Kyiv, with tepid NATO and American support, maintained control of the remaining three-quarters of the country; however, they were at a stalemate in regaining control of the territory held by the rebels, who, in turn, were backed – semi-covertly – by the Russian government.

Once explained, the complicated situation resonated immediately, my memory able to process and recoup lost information once fed. But nothing materialised unbidden.

Pushing frustrations aside, I continued to dig, hoping some nugget would unlock the floodgates.

‘On which side of the fence do you fall, Vitali?’

The question brought on a contemplative look that apparently required a vigorous scratching of his scrotum. Other than myself, Vitali was the only ambulatory patient in our ward. And the only one with coins to feed the television meter. Consequently, Vitali held sway over programming decisions and wasn’t shy about letting his political opinions be known.

‘I am Ukrainian. A minority in this region. But will fight, if need to, to stay part of Ukraine.’

A rousing statement, but the only thing I could see Vitali fighting for was control of the television’s remote.

‘You think it will come to that?’

‘It is – what is word? – inevitable. Russia want to control anything and everything they touch. Even if they can’t, they want to influence opinion and sow mistrust.’

He stabbed a stubby finger at the television, where American media pundits argued over ongoing investigations into what extent Russia had meddled in the 2016 presidential election.

‘Think Russians care who won election? No. They just like to fuck with people’s minds. If current president like them, great. Maybe they get something in return. But you watch how long this play out in America. The more chaos they create, the better.’

Vitali paced back and forth, arse cheeks breaking free of his hospital gown as his voice gained intensity.

‘No longer communists in power, but little has changed. Russians not know how to play – how you say – second fiddle. Yes? You watch what they get up to while America distracted. Ukraine just a start for these bastards.’

My recollection of the past century’s history was still sketchy and only slowly coming back in fits and spurts. The break-up of the former Soviet Union did come to mind, but the exact circumstances were still elusive.

‘But if these regions are of a Russian majority—’

‘No, no!’

Vitali wasn’t about to let me finish.

‘You don’t move borders. You don’t steal our land. You want to be Russian, then go live in Russia. Otherwise accept Ukrainian rule. What if Poland want back parts of western Ukraine that once belonged to them? Huh? Then Germans say, well, we take back our former lands that Poland claims. Where does it all stop? Another world war to decide lines on map?’

His face had turned a bright pink, the arteries leading to the cyst in his neck bulging menacingly. He held two fingers to the throbbing mass as he slumped back onto his bed.

‘I get too old for this shit.’

The news program ended and a cooking show took its place. I hoped the cute young hostess showing the audience how to make something spectacular from fried potatoes soothed Vitali’s frayed nerves. Her big brown eyes and low-cut dress certainly caught my attention.

As if on cue, our lunch was served by a dour nurse’s aide with bad breath and nicotine-stained teeth. Plonked on my tray table was a bowl of watery borscht, the aide’s thumbnail slowly reappearing from below the surface as he released his grip. Two slices of hard rye bread and a pat of butter were served alongside the soup. A cup of steaming-hot black tea completed the meal. On the television the hostess smiled mockingly.

I swung my legs off the bed to sit upright as the World War Two-era bed refused to budge beyond a slight incline. The octogenarian in the bed next to mine – we hadn’t exchanged pleasantries due to him missing his tongue and most of his lower jaw – prepared a syringe to inject the borscht into the feeding tube extending from his nasal cavity. As his rheumy eyes met mine, my hunger, for some inexplicable reason, closed up shop and slunk from the room.

Defeated, I lay down and stared up at the peeling paint. The familiar sounds of the ward worked on my subconscious like a sedative and my eyes began to droop. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum tile. Harried voices rising then falling as they passed in the hallway. The clatter of lunch dishes. An expulsion of gas from across the room, more with disdain than control, then a sigh of relief. From another ward, a plaintive cry of despair.

‘Matt Latham? Which one of you is Matt Latham?’

I snapped back into the land of the living as a tall man in his early thirties, dressed sharply in a navy-blue suit, strode into the room. His smooth face shone like he’d recently shaved and his rosy cheeks led me to believe he’d either run all the way here or had been goosed by Nurse Dumpty in the hallway. Overcoat slung over one arm, he compared a photo against the motley collection of faces in the room.

‘That would be me.’

Levering myself into a sitting position again, I wearily raised my hand.

The suit glanced at the photo then back at me, then sceptically back to the photo once more. He appeared ready to announce there’d been a mistake and turn tail.

‘Jeez, mate. You look like you’ve seen better days.’

A pause as the words hit home. A solitary carrier pigeon, memory strapped to one leg, returned to the coop.

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that before.’

And it was true. Visions of a trip to North Macedonia sprang to mind. A quick visit that ended with me dangling from the roof of an apartment building and being rescued by a sheep farmer – turned embassy adjunct – who’d uttered the exact same phrase. These details were as clear as day, but filling in the more important facts of how I’d ended up in such a precarious position required a few more pigeons to return home.

‘The name’s Andre Stimpson. From the Australian Embassy. Seems like you’ve got some important folks wanting you well taken care of.’

Andre Stimpson from the embassy handed me a small blue booklet with the Australian coat of arms emblazoned in gold on the front cover. I flipped it open to see a non-smiling version of myself staring straight back at the camera.

Name: Matt Latham.

Date of Birth: April 18, 1982.

Place of Birth: Harare, Zimbabwe.

Nationality: Australian.

I rubbed a thumb over the laminated page, feeling its coarse texture. And remembered …

April 18, 1982, my day of birth, the same day the city was renamed. The second anniversary of the fledgling country’s independence, when Rhodesia disappeared from the face of the world map and Zimbabwe blossomed into existence. Had I been born a day earlier, I learned years later, the document would have read ‘Salisbury’.

April 18, 1982, the day my father, Frank, helplessly paced the halls of the squalid regional hospital as my mother, Dawn, died giving birth. The risks of having a child at her age – forty – had been explained. The possibility that fifty-year-old Frank – veteran diplomat within Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs – would be left to raise the child alone had never crossed his self-obsessed mind. I was forever destined to bear the brunt of his grieving for the loss of his life’s love.

A miserable childhood courtesy of a distant parent led me to believe that I was named Matt as an afterthought. Not Matthew, as if the extra letters on the birth certificate would’ve created an additional burden or expense. And no middle name. Years later, I’d joked among friends that my name came from the first thing Dad had seen leaving the hospital: the doormat at the front entrance. It wasn’t far from the truth – it was how he’d treated me my entire life, merely an object to figuratively wipe his feet on.

The floodgates opened and memories of my painful childhood rushed back at full force. I found myself helplessly buried in the sands of time as wave after troubling wave of recollections washed over me.

A year after my birth, Frank’s star dimmed with the change of government in Canberra. He’d hitched his wagon years earlier to Malcolm Fraser – the outgoing prime minister – and retribution in politics can be swift. But, in dragging me from one backwater to the next, he had a ready-made scapegoat to soothe his bruised ego. And of course, I repaid his spiteful parenting accordingly. Nothing too illegal, mind you, just enough mischief to give embassy security plenty of sleepless nights and Frank a tidy collection of gastric ulcers by his sixty-second birthday.

Frank endured a wait of fifteen long years after my birth before receiving his first ambassadorship. This just so happened to coincide with yours truly – a considerable thorn in Frank’s arse – being shipped off to boarding school in Melbourne. I recalled my healthy distrust of coincidence stemming from that day. Boarding school led to university in Melbourne and from there my adult life began, Frank and I forever estranged.

In 2015, to recognise fifty years of exemplary government service, Frank received his long sought-after knighthood. Even if I had received an invitation to the ceremony, I’d have found something else to do.

‘Matt, everything okay?’

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring at the passport. The sour memories of life with Frank flooding back had left me wallowing in a brackish pool of remembrance.

‘Yeah, sure. Just getting back up to speed.’

‘Good, good. Well, I’ve talked to the doctor, she’s happy with your progress and is willing to release you, so long as you agree to take it easy for the next six weeks.’

‘I got read the same riot act this morning.’

A fetid stench had settled over the room and Andre crinkled his nose in disgust, then glanced at my neighbour injecting the last of his borscht into the tube snaking from his nose.

‘So, unless you want to stay and finish your lunch, how about you get dressed and we get the hell outta this place?’

There was no need for Andre to ask twice.

Four

Frank’s Boy Steps in a Bear Trap

Kyiv, Ukraine

The Boeing 737 operated by Ukraine International Airlines smacked the runway at Boryspil International Airport twice before the captain gained control and slowed the aircraft to taxiing speed. The seventy-five passengers onboard erupted into applause, Andre awoke with a start and I wondered why Eastern Europeans were always so happy to land. If it was that much of a gamble, why board in the first place?

A greasy beef kebab at the airport in Kharkiv after a bumpy ride from the hospital through clogged city streets had done wonders for my internal engine. By take-off, I felt slightly on the plus side of being half alive and relieved to be leaving that dank city behind; a city where I’d almost lost my life and where Katya …

As the hours had passed, fragments of memory had begun to return at an ever-faster clip and the information Andre provided throughout the day laid a broad outline of the latter years, leaving me to colour in the details. But I couldn’t help thinking that, like a wary poker player, Andre was keeping something important in reserve – the student’s mind not yet ready to handle the teacher’s masterstroke.

Home, I was informed, was London. For the past three years, I’d rented a house just off Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush, a stone’s throw from Loftus Road Stadium. The roar of the crowd cheering on Queens Park Rangers on a Saturday afternoon came to mind, but I had no recollection of having ever attended a game.

I also discovered that I was retained, sporadically, as a foreign correspondent by the Sydney Morning Herald, supplementing my meagre income with whatever freelance work I was able to scrabble together. Reporting from political hotspots – I was assured by Andre – was my specialty, which helped explain why I had travelled to Kharkiv. However, my assignment still lay hidden behind a dark curtain.

Andre also passed along best regards from Sir Frank and that ‘he prayed I was up and about forthwith’. It didn’t take full command of my senses to know that to be bullshit. Frank had no use for higher powers, not since that fateful day in Harare. I pictured him sitting on the veranda at his home in Toorak, following the progress of the cruise barges ferrying sightseers up and down the muddy river, the news of the explosion momentarily disrupting his scotch and soda consumption and regular service resuming once assured I’d recover with just a few bumps and bruises. But even that caustic assessment may have been giving him too much credit.

Discovering I had an ex-wife and child living in Melbourne came as a shock. Then, slowly, the realisation that I, the only seed that had fallen to earth from the tree of Frank, had not blown too far afield. My marriage to Samantha had started well enough. The sex had been good, mindless and plentiful, which suited my needs. And Sam fell head over heels in love with the Latham name and the intoxicating aroma of family money. But a long-term relationship was ultimately doomed. My inability to allow anyone to get close – the Latham curse handed down from father to son – covered everything and everyone in my life like an opaque veil, blotting out all emotion, casting a damning shadow over my life. And it soon began to gnaw away at the flimsy ties that held us together.

Compounding the matrimonial mistake was our decision to have a child. I battled a psychological minefield of conflicted emotions for the next two years: the pain of loving my son, Trevor, while lacking the innate ability to show affection. The brief, tawdry affair that Sam embarked on provided an escape hatch to a drowning man and the timely offer of an overseas appointment sealed the deal. Rats fleeing a sinking ship moved with less haste. In my mind, I had a compelling reason, hoping time and distance would prevent the fatal flaw in the Latham gene pool from passing along to another generation.

Perhaps one day I could explain all of this to my son.

A northerly wind rocked our taxi as we crossed the Pivdennyi Bridge. Below, the torpid waters of the Dnieper were losing their battle against winter’s icy grip.

And then there was Katya.

Katya Fomina, just twenty-five years old, her youthful dreams shattered, along with her body, well before they’d had a chance to blossom. Fluent in English and a fistful of Slavic languages, she’d been assigned as my interpreter for the trip to Kharkiv through a contact at the Kyiv Post. An image appeared of Katya lying on an icy pavement, blood leaking from a scalp wound, steam rising from lacerations caused by white-hot shrapnel slicing through her body. Even the ice surrounding her body, turning to slush from the heat of the blast, reappeared with crystal-clear clarity.

‘Almost home. Well, home for me anyway.’

Our taxi turned into Kostolna Street and pulled to a stop outside the granite façade of the Australian Embassy. Andre paid the driver with a handful of notes and stepped nimbly from the vehicle. I gathered the small duffel bag retrieved from my hotel in Kharkiv and, before following him inside, stared up at the grey building that bled into an even greyer sky. An audience with the residing Australian Ambassador is not something just any Australian can hope for when visiting foreign lands. But when you’re ‘Frank’s boy’ – a legend in diplomatic circles – it can also be tough to avoid.

I followed Andre up a broad, curving staircase and into an ornate anteroom where I was to wait for the ambassador. Weak sunlight peeked through Baroque curtains, splitting the room in two.

Before departing, his mission complete, Andre slapped me on the shoulder.

‘Glad to have you back, mate.’

Back? I wondered if that meant I’d been here previously, or just back to the land of the living? Before I could ask, he disappeared down the hall.

A fresh-faced secretary named Renee asked if I’d like something to drink.

‘Some water would be great, thanks.’

‘Oooh, you’ve lost almost all your accent. Hope that wasn’t from the conk on the head?’

All I could offer was a weak smile as I didn’t know the answer.

‘Right, right. Well, glad you’re okay. Let me get you that water. Ambassador Jenkins will be with you in a moment.’

I watched Renee’s retreating figure with relish, curves undulating under her languid sway, until a vision sprang to mind of Katya standing before a hotel room window, a flawless silhouette framed by the morning sun. A sharp pang of guilt quickly doused my desire.

‘Matt, jeez, you gave us a fright. I’m Ambassador Jenkins. Being Frank’s boy, you can call me Stan. Come on in and pull up a pew.’

Ambassador Jenkins – Stan – had appeared while I repelled images of Renee’s sashay. He administered a hearty handshake and looped his left arm around my shoulders. He was a good fifteen centimetres shorter than me but still managed to guide me to his office on tiptoes with aplomb. Stan, in his early sixties – if I had to guess – was beginning to show signs of succumbing to the laws of gravity. A pigeon chest compensated for sloping shoulders. Sad eyes betrayed a smiling face; the mask of the diplomat, where glad-handing while simultaneously biting one’s tongue was an acquired art.

He ran his fingers through a thick mane of silver hair and looked me up and down.

‘Bet you’re glad they didn’t lop off all that hair while they were searching for cracks. Or mess with those blond highlights, eh? Apart from the cut over your eye and the burn mark, you look right as rain.’

I smiled, hearing his warm, laid-back accent. Not quite the throaty growl of the stockman or lower working classes, though a far cry from Frank’s haughty speaking voice. But blond highlights? Who in the hell gets those? This ‘Matt Latham’ character I was getting reacquainted with had some troubling aspects to digest.

‘Yeah, almost back to normal. They said I’ll need to take it easy for a few weeks and the memory is slowly returning. Australian skulls are thicker than most, apparently.’

Renee appeared with my glass of water and chuckled as she placed it on the end table to my right. She left me with a smile that warmed my insides before melting from the room.

‘So, you still haven’t recovered all your memory?’

The voice came from behind. I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the cavernous office when I entered and turned to see a tall, thin man casually searching through titles in the bookcase against the far wall. His suit was charcoal grey, impeccably cut. Black shoes glowed with a parade-ground shine to match his bald head.

‘Ah, Matt, my apologies. This is Gerald Adkins, visiting us here in Kyiv as a … diplomatic liaison.’

It didn’t require the full use of my memory bank to know what the slight pause meant: Gerald was a spook. More precisely, an agent with ASIS – the Australian Secret Intelligence Service. Every diplomatic outpost around the world, from virtually every country, sheltered these characters. They all thought they were invisible to prying eyes, except to those very same characters playing for the opposing team.

ASIS made up one of the Five Eyes, as they are known. The CIA was the four-hundred-pound gorilla of the group, though Britain’s MI6 liked to argue that point. The Australian and Canadian services tagged along on their coat-tails, hoping for the odd crumb of respect, and New Zealand occupied the kiddie chair at the table. Each service, in theory, was required to share intelligence gathered for the greater good, though with the CIA, it was often a one-way street: What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is mine.

Gerald Adkins stepped forward from the shadows with right arm extended. His hawkish face was smiling, but his eyes hadn’t received the memo.

‘Good to finally meet you, Matt. Glad you’re still in one piece. Now, would you kindly tell me what the fuck you are doing here in Ukraine?’

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Stan collapsed into his chair and began busying himself with a stack of papers, stuffing most away into a colourful array of file folders.

‘I have no idea … Gerald. And if I did, why in the fuck should I tell you?’

Two could play this game. There was no way this arsehole was going to intimidate me. After all, I was Frank’s boy, and I’d spent my life training under the master. Frank’s ability to flip at the drop of a hat from charming diplomat to scourge of the incompetent was legendary, his caustic lambasts slapped on like a spicy marinade to those facing his wrath, the bitter flavour of their unfortunate grilling one only he enjoyed.

‘Now hold on a second there. Gerald? Matt? How about we bring it down a notch or two?’

Stan, the diplomat.

‘Shut the fuck up, Stan. Don’t you have to prepare for some fancy dinner or something?’

Gerald’s rodent-like brown eyes never left mine as he spat out the rebuke. And a good thing; Stan had already begun to dissolve right before my very eyes.

‘Right, I’ll … uhh … leave you two gentlemen to it then.’

Stan, the punching bag, exited as if chased by wolves.

Gerald’s eyes followed the retreating figure and he shook his head slowly as if embarrassed to be associated with such a weak specimen. The laser focus of his beady rat eyes then recalibrated on me.

‘So, you have no idea why you were in Kharkiv?’

‘No. Not yet. The doctor said my memory should come back with time. But I’m guessing you already know the answer to your question.’

‘Good guess. We’ve deduced some of it. We were hoping you could flesh out the rest.’

I stood and made a slow circuit of the office, hoping the respite would trigger a memory. No such luck. I ambled over to Stan’s large mahogany desk and rested my hands on the edge for support.

Gerald circled to the other side. We manoeuvred like two boxers sparring. A duel to the death. Manila folders at ten paces. Drawing a photo from one of the folders, he studied it briefly then slid it across the desk.

‘We know you were there to meet this man. Look familiar?’

The photo was of average quality. A surveillance photo captured from some distance. A side-on shot of a nondescript man wearing a finely tailored shark-skin suit. He had a mobile phone to his ear and was caught mid-stride, crossing a street. Middle-aged. Dark hair. If I had to guess, Russian – based on features and choice of suit – but, again, just a guess.

‘No, never seen him before.’

‘His name is Arkady Igorovich Voronin. Russian oligarch. Worth billions. Virtually a recluse. Not known to venture far from his Moscow estate, and ever so rarely to the West.’

It was Gerald’s turn to do the pacing.

‘Followed in Daddy’s footsteps and worked for a time with the FSB. That’s the new KGB after a subtle rebranding. A friend of the president, but aren’t they all. He makes his money, both legally and illegally, in shipping.’

‘And why is that important to me?’

Gerald had returned to the bookcase lining one wall of the ambassador’s office. He ran his fingers over the spines of several leather-bound volumes of Russian classics: Tolstoy, Pushkin, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, Pasternak. Answered my question with his own.

‘Tell me how you came to be teamed up with Katya Fomina?’

The question took me by surprise. How would Gerald know of Katya? And why was he asking? I had too few answers to be playing mind games with Gerald, so I told him what I knew.

‘I was there on assignment. Which, as I now assume, somehow involved this Voronin character. I recall being instructed to engage an interpreter and Katya was assigned through a local contact of my employer.’

Gerald chewed my words over for a moment, his face telling me he found the taste not to his liking.

‘British Philanthropy Today. They contracted you. Ring any bells?’

‘Not a clue. But I’m assuming I was paid in advance, as is my usual request, so I couldn’t care less how they use my article so long as the cheque didn’t bounce. You telling me they’re not legit?’

‘And I’m assuming they provided the lead with Kyiv Post for the interpreter?’

Gerald’s questions – 3; answers – 0. I was getting tired of being stonewalled, but I had next to no leverage. Even with a fully functioning mind, I wasn’t sure I’d be a match for the man facing me.

‘Yes. I assume they did. I wouldn’t have jumped on a plane without all the details hammered out and receiving payment in advance.’

My answer brought a smile to Gerald’s face, though I held no illusions it was for my well-honed business savvy. I already had plenty of shadows and darkness to fight through; I didn’t appreciate him piling on more uncertainty with his condescending attitude.

‘Do you want to tell me what the fuck this is all about? Otherwise, I have a life to figure out and sitting here playing twenty questions with you isn’t getting me any closer.’

He stared at me intently, sizing me up like he was trying to decide how difficult it would be to dispose of my body.

‘Relax, Matt. I’m just trying to decide whose side you’re on.’

‘Whose side? I don’t even know what the bloody game is we’re supposed to be playing.’

Gerald tilted back his head and polished his bald pate with a well-manicured hand. The sigh that escaped his lips was either pleasure, or he’d made a decision.

‘You’re making this difficult for me, Matt.’

I shrugged.

‘I don’t give a shit how I make this for you, Gerald. Either share, or I’m off to the airport.’

Strong words from a man dressed in tattered jeans and a crumpled Frank Turner T-shirt, and whose coat still bore the stains and detritus from the night of the explosion. A man who had no money, no wallet – some enterprising first responder or hospital orderly, had made off with that. And no airline ticket to London.

Gerald dropped into Stan’s chair and placed his well-polished brogues on the corner of the desk. From outside, the faint howl of an ambulance’s siren echoed through the quiet streets.

‘One more picture.’

Another eight by ten appeared from the folder by his side. He casually spun it towards me across the surface of the desk.

‘How about this bloke?’

I stared at the face in the photo and then back at Gerald, my mind a sea of roiling confusion. It was a face I recalled.

‘This is the doctor that checked on me in the hospital. Well … I thought he was a doctor. I’d convinced myself I dreamt the whole encounter. How?’

Gerald saved me from going through the remainder of the monosyllabic questions I was trying to form.

‘His name is Olek Khotkov. Former KGB 5th directorate officer stationed here in Ukraine. Current department head for Counter-Intelligence of the SBU – Ukrainian Secret Service. Confusing, I know. Being of Ukrainian descent, when the Soviet Union dissolved, he stayed on here and switched teams to the good guys. Well, as good as they get in this hellhole.’

His explanation of my mysterious hospital visitor posed another bucket full of questions and Gerald basked in my growing discomfort. He splayed his hands in front of his face and inspected his nails for imperfections. Finding everything to his liking, he continued.

‘Khotkov’s department runs a stable of undercover agents, of which Katya Fomina was one of his newest recruits.’

I slumped into the chair as if I were a blow-up toy someone had stuck with a pin. My heart beat wildly in my chest, the blood pulsing through my arteries into my brain and threatening to burst open the healing fissures in my skull. The throbbing in my temples made it hard for me to hear the words tumbling from my mouth.

‘I was set up. They used me, but why?’

‘Used you? Not necessarily. For some reason that we’re still trying to ascertain, the SBU wanted to get close to Voronin. If the rumours are true, he’s the main supplier running weapons into eastern Ukraine for the rebels. We just haven’t been able to get any concrete proof. Perhaps the SBU knows more, but they’re not sharing.’

Gerald sprang to his feet as if an intoxicating scent of espionage and intrigue floated in the air, filling his nostrils with desire.

‘Voronin also likes to play the caring philanthropist to the outside world. He funds a string of orphanages across Eastern Europe and parts of the Middle East.’

He paused and let loose a derisive snort.

‘Supply weapons to kill the parents then nurture and indoctrinate the children, the Russian circle of life.’

‘And British Philanthropy Today?’

I let his caustic platitude slide by without comment.

‘An SBU front, as far as we can ascertain, which they parlayed into hiring you. Then, using your well-respected name …’

The words ‘well-respected’ seemed to turn his stomach. I let it slide; I’d enough on my mind to contemplate.

‘… as the interviewer, into setting up the meeting in Kharkiv with Voronin. And thereby getting Katya close to the target.’

I reached for the glass of water by my side, but it had long since run dry. Much like my trove of answers to my current situation.

He continued pacing slowly behind me, rehashing his description of events as if stalking his prey, looking for a hole in his logic.

‘Though just one problem. The SBU wouldn’t dare set up a mission of this magnitude without letting us know of their intentions. And by us, I also mean MI6. Especially one that originated on British soil and involved an Australian citizen.’

I didn’t care about his territorial quandary.

‘And I was supposed to just stand by while Katya … did … whatever the fuck they’d cooked up?’

Gerald had migrated once again to the bookcase and was flipping through an ornately bound copy of Crime and Punishment.

‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? And one we were hoping you’d be able to answer.’

‘Sorry to disappoint, but this is way beyond my comprehension. Memory or no.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, my man.’

‘Wrong? What the fuck are you saying? I don’t even know why you’re telling me all this.’

Gerald’s piercing brown eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire as he slipped the volume of Dostoyevsky’s work back onto the shelf. Porfiry Petrovich’s investigative skills were of no need to Gerald.

‘Really? You still haven’t cottoned on?’

‘Just because I’m Frank’s boy, doesn’t mean—’

Gerald’s nefarious smile had the effect of drying up the remainder of my sentence. It was the smile of a predator that had cornered its prey.

‘Oh, you’re more than that, Matt. You may not remember yet, but it’ll soon come back to you.’

‘What? You fucking spooks and your ridiculous games. Would you just spit it out?’

I recalled watching a documentary once on bear trapping in Alaska. The concealing of traps, of luring the bear with some tasty morsel, the great beast lumbering slowly forward, following the scent, unaware of the danger. Finally, the triggering of the jaws and the steel trap slamming shut with a bone-crunching finality. In that split-second, where effectively the bear’s life is over, I remembered wondering what final thought passed through its mind.

As Gerald produced a shit-eating grin, I had an epiphany for how the bear must have felt.

‘Now come on, Matt. Is that any way to speak to your employer?’

Five

Dressed in Their Sunday Finest

Bratslav, Ukraine

The drive southwest to Bratslav – and back in time a century or more – took near on five hours. The small town of six thousand hearty souls was only two hundred and sixty kilometres from Kyiv, but may as well have been a million. I’d lost track of the number of horses pulling carts I’d passed along the way, but had found many of the missing remnants of my tattered life story. Gerald’s bombshell that I was an agent with ASIS – those very same creatures that I thought I despised – was masterfully played, dropped into my lap with perfect timing and precision for maximum possible effect, and just as devastating as a CIA drone strike. Frank’s boy – the spy.

As the reality had sunk in, Gerald had immediately begun peeling back some of the layers before I got the wrong impression. Not to appease my fragile mind, but more to make me realise he and I weren’t even close to being equals – I was merely a part-time associate, a source. Someone they relied on to pass along pertinent information uncovered in my travels around the globe. No gun. No survival training in the wilds of Borneo. No cool gadgets. No derring-do. Though a recent incident in North Macedonia came to mind, testing that theory. A memory of dangling precariously from a rooftop in Skopje before being rescued. In my pocket, a thumb drive containing information of a plot to kill a group of Serbian government officials. I escaped with a few bumps and bruises, and the intel halted the Kosovan terrorist group’s plan. My reward? The same that month as every other month for the past eight years: a stipend transferred to my account from an Australian publishing company that may or may not exist. My source was not so lucky. A week later, her headless body was found in a shallow stream running through an idyllic Kosovan valley.

Five hours driving across the endless Ukrainian steppe in a rented Opel provided the escape I needed after hours of debriefing at the hands of Gerald Adkins. He was adamant I must have known something of Katya’s intentions. But as my memory slowly returned, I was dismayed to discover that I still knew absolutely nothing. Whatever her designs on Voronin may have been, Katya had kept them bottled up in that pretty head of hers.

I crossed the narrow bridge over the Pivdennyi Buh – Southern Bug River – and entered the farming enclave of Bratslav mid-afternoon. The winter sun hung low in the sky, casting the snow-covered fields in a golden hue. Birch trees lined the road, their icy limbs shining like polished silver. The village’s tallest features were the two churches standing guard at each end of town; whether to protect the village from outside forces or as barriers to corral their flock was open to interpretation. Katya had mentioned her hometown of Bratslav, of how she was glad to be rid of its nothingness. A dead-end village unchanged for a century. For the young, nothing to look forward to other than getting drunk on the weekend. Then, for the women, falling pregnant, and if lucky, a kind husband. And for the men, a life working the land, with only alcohol to dull the monotony.

I headed for the Church of St Nicholas, its whitewashed walls blending with the snow, and followed a pathway skirting the chapel to a small cemetery beyond. A row of stout birch trees swayed in the breeze, marking the boundary. Burial markers stood like crooked teeth sprouting from a pristine white blanket, but for one exception. I’d spoken with Katya’s editor at the Kyiv Post regarding information on her burial. She’d honestly sounded distressed when speaking of Katya. Honesty or a well-rehearsed charade? My mind was still chewing on the fat of that question.

In the second-to-last row of the graveyard, a rectangle of freshly turned black earth stood out in stark contrast to the blanket of white snow. The script on the gravestone was Cyrillic, but I knew just enough of the language to know I’d found Katya’s final resting place.

Paying my last respects to a girl I had known for barely two weeks was not within my nature. My relationships came with a use-by date, the duration rarely longer than those on cartons of milk, and I disposed of them in roughly the same manner. My marriage was the lone exception and the rank smell of that still lingered.

With the return of my memory, the knowledge of my deeply ingrained flaws rushed back at full force. I was indeed Frank’s boy. The man himself equally revered and feared by all that knew him. And then I, his only child, shunned from birth, growing up determined to be nothing like his old man, but finding fresh traps of my own making to stumble into.

Meet the new prick, same as the old prick.

Frank lived for confrontation; I preferred to cut and run. Frank’s loquaciousness my mirror opposite. He had all the time in the world to hold court, but none reserved for listening. As a child, I remained silent for days just to avoid a misspoken word or stumbling over a phrase and being told to ‘spit it out’. Of withdrawing into a cocoon of solitude. Stowing away my feelings with the few worldly possessions I carried from one posting to another, yet left to decay in a dark corner when time to unpack. In time, fortifying my defences by letting my writing do my talking. Which, for Frank, would forever be a bullshit occupation. The end result being the same: not a single person would ever break down the tough Latham façade. Father or son.

No, visiting a grave in the middle of nowhere was not in my nature, but it was the least I could do. And sometimes even the least is a start.

As I gently laid the bouquet of flowers I’d brought on the bare earth, I recalled our final night together in Kharkiv. Voronin’s people had scheduled the interview for the following evening at a club near the city centre; no recording devices, absolutely no photos. I’d interviewed enough tin-pot wannabe dictators over the years to find none of this out of the ordinary. If he thought of himself as God’s gift to mankind, so be it. Just so long as the money was right, who was I to judge?

However, Katya had appeared especially nervous. I put it down to age and inexperience. Over dinner, we studied the list of approved questions, me looking for feedback, her ensuring she had context and meaning for the translation. One bottle of wine became three, and one thing led to another. Looking back, I now wonder who seduced whom?

The shuffling of feet over frozen ground brought me back to the present. A small middle-aged woman, swaddled in multiple layers of clothing, picked her way along the path. She held tightly to the arm of a bull-necked man of roughly the same age. They came to a halt by my side. The woman stared down at the freshly turned earth and began to cry, her body curling into itself as she cowered further into the arms of the man. He stood unwavering, resolute, as if carved from one of the birch trees lining the cemetery. Up close, the deeply etched lines on their faces appeared like furrows carved into the surrounding fields, reflecting a lifetime spent living on the harsh steppe.

The man raised his chin and took a deep breath of the frigid air before speaking.

I cursed myself anew for my limited language skills.

‘I’m sorry. I do not speak your language. English?’

It was the woman who spoke, her voice thin and faltering. I had to strain to hear her words before they were carried away on the breeze.

‘Did you know our Katya?’

‘Yes, yes, I did. Although only briefly. My name is Matt. Are you her parents?’

The man, presumably, asked for a translation, nodded in the affirmative and extended a thick, callused hand. His grip was firm and strong from a lifetime of farming these lands.

‘Our Katya mentioned you the last time we spoke. I am Viktoriya, my husband is Yuri.’

She clutched her scarf tighter to her throat and gave me a quick once-over.

‘Please, you are not dressed for this cold, will you come to our home?’

Home was a stout square constructed from cement blocks, the exterior painted a fading mustard yellow. In its prime it would’ve glowed like a beacon. The roof was steeply arched and constructed of red tiles in the Spanish style. A memory of the red-roofed homes of Melbourne flashed through my mind. Apart from the similarity of colour, no two places could have been more of a polar opposite.

Viktoriya led the way into a compact family room and kitchen that smelled faintly of wood smoke and cabbage. Two small bedrooms led off a short hallway, separated by a sparse bathroom. A pile of dry birch logs sat stacked next to a ceramic heating unit that served for both cooking and heating their home. Framed photographs covered the walls. From sepia to black and white then colour as one century gave way to another. The family line captured for posterity.

Images of Frank’s office flashed to mind. Decorative frames that encapsulated my father’s career through the years. Frank with past and future Australian prime ministers, heads of state, sporting legends. A solitary photo of him standing proudly with my mother on their wedding day. A who’s who in Frank’s sphere. None of yours truly. More those worth treasuring than anything resembling family lineage.

I sank into a threadbare chair and wondered how soon I could leave without seeming impolite. Understanding grief was one thing – I’d experience in that regard – but providing solace to grieving parents? Empathy wasn’t a trait deemed necessary in the Latham household.

Katya’s mother handed me a cup of sweet black tea and followed my gaze to the wall of photos.

‘Both Yuri’s and my family have lived here in Bratslav for over one hundred years. Through wars, famines, regime changes …’

She paused to sip her tea and drew strength in the process.

‘But many good times as well.’

Judging from the stoic expressions, it appeared the family photographer had found somewhere else to be during the good times.

A brief family history followed as the tea blazed a searing trail through my innards. The pain turned to a glowing warmth as she reached the present day. Yuri had worked the land since he was a small boy. Viktoriya cultivated children’s minds teaching at the local elementary school. The smattering of English she retained had been picked up years earlier during her university days in Kyiv.

‘Katya had not been in contact with us for several months, but she called just before she left for Kharkiv. She mentioned your name, and that you were a good and kind man.’

Nice that at least someone thought so.

‘Did Katya speak of her work at Kyiv Post? Of her assignment in Kharkiv? I apologise, my memory is still fuzzy.’

I didn’t think a white lie would hurt. Perhaps I could get some information that would satisfy Gerald before I left for London. Not that I cared for Gerald, but my curiosity could use an answer or two.

However, I knew enough to steer well clear of mentioning Katya’s work for the SBU. The state’s secret police had deservedly earned their reputation of mistrust in the minds of the people. If her parents were unaware of her primary employer, then I’d let sleeping dogs lie. I was a reporter, not a gossip.

‘She loved her work. We are … were … so proud of her.’

The tears started afresh, and as Yuri gently squeezed his grieving wife’s shoulder, I searched the room for someplace to avert my gaze.

A framed colour photo had pride of place on the hall table. Two young girls, dressed in their Sunday finest, kneeling among a field of wildflowers. Their golden hair, tied back in long braids, shone in the sun. The camera’s lens caught two pairs of the deepest blue eyes.

‘In the last call from Katya, she said she was going to Kharkiv to interview a man. She was nervous; she said he was a dangerous man. But she thought he might have answers to what happened.’

The picture of a young Katya – she couldn’t have been more than nine or ten – brought on a fresh wave of desolation. So much so that I’d not paid attention to Viktoriya.

‘Excuse me. You said, “what happened”?’

‘Yes, Katya thought the man – she did not mention his name – knew what happened to Nadiya.’

Katya had to have been speaking of Voronin. But Nadiya? Then it clicked. The other little girl in the picture.

‘And Nadiya is Katya’s … sister?’

‘Yes. She has been missing now for more than two years. Katya has been searching for Nadiya all this time.’

‘You said she’s been missing. Missing … how?’

Not my best reporter’s question, but I hoped I was warming up to the task.

‘Nadiya had just turned eighteen. And like all young people these days, could not wait to get away from small village. She answered an advertisement in the newspaper from agency looking for models. How could we say no? Nadiya was beautiful, we always said she would one day be movie star.’

Viktoriya handed me another photo.

‘Once Katya left for university, she did not come home very often. This is her after completing high school, Nadiya almost fifteen.’

It wasn’t hard to imagine both girls maturing into beautiful women. The elder of the two died mere steps from me less than two weeks earlier; the younger … missing.

‘Nadiya left on the bus one afternoon for Kyiv. She was to stay overnight at Katya’s apartment after interview, then return home the next day. She called Katya to say she going out with new friends that night, not to wait up. It was the last any of us heard from our Nadiya. We wait at bus terminal for her, but she never—’

Viktoriya struggled to regain her composure. Yuri’s stare had the look of a condemned man who’d lost the will to live.

‘I go back to meet bus from Kyiv each day for next two weeks, nothing. No phone calls. Katya unable to find any trace of her sister. We report to police, but they do nothing to help.’

Viktoriya lowered her gaze as she wrestled with both the handkerchief in her hands and her emotions. When she looked up, her blue eyes, the colour of a washed-out summer sky, met mine.

‘For more than two years, Katya had been searching for her sister. She would not give up hope. We … still hold out hope.’

I had no words that would come close to help heal the their wounds. Making some feeble excuse about needing to return the rental car that evening, I hugged Viktoriya and shook the sinewy hand of Yuri, before heading back across the endless rolling landscape to Kyiv.

The Ukrainian steppe stretches from the Romanian border to the west, then east for over thirty-two hundred kilometres. During the Soviet era, it was these farmlands that fed the Soviet people. When the Soviet Union collapsed, Ukraine took back what was rightfully theirs. Though, like a bankrupt farmer whose land had been stripped from them and turned over to creditors, the Russians still harboured a heavy dose of ill will. During the day, the view across the flatlands is limitless. At night, a vastly different story. The encroaching blackness pressed in on all sides, the rental car’s headlights carving out a narrow tunnel of light to lead the way. The darkness also helped to concentrate the multiple threads of thought running through my mind. I turned off the radio that was playing an endless selection of Ukrainian folk songs and embraced the silence.

One thing appeared definite: Katya’s mission in Kharkiv was personal and not an SBU assignment. It also explained Khotkov’s visit to the hospital. He also had no idea what Katya was doing there. These facts would squelch the conspiracy theories Gerald was germinating. The thought of him coming to the understanding he was way off base only brought a temporary moment of joy.

My mind jumped to Katya’s missing sister, Nadiya. Her disappearance was one all too familiar in Eastern Europe; just one of the thousands each year euphorically swept away from home with the promise of a modelling or movie career. The chance to escape from a tiny village that offered no future. Then kidnapped and trafficked to the brothels of the West, forced to work endless hours to pay off their debt and earn their release. A debt very rarely repaid. I hoped that had not become her fate.

However, based on Katya’s research, her sister’s disappearance somehow involved the man we were to interview, Arkady Voronin. The billionaire shipping magnate, perhaps tapping into another thriving market for a product he was only too willing to supply.

Two hours later, I imagined I could still feel the imprint of Yuri’s crushing handshake. And as the headlight’s beam scythed through the darkness of the desolate highway, also the weight of Viktoriya’s words as she pressed the photograph of the two teenage girls into my palm.

‘Please. You keep. And perhaps you can ask this man about our Nadiya? No?’

Why not? What harm could a little digging cause?

Six

Ludmilla Sets Expectations

We huddled together for warmth in the back of the delivery truck. Twelve of us, all young females, afraid to talk above a whisper for fear of another beating. Oxana, a quiet girl from a small village north of Kyiv, whimpers next to me. Earlier, she’d shared why she came to Kyiv. How her father had systematically beat the joy from her soul until she’d gathered the courage to run away. Now she mewls like a wounded animal, cradling her broken arm, the result of questioning our abductor’s rules.

It seems as if we have been travelling for days, but time has lost all meaning. All our possessions were taken while we were unconscious: luggage, purses, jewellery, phones. We woke to find ourselves captive in this pitch-black rolling metal box, too afraid to ask for their return.

I recall meeting some of the girls at the reception held the evening after my interview. We sipped champagne from crystal flutes and giggled conspiratorially, dreaming of a future in the world of show business. Drugged, we believe. It is the only logical answer. Now we stare blankly into the dark, wondering what will become of us.

Katya had begged me not to go, that she’d heard stories. That she wanted to check out these talent agency people I was to meet. My older sister, the sensible daughter. But I was not to be dissuaded. We were both pretty girls, everyone said so. But she also had our mother’s intelligence. An important job at Kyiv Post was her ticket out of our village. I was not blessed with her intellect. And where would my looks get me in Bratslav? First in line to the altar?

The truck slows, turns, then bounces for a short time along a gravel road. Stones ricocheting off the undercarriage sound like rifle shots in our enclosed space. The truck rolls to a stop. A stack of boxes shielding us from the rear doors are unloaded and a weak ribbon of moonlight creeps into the cabin. One of our abductors, a baseball bat swinging loosely in his left hand, herds us to the ground. The second man, pistol visible in his waistband, pushes us off the track and into the brush to the side of the truck. Neither of the men has said a word – their weapons speak volumes.

Our third abductor is a woman who speaks Ukrainian with an accent. Mid-forties, dressed in designer jeans and leather jacket, slightly overweight, a pretty face but one foretelling the first signs of aging. She could be the mother to anyone of us, if that mother was also a sadistic bitch. Her name is Ludmilla, and she issues the commands that are gleefully enforced by her two henchmen. We are told to form a close circle and urinate. Shoulder to shoulder, we squat and relieve ourselves on the ground. The two men watch us, grinning like rabid dogs as we try and maintain some privacy.

We’ve not eaten since awakening from our drug-induced sleep. Bottled water has been our only sustenance. Has it been two days? My stomach aches with hunger, but I’m too afraid to ask for food. Lesia, squatting next to me, can’t control her bowels and whimpers with embarrassment. She asks for toilet paper but instead receives a boot to her back and is told by Ludmilla to use her hand. Choking back tears, she does as she’s told then scoops up a handful of snow to scrub the shit from her fingers.

Tatiana and Lesia are both from Obhukiv, a town not far from Kyiv. They thought it would be fun to catch the bus to the capital just to party for a few days. Two beautiful young girls escaping a dank village for a weekend’s adventure in the big city. They remember a dance club, their drinks paid for, an invitation to another party. They happily followed the kindly, middle-aged man who had plenty of money to splash around. They remember being driven to a large city hotel. An extravagantly decorated private suite where a waiter passed with tray after tray of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. That was where we first met. Where none of us remember leaving.

Steam from our excretions rises into the cold night air. Above, a quarter moon hangs low in the sky, illuminating snow-covered fields. Perhaps a kilometre away, a highway dissects the endless plains. To my left, I’m not sure of the direction, the road slowly rises to meet a foreboding mountain range.

The two men roughly bundle us back into the truck, while Ludmilla claps her hands, laughs and says she hoped we enjoyed our first piss on Bulgarian soil. She tells us that tomorrow we will arrive at our new home.

And that is when the fun will start.

Seven

Look What the Cat Stood In

London, England

The jolt upon braking awoke me from my stupor as the Circle Line train pulled into Shepherd’s Bush Market Station. Clearing the condensation from the window with the heel of my fist, I watched droplets of rain on the glass slowly merge, pick up pace, then race downwards to the weather stripping. The street lights glowing on Uxbridge Road are muted and encased in a hazy halo from the misting rain. My day began at the embassy in Kyiv at the crack of dawn, just hours after negotiating the long drive back from Bratslav. Gerald Adkins greeted me with replacement credit cards, a British Airways ticket for the afternoon flight to Heathrow and a dozen more questions about Katya and our rendezvous with Voronin.

I’d forced a smile and thanked him for the cards and ticket. When I shared with him the story of Katya’s sister, his smile found somewhere else it would rather be. Sorry, Gerald, no tantalising spy story to see here. No grand conspiracy theory of interagency mischief to liven up your career. Just a poor girl clutching at straws in the hope of finding her little sister.

My revelation had torpedoed his opportunity to score points with the SBU. The last thing Ukrainian Intelligence wanted to hear was that a renegade agent had been stirring the pot with a lone-wolf act against a Russian oligarch. They had enough problems on their hands trying to hold their country together without giving the Russians a further excuse to escalate matters. Sure, the SBU wouldn’t have minded if Voronin had been a victim of the explosion at Klub Kremlin, though they’d have preferred to first have proof of his arms trafficking activities. State-sponsored assassinations still had their rules of engagement – well, for some countries.

After five hours of travel, I was more than ready to escape from the world and hole up at home – a shabby two-up, two-down with creaky stairs and a gas heater that, if it could talk, would recall stories of the Blitz. Though I couldn’t complain about the service on the British Airways flight. I’d greedily enjoyed my share of a London Pride or four. But between airplane pressurisation and cramped economy seating, my head screamed for the flight to be over. And, of course, Heathrow Airport was as chaotic as ever, the kilometre-long walk from arrival gate to the Heathrow Express platform about five hundred metres beyond my patience level. I was looking forward to popping a pain pill, getting a good night’s sleep and starting afresh in the morning with a new course of action.

The plan? To do everything within my power to track down the whereabouts of Nadiya. And that started with a deeper dive into the world of Arkady Voronin; I felt I owed that to Katya and her parents. And who knows? Perhaps for once I’d end up with a story that served some higher purpose other than padding my bank account. Doctor’s orders had excused me from work for another five weeks, giving me plenty of time for some independent research. That’s assuming, of course, I still had a job. Best to make a quick call to an old friend to help grease the skids.

I stepped gingerly down the wet station steps towards Uxbridge Road as the dial tone echoed across oceans.

‘Who’s this?’

Jack Temple was my first – and to date, only – editor at the Sydney Morning Herald. He’d been with the paper so long rumour had it he’d covered World War One as a cub reporter. He was also the only person willing to give me a chance after a late-night boozy get-together with a few colleagues and my previous boss at The Australian had ended with said boss nursing a broken nose and me unemployed.

‘Jack. It’s Matt.’

‘Matt? Shit, I thought you were a goner. What the hell happened? And what the fuck were you doing in Ukraine?’

I pictured Jack peering out his office window to the docks of Darling Harbour below, running an arthritic hand through his shock of white hair.

‘Just a bit of freelance work. I’m okay, though the docs want me to take it easy for a few weeks. The bomb did a number on my skull.’

‘Shit, I didn’t think there was a bomb built that could get through your thick head.’

His laugh sounded like a lawnmower in need of a tune-up. Decades of smoking two packs a day left him with a rasp rougher than charcoal. He’d cut back to one pack after cancer took most of one lung. Jack thought it an uneasy compromise.

‘Tell me you at least got a good story out of it?’

I paused on the footpath and turned my face skyward. The light mist felt refreshing and helped to sharpen my mental focus. Even the chill temperature felt almost balmy after the time spent in Ukraine.

‘It may turn into something. I’m still trying to fit the pieces together.’

Picking up on my sombre tone.

‘Take as long as you need, Matt.’

Beneath the gruff exterior, he really did have a heart of gold.

‘I’ll cover for you here until you’re ready to get back in the saddle. Hell, it’s not like you do much of anything anyway.’

As his laughter morphed into a coughing fit, the line went dead.

Did I mention that heart of gold was encased in a vein deep below the surface, never to be unearthed?

Talking with Jack, I’d not been concentrating on my direction. My recovery had progressed to the level of alcohol-induced amnesia. The pounding in my head certainly acted the part. After a moment of doubt, the towers of St Stephens reassured me I was heading in the right direction. As did the recollection of where I’d secreted my front door key.

Over the course of the day, I’d had plenty of time to piece together the circumstances leading to the night of the blast, accepting that whichever group planted the bomb would probably never be determined – just another random act of madness in a country that had quickly grown accustomed to such things. I’d also quashed the thought that it had been Katya’s doing. From my slowly evolving recall, I remembered something about her wanting answers and she’d definitely not appeared the suicidal type. And why would Voronin take the chance? Even if he had discovered that Katya was an SBU agent, he supposedly had nothing to hide, was on friendly territory and had numbers on his side. A bomb was overkill to the extreme, like squashing a flea with a steamroller. Of course, there may have been other factors at play, but delving into the world of tinfoil hat conspiracy theories felt beneath me. Well, unless I was paid handsomely to argue otherwise.

No, I’d focus my attention on matters I could control. Voronin’s business empire was the place to start, and by rooting around in those weeds, I may be able to dig up the connection to human trafficking that Katya had apparently discovered.

Unfortunately, the beautiful young women of the former Soviet-bloc countries were an all too easy mark for traffickers, duped by the promise of money and stardom, then shipped west and sold into the twenty-first century’s incarnation of slavery. And once there, exploited and brutalised at their owner’s pleasure until their value waned, their youth and innocence stolen, spending the remainder of their lives entrapped in a shadowy underworld.

A friend from my younger days in Melbourne might also be able to provide some inside knowledge. Ryan Purcell and I graduated from Melbourne University together back in 2003, and where I’d shunned the government recruitment offers to join ASIS, Ryan had jumped in with both feet. Ryan had called the Australian High Commission in London his home away from home for the past three years. Ryan was my handler. I hated the term, because I refused to believe I was a spy. More an asset, with limited intrinsic value. Precisely the way the folks at ASIS wished it to remain, giving them plausible deniability of a troublesome reporter with destructive tendencies. Yes, they were more than happy to keep me at arm’s length, if not further. And I didn’t blame them, especially after some of my more ruinous misadventures – a trip to Tunisia quickly sprang to mind.

Regaining my memory, and reliving my missteps, was fast becoming a ‘be careful what you wish for’ situation.

Ryan was the only person within ASIS I trusted. Distrust was another Latham character flaw, but this one came with good reason: I’d seen too many journalists’ sources blown when they’d innocently shared information with ‘friendly’ security operatives. One person’s patriotic duty quickly flipped to become another’s bargaining chip. I took grim solace in knowing that if I found myself in deep shit, it was because I only had myself to blame. A mournful rendition of Frank crooning ‘My Way’ at my funeral would be a fitting epitaph, though Sid’s farcical version may be more apt.

The place I rented on Abdale Road was a five-minute walk from the station, long enough for the rain to soak through my tattered jacket. It had once been a sharp navy-blue pea coat but now was damaged beyond repair. Reeking of smoke and something fetid that defied description, the right sleeve bore stains from the Kharkiv pavement, the left singed a crusted black and the front had been shredded by shards of glass. I’d thought of tossing it away in Kyiv, picking out something new from one of the airport’s duty-free shops, but had dithered over the selection then run out of time before departure.

Perhaps tomorrow.

‘Matt, my good friend! Where you been this long?’

Aziz Mansouri greeted me with his usual unbridled enthusiasm as I stumbled into the coffee shop on Uxbridge Road. He was a slip of a man, liable to be blown away by a strong breeze. A flat-billed baseball cap that dwarfed his face covered his jet-black hair, and I wondered if he knew what the big red ‘T’ on the front represented. I smiled at his embrace of the latest trends. Though, if he started wearing skinny jeans, an intervention may be in order.

Another night of rest – albeit pill-induced – had proven just the tonic to rejuvenate my memory. I felt confident that most of the necessary pieces had fallen into place. No nagging time gaps in my short-term recollections at least. A few straggling portions to my long-term memory, but I hoped those pieces were like the extra screws in an IKEA assembly and superfluous to the big picture.

‘Been a few weeks hasn’t it, Aziz? You know, the waiting …’

‘Ah, Matt! You bastard! You trump my Beatles with Tom Petty!’

Aziz’s eyes sparkled as he broke into a smile, his pearly white teeth shining against the contrast of his brown skin and ever-present five o’clock shadow.

Along with Ryan, Aziz was one of the few people I’d call a friend – albeit long distance for a few years – two being close to the limit of people I could comfortably say I cared for without risk of drowning in the Sea of Compassion – which put me two ahead of Frank. People, he’d preach, were either stepping stones, useful lackeys or a waste of time and energy, and the sooner you understood which, the more expedient your rise up the food chain. The Latham family hierarchy of needs bore no resemblance to Maslow’s, but at least I’d raised the bar.

Aziz and I met in Tunisia eight years ago. My first assignment in a war zone. And not even a cracked skull could scramble my recall.

I’d been dispatched to cover the country’s Jasmine Revolution, which saw the ousting of the corrupt regime of President Ben Ali. The civil disobedience movement picked up steam in late 2010, protesting the government’s apathetic approach to combatting poverty, ongoing political repression, and their own entrenched corruption. It ended with the collapse of the ruling CDR party and the first free elections in almost sixty years. However, the formerly banned Islamic party, Ennahda, won the election, proving all too quickly that democracy can be a fickle concept.

Eighteen-year-old Aziz, purporting to be a taxi driver, pounced on me the moment I left the Tunis airport terminal. His endless good-natured banter won me over long before we reached his ancient Mercedes that may have belonged to Rommel during his North African campaign. Trepidations aside, after haggling over the cost of his services, I enlisted him as my driver and guide for the month I’d be in country.

Two weeks later, I had little to show for my efforts outside of a couple of human-interest pieces that Jack Temple described as ‘all veggies, no meat’. And, alas, he was a dyed-in-the-wool carnivore. With a lecture on expenses vis-a-vis expectations still ringing in my ears, I sidled up to the hotel bar with the rest of the press corp to drown my misfortune. Somewhere between the third gassy beer and the onset of a mild buzz, reports of a flare-up in the southern town of Sousse began to filter through the din. Ex-government forces, loyal to the CDR and reluctant to surrender control, were making a stand against Islamic fighters itching to show off the new skills they’d acquired on the gun range. To a man, the veteran journalists thought the battle small potatoes. Better to sit it out in air-conditioned comfort and wait for the official government communiqué. But I was eager to make my mark.

And I smelled meat.

So, early the next morning, Aziz and I set out for the dusty town of Sousse, a hundred and fifty kilometres to the south of Tunis. Aziz wasn’t too keen on making the trip, grumbling under his breath all the while about this being a fool’s errand. In my naiveté, I paid him no mind. I was cocksure this was to be my big break. Fifty kilometres from Sousse, where the highway runs alongside the Gulf of Hammamet, we crested a rise and came upon a roadblock: two pickup trucks belonging to soldiers of the Islamic Ennahda Party parked nose to tail across the road. The driver of a sedan stood to the side of the road while two soldiers searched his vehicle. Aziz slowed momentarily, contemplated the situation, then punched the gas and yanked hard on the steering wheel.

I wasn’t sure if it was a crisis of faith for Aziz, concern for having a Westerner in the car or – as I later discovered – the ounce of hashish in his back pocket, that had him spooked, but a sweeping U-turn at speed must have appeared like a succulent lamb rotisserie to the Islamic soldiers hungry for a fight. We quickly found ourselves pursued by two Toyota pickups with machine guns mounted in back and with the trigger-happy soldiers using the Mercedes for target practice.

As the pickups closed in, Aziz decided that to remain on the straight, flat highway was certain death so, with another hard turn of the wheel, guided the Mercedes onto a side road that wound westward into the desert. I wasn’t sure it was the best move, but I was too busy ducking bullets by burying my nose into the upholstery to share my thoughts.

The paved section of the roadway at the intersection sat three metres above the desert floor in deference to floods in the rainy season. Seeing an opportunity to make up ground, the first of the pickups cut the corner but quickly lost traction in the soft sloping sand, pitched sharply to the left and rolled twice before exploding in a ball of flames. Thankfully, the second pickup gave up their pursuit to check for survivors.

Back in Tunis, Aziz inspected the damage to his Mercedes. His count reached thirteen bullet holes before he placed both hands on the roof of the sedan and hung his head in despair.

‘Mr Matt, I been lightning struck. I’m a dead man. These bastards shoot to chill and pay the bill.’

Aziz’s situation was, indeed, deadly serious, as – now that I thought about it – was mine. It wouldn’t be long before government forces mounted a search for the Mercedes and its occupants. But I couldn’t help smiling at his choice of words. Aziz had picked up English by singing along to classic rock on the radio in the orphanage where he spent his childhood. Though he rarely got the lyrics right.

‘Don’t worry, Aziz. I won’t leave you here. I … know some people. You’ll need to dump the Mercedes. I can pay—’

‘Ah, fuck it. It stolen anyway. So, you think you can get me out?’

‘I need to make some calls.’

‘Yeah! We gonna have a jail bake!’

I spirited Aziz into the Australian Embassy later that night, then used my ASIS connections to smuggle him out on a military transport to London two days later. Legally, he may not have had to face charges for the deaths of the Islamic soldiers but, as the political situation in Tunisia continued to deteriorate, it wasn’t a chance I was prepared to take. Once in London, and with what pull I could muster, Aziz was offered asylum in either Australia or England. With a few distant relatives living in London, Aziz opted for the latter. He regretted leaving his homeland for not one moment. And little did I know at the time we’d be reunited five years later.

‘So, tell me, where you been, Matt? You look like … like something the cat stood in.’

‘I think you meant something the cat dragged in. But I get your point. I’ve had a few rough weeks in Ukraine.’

‘Argh, those Ukraine girls, they really punch you one!’ Aziz had settled on a Beatles theme today. A one-thousand-watt smile split his face from ear to ear.

‘Something like that. How about one of your special Turkish coffees to bring a man back to life?’

Sleeping until lunchtime hadn’t been the plan. Before sacking out last night, I’d set a meeting with Ryan for one pm in Hyde Park. Now, with just thirty minutes to spare, I needed one of Aziz’s heart-starters to supply some impetus.

‘Coming right up, my man.’

He skipped off behind the counter and set to work on the coffee.

Aziz served the bitter Turkish coffee in a to-go cup. I grabbed a slice of baklava and dropped the few coins I’d found on my dresser into Aziz’s hand.

‘Hope that covers it, Aziz.’

‘No worries, Matt. Don’t you know what the best things in life are?’

Touché.

I smiled and headed east towards Shepherd’s Bush Station.

Eight

Debts to Pay

The scent of pine in the crisp mountain air is intoxicating after ten more hours inhaling the fetid smells of exhaust fumes, body odour and the sour scent of fear in the rear of the truck. We each fill our lungs to capacity, gulping mouthfuls of the crisp air the moment we step to ground. The enjoyment is short-lived.

We are rushed up the back staircase of a dilapidated wooden building from the laneway. All I can make out in that short time are thickly forested mountains that rise sharply above the town. Three more stocky men join our abductors inside the building, kicking and slapping us intermittently to keep us moving. All the while they laugh and joke with one another in a language I do not understand.

We are marched down a hallway on the second floor, past several rooms with closed doors, then up more stairs to the third floor. Six of us are pushed into a room at the end of the corridor, the other six girls into another across the hall. Inside the windowless room are three cots, a dresser with three drawers and a table and chair. The carpet is threadbare and sticky under our feet. Faded wallpaper has peeled from the walls in places; beneath are patches of black mould. The room smells of stale smoke, urine and a sickly sweet odour I can’t place.

Ludmilla follows us into the room, quietly shuts the door, then turns to face us. She tells us that this room is our new home, that a doctor will be along to inspect us. Finally, she says that we now belong to a Macedonian man whom we will meet later that day. Her words send a cold chill racing up and down my spine and the import of our situation begins to take root deep down in my stomach, the chill now a block of ice that I fear will never melt.

In a calm, almost pensive voice, Ludmilla tells us we will have an opportunity to pay off our debt to our owner, but precisely how is left unsaid. Tatiana begins to cry, silently at first but her whimpers quickly build into loud, chest-heaving sobs. Ludmilla’s hand connects with the side of her face with a loud crack, dropping her to the floor in a broken heap. She stands over the young girl and shakes her head as if disappointed in a recalcitrant child.

Ludmilla retreats to the doorway and gives us further instruction regarding our duties, which will begin that evening. She leaves, slamming the door with grim finality.

We gather over Tatiana, help her to her feet, then come together in a communal hug. Not a word is spoken, the grief in our eyes telling all.

Our ‘owner’ is a man named Besir. He invited ten other men to that evening’s indoctrination. One of them, his brother, is the town’s police chief. Our place of employment, as he called it, will soon be – thanks to us – the finest brothel in southern Macedonia. He explained, with Ludmilla translating, that if we ‘worked hard’ we could pay off our debt and secure our freedom.

A sliver of sunshine crept in to our dark and bleak world.

But if we resisted, or tried to escape … He snapped his fingers and Oxana, the girl with the broken arm, was dragged to the centre of the room. She kicked and fought as best she could as they tied her hands behind her back. Then a plastic bag was placed over her head and held tight to her throat. We watched in horror as she fought for air, her entire body convulsing in vain as she struggled, the sharp smell of urine as a wet patch spread from her groin.

A minute later, Oxana lost consciousness, and only then was the bag removed. A chilling lesson of our life’s worth brutally communicated. We were nothing but chattel to be bought and sold at Besir’s whim.

Oxana lived, but she was never the same.

The men raped me three times that first night. Between violations, I was forced to watch the attacks on the other girls. At some point, my mind shut off from the violence. I dreamed of days long ago spent playing in the fields with Katya. Swimming in the shallow stream that ran behind the church. Playing hide and seek among the tall rows of wheat, running to hide but my excited squeals giving away my location. The surprise of Katya appearing from nowhere and wrapping me in her arms. Days filled with happiness, no expectations for the future beyond the present. If only she could hear my cries now and wrap me in her arms and tell me everything will be okay.

Over the next month, we were taught how to best pleasure our customers. Different positions. How to use our hands. Mouths. And only when we’d been beaten and raped to the point where we resembled cattle wandering obediently to the slaughterhouse were we deemed ready for the clamouring mass of customers.

I saw eight to ten customers a night, six days a week. I was given amphetamines each evening to rouse my spirits for the customers and barbiturates to sleep during the day. Money never touched our hands; each customer paid our madam – Ludmilla – in the foyer upon making their selection. Our ‘work’ rooms were on the second floor and our prison on the third. Our few belongings were regularly searched for tips from kind customers, the money or jewellery quickly confiscated and – we were to believe – its value deducted from our debt. Then a beating would ensue.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that four months later, I missed my period. I was often forgetful in taking the pills issued and the men were required to wear condoms, but for us girls, that was near impossible to enforce. Ludmilla – who kept track of these things – immediately called for the doctor. Accidents happen, the doctor calmly told me, but no one wants to fuck a pregnant whore. After the abortion, I was given a week off to recuperate. It was almost worth the pain.

After six months, I’d still not given up hope of being rescued. But how could anyone possibly find me? I knew nothing more of my location than the name of the town. And how could I pay for my freedom? Clothes, medical attention, rent, food, utilities, the cost of each was added to my debt monthly. I barely earned enough to cover my expenses.

Oxana was the first to escape our Macedonian prison. Late one morning, I woke to find her lying in a pool of blood, her wrists slashed with a piece of jagged glass.

I was the next, along with Lesia and Tatiana. But we three – and our debts – were passed on to a Croatian gangster to whom Besir owed a favour.

We’d escaped our nightmare in Macedonia, but hopes for a better existence proved to be fleeting.

Nine

A Walk in the Park

London, England

The carriage of the Central Line train was nearly empty. I took a seat opposite a West Indian man with long dreadlocks who was having an intense conversation with a bursting-at-the-seams Marks & Spencer shopping bag. I couldn’t quite make out if he was unhappy with his purchase or if there were earbuds under his dreads and the person on the other end of the call was getting served. Two Muslim women in hijabs huddled together at one end of the carriage, studiously avoiding all eye contact with the rest of us. And an elderly lady at the other end looked down her long nose at me with disdain before finding an advertisement above the windows more to her liking.

Not that I blamed her. A rushed shower before leaving home had helped, but with my face still too sore to attempt shaving and the jagged, bright pink scar above my eye glowing like a beacon, I’m sure I appeared quite the sight.

At Queensway, I slunk from the carriage with the remnants of my self-esteem, climbed the stairs to street level and headed towards Bayswater Road. The previous evening’s rain had cleared and fluffy white clouds flew westward at speed across a faded blue sky. A London cab took a run at me as I made a half-hearted attempt at a jog across the pedestrian crossing. I took my surviving – with less than a metre to spare – as a sign my luck was turning.

The north wind supplanting the rain had picked up in intensity, dropping the temperature below freezing. I flipped up my coat’s collar and, with hands dug deep into shallow pockets, passed through the wrought iron gates and into the park.

Hyde Park was our preferred meeting place, being halfway between my home to the west and Ryan’s office at the Australian High Commission to the east. And Ryan enjoyed the outdoors; an accomplished Australian Rules footballer as a youth, he’d look for any excuse to escape the commission’s cramped offices for some fresh air and exercise. Meeting here also suited my purposes: I’d spent more than my share of time growing up in embassies and consuls around the globe. Further, I tried to maintain a discreet distance from my clandestine employers. You never could be too sure who kept watch of the front gates.

Ryan sat, as usual, on a bench to the side of the walkway, reading the Daily Telegraph. Branches of a leafless plane tree swayed overhead, casting him in shadows one moment and sunlight the next.

I sat down at the end of the bench.

‘Anything interesting in there?’

He answered while neatly folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm.

‘Nah. The stories about the dumbarse Australian getting blown up over in Ukraine have dried up. We’re back to the dumbarse American president stealing the headlines one Twitter storm at a time.’

As delicious as they’d become over the past few years, domestic American politics were not on my radar, though Ryan and his ASIS brethren remained on tenterhooks. With regards to the president’s mindset on intelligence matters, determining which direction the wind blew had become a never-ending parlour game. And still no one felt comfortable thinking they’d solved the puzzle.

Ryan rose from the bench, took in my haggard appearance and let out a low whistle.

‘Shit, Matt! You look like absolute hell!’

And that made the verdict unanimous.

‘Thanks. I love you, too.’

That elicited a wry chuckle.

‘Come on, let’s take a walk. Think your sorry arse can make it to Marble Arch without me having to call for a wheelchair?’

I wasn’t sure, so I shot him a wan smile and held my tongue.

At one hundred and ninety centimetres, Ryan was soon gaining distance. He headed north, towards the Serpentine, as I struggled to stay by his side. The bruising pace was bringing on a fresh migraine. I’d only just wrestled away the last one with two Oxycodone I’d swallowed dry on the Tube.

‘Hey, Ryan. I won’t be able to talk and keep up this pace without my brain splitting in two. Think you can cut it back to a slow jog?’

He threw his head back and let out an audible sigh.

‘Okay, old man. But if you hadn’t noticed, it’s bloody cold.’

He was swaddled in more layers than a Robert Goddard mystery, dressed in a knee-length wool coat over his dark-blue suit, gloves and scarf. Though his head remained uncovered. As a lover of the outdoors, his bare head was his homage to freedom – feeling the wind flow through his thick brown hair was to feel life. But a London winter sorely tested his will.

Ryan’s previous posting had been in Lisbon. The plum assignment in London would’ve thrilled many a young Foreign Affairs attaché, however, Ryan rated his postings based on warm weather and endless skies and gave bonus points for sun-drenched beaches. For a man who grew up in the Mallee region of northwest Victoria, where temperatures routinely soared over forty degrees in summer, the pervasive damp and gloom that surrounded London’s three annual days of summer would never be to his liking.

For myself – a jaded world traveller by the age of fifteen – one city was just like any other. Whereas most folks were ready and willing to dive right in, I was content with merely dipping a toe, conditioned to observe, not imbibe. Three years in London and I’d experienced precious little of what the city had to offer. Without a ready-made exit strategy, I skirted the periphery of life for fear of becoming involved. Another attachment issue that a shrink could easily pin back on Frank. That is, if I thought seeing a shrink could make a difference.

‘You sure put the wind up Gerald Adkins. Not sure that was a good idea.’

Two female joggers strode by in their skin-tight leggings, drawing a smile from Ryan as he waited for me to catch up.

‘What do I care about Gerald Adkins? I wasn’t there on company business. And how was I to know Katya worked for Ukrainian Intelligence?’

‘Matt, Gerald Adkins oversees all Eastern European operations. He’s a big shot in my world and not someone you want to piss off.’

ASIS’s hub for Eastern European operations was Berlin, which was where Gerald was stationed. So what brought Gerald to Kyiv to meet with me? Sure, I thought reasonably highly of myself, but even I doubted I registered highly on Gerald’s radar, even being Frank’s boy.

‘Why the sudden interest in my wellbeing?’

‘Easy there, oh, great one. He doesn’t give a shit about you.’

Just as I thought, but the rebuke still hurt.

‘But Voronin is a different matter. We’ve been trying to learn more about his business interests for some time. And here you come along, get an interview with the bastard and don’t even tell us.’

It hadn’t even crossed my mind to let Ryan know of my trip to Kharkiv; sure my work with him involved sharing information picked up on my travels, but usually travel his superiors had dictated. Having received only the most basic of counter-surveillance training – which amounted to how to spot a tail – going into an assignment with preordained plans wasn’t part of our arrangement. Plus, there was no quicker way to blow my cover than if I suddenly acquired ninja skills or had the aim of James Bond. Though with Katya’s death on my conscience, I was now regretting my decision.

‘What can you tell me about Voronin?’

Another audible sigh. Ryan appeared unusually conflicted about how much information to share.

‘Let’s get a coffee first.’

He ordered two cappuccinos from the café opposite the Italian Gardens, paid and handed me one.

‘Voronin is your prototypical Russian billionaire who wants the world to believe he didn’t get rich by raping his county like all the rest. Donates several million a year to a half-dozen orphanages—’

‘I know that already. His philanthropic work was the topic for my interview.’

‘Fair enough. How about this? We also suspect he’s smuggling weapons to the rebels in Ukraine.’

‘Again, tell me something I don’t know.’

Ryan paused to blow into his coffee cup before taking a sip.

‘I suppose you also know he’s in cahoots with one or more of the Russian security departments? Spent a few years with the FSB out of university before he found his business mojo. And currently? Our best guess is GRU. If he is involved in smuggling guns to the Russian rebels in Ukraine, that makes sense.’

Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye – GRU for short. Russian military intelligence. Communism may have died, but for the military intelligence folks, the change in regime was barely a speed bump in their operating charter.

‘Gerald told me that that was the rumour. Do you have proof? And if so, what do you think he’s up to?’

‘Other than the guns, our best guess is he’s found a way to use his Western business interests to compromise folks on our side. Agents for sure, politicians as well, if it furthers their cause. MI6 is fairly certain there’s a mole buried deep somewhere here in London; our friends on the Continent have the same concerns. Three operatives have had their covers blown in the past two months. The first incident was merely embarrassing: an MI6 agent in Madrid was outed to the Spanish press. But it gets worse. The same happened with a German BND operative in Saint Petersburg, except that poor bastard was found floating in the Neva with an extra earhole. Another German intelligence officer met a similar fate in Turkey a week later.’

And that didn’t include Katya. Had her fate been sealed by the work of a traitor?

‘But how does that track back to Voronin?’

‘The Russians aren’t the only ones with moles, you know. Problem is, for now we just have his name from our source and nothing else to flesh out how he operates.’

Between the brisk walk and the disturbing news of a suspected mole, my head was pounding like a bass drum. I popped another Oxycodone and further slowed my pace. None of this seemed to align with Katya’s ulterior motive, namely, discovering what had happened to her sister, Nadiya. I took a stab in the dark.

‘What do you know about sex trafficking?’

The seeming non-sequitur stopped Ryan dead in his tracks. He shot me a look as if he’d just noticed I’d sprouted a second head.

‘I’m assuming you mean in regards to Voronin, and not as a possible business venture?’

Ten minutes later, after I’d explained the story of Nadiya and what I’d learned of Katya’s research from her parents, Ryan had a faraway look in his eye but appeared unconvinced.

‘I don’t know. Although trafficking is illegal, prostitution is legal in most European capitals – or at least authorities turn a blind eye. And I can’t imagine these girls, after what they’ve been through, being the most reliable of modern-day Mata Haris. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, but it seems a long shot.’

‘Do you know of a trafficking expert here in London? I thought I’d do some research.’

Ryan thought for a moment.

‘I’ll see if I can find someone who can give you a hand.’

We left the park, crossed Marble Arch with the lights and headed down the steps to the Tube. Where the concourses split for lines heading east and west, Ryan paused.

‘And Matt?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Keep me informed of what you’re up to and don’t be doing anything stupid, alright? You’re supposed to be taking it easy and I know how you get.’

‘Who me?’

I slapped on my best disarming smile, but Ryan wasn’t buying it.

Still shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Thirty minutes later, nestled into my office chair and waiting for my laptop to come to life, I surveyed the meagre items that amounted to my existence. A leather sofa with all life knocked out of the cushions faced a blank wall. I’d rescued the sofa from a flea market down the road, then paid more than it cost to have it delivered. Once sitting you needed a crane to be hauled upright. The wooden coffee table came with the lodgings. It was sturdy and clean but for two coffee-mug rings courtesy of the previous tenant. Camped out in the hallway leading to the kitchen stood a lonely hall table, a half-dozen mystery novels strewn over the surface. Why I’d kept them, I had no idea. Probably for the same reason I had a hall table I didn’t need. The bedroom upstairs, containing a double bed and dresser, was no more inviting. One other room upstairs lay vacant, waiting in vain for a son who’d yet to visit. I could be packed and gone within fifteen minutes, my existence erased.

On my desk sat a solitary personal item: a framed photo of Trevor taken this past Christmas. I picked it up and rubbed a thumb over the smooth, white-washed wood. The camera captured the smile of unbridled joy that only a four-year-old could muster, one not yet wise to the ways of the world. His long brown hair covered one of his hazel-coloured eyes. The hair, eyes and button nose all came from his mother. I’d like to think the smile was mine, but corroborating evidence from my end was fleeting.

Not for the first time, I stared at the wall and wondered how I was capable of eloquently producing a thousand words on any topic, but trying to explain to my young son about love and loss and betrayal made the words a jumbled mess in a constricted throat. I hoped one day I could set the record straight, that I could redeem myself in his eyes. However, pinpointing that day was as elusive as uncovering the Holy Grail.

Before the tide of melancholia completely enveloped me – London being ground zero for such moods – I shook free of the darkness, dialled up some Frank Turner from my iTunes library and began digging into the murky world of sex trafficking. Quite the topic to improve one’s state of mind.

The research soon had me itching with discomfort. Not even Frank’s ‘Four Simple Words’ could lighten my sombreness. That we humans could treat one another in such a barbarous manner made my skin crawl.

With the walls closing in, I broke free from the mountains of unsettling data and stepped outside. The fresh air cleared my head but did nothing to make my quest to track down Nadiya seem any less daunting. Each year in Eastern Europe alone, over two hundred thousand women and children are taken from their homes and sold into slavery throughout Europe, Asia and the Middle East. Whether for prostitution, pornography, slave labour, acting as drug mules, or a combination of all four, the outcome for these people is invariably the same: doomed to live their lives in the shadows. Most will die a depressing, drug-fuelled death once the knowledge that they will never be able to repay their debt hits. I was searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Shadows crept towards the front stoop as the last of the day’s sun dipped behind the homes across the road. My Pakistani neighbour, Wasim, waved as he wobbled slowly past on his antiquated bicycle. His gesturing brought on a severe swerve to one side then a furious overcorrection. The trilling of my phone caught my ear, leaving me to wonder if Wasim managed to right the ship. It was a text from Ryan with contact information for an MI5 agent, formerly of Scotland Yard. He assured me he’d be the best man to assist with my research. I texted back that I’d made a few calls of my own and had sketched out a rough course of action.

He wasn’t too thrilled to hear I was flying back to Kyiv in the morning.

Ten

Lion’s Jaws & Lethal Coffee

Kyiv, Ukraine

The offices of Kyiv Post occupied an unimaginative five-storey Soviet-era building on Pushkinska Street. With the constant, and often deadly, turmoil of Ukrainian politics, reporting the news could be a dangerous occupation. I thought their choice of nondescript offices in a secluded location particularly prudent.

Pushkinska Street was quiet, tree lined and barely wide enough for one vehicle to squeeze along. I suspected the trees to be maple, but it was hard to tell in their dormant state. Clumps of hard-packed snow dotted the footpath where the weak sunlight failed to penetrate. I stared up at the building’s granite façade and slipped a backpack strap over one shoulder as the taxi driver calculated the fare. After adding an imaginative tax for Westerners, he broke the news with a note of hope rather than confidence. I paid without argument, glad to be free from the stench of body odour and alcohol fumes.

I’d called on a whim the day before and Katya’s editor had immediately agreed to meet. I wasn’t sure how much she knew, if anything, about Katya’s investigative work on Voronin, but when she informed me Katya’s cubicle had remained untouched since her death, I thought I’d chance my arm.

‘I’m afraid you may have come in vain, Mr Latham.’

Vera Luchenko stood before her fifth-floor window looking out across the rooftops. Her assistant had brought us steaming hot cups of black tea. Vera stirred in a spoonful of sugar as she gazed down on the sprawling Shevchenko Park a block to the west.

‘Beyond the park, Mr Latham, do you see the domed building? It is the home of the National Circus.’

I wasn’t sure if she meant the Ukrainian Parliament or a real circus.

‘There you can see the famous Oleksiy Pinko waltz with lions.’

Most likely real circus then, but Ukrainian politics was a tough game.

‘He even places his head inside a lion’s jaw during the act. Can you imagine? Of course, he is occasionally mauled. And probably will be again in the future, but he continues nevertheless. It says a lot about our country and our people, I’m afraid. Brave, but too often foolhardy.’

Vera turned to face me, a look of weary resignation on her face.

‘Agents of State Security came earlier this morning with warrants, claiming all of Katya’s papers as state property. Do you know why that would be, Mr Latham?’

A good reporter’s question. Carefully placing my cup on the desk, I wondered how best to answer. Learning of the raid dashed a pin to my balloon of hope. It was either a terrible coincidence or word had leaked that I was in town. Having been baptised at the font of cynicism, my belief in coincidence was on par with my belief in the tooth fairy. My arrival must have alerted Khotkov’s people that Katya’s notes contained something of interest. I felt sure they would have previously scoured her files, but if they’d missed something, why chance me finding it?

A trick I’d learned early on in my career when hoping to avoid an answer was to deflect with a question of my own.

‘How well did you know Katya?’

Vera sighed and shrugged. She, too, knew the game but quickly tired of playing. She’d lost a reporter, possibly a friend, and probably not the first of either these past few years. It showed in her eyes: the scent of the chase for a blockbuster story had lost its allure.

‘As well as any of my people, I guess. I never had any reason to doubt Katya. She was a hard worker, tenacious, well liked by all in the department. Yet … she always seemed distant. Friendly, but difficult to get to know.’

Vera slumped into her desk chair. It seemed to swallow her whole. She had delicate features and the petite body of a gymnast not too far past her prime, though hair cropped short and dyed raven black helped mask her true age. Talking about Katya dredged up the pain of her death for both of us.

Assuming Katya had kept her work for state security a secret from Vera, I wasn’t about to break that trust. Ukraine wasn’t like the East Germany of old, where half the population spied on the other half for the Stasi, but in times of political instability, paranoia ran deep. Especially when your brutish neighbour to the east decides to carve out the Crimea as their own, then lay claim to the Donbas for good measure. One’s loyalties can be sorely tested.

But Katya’s search for Nadiya provided a plausible excuse to be digging in the Ukrainian weeds with her extracurricular activity. Whether for SBU or personal use was no longer of anyone’s concern.

‘Had Katya told you of her missing sister?’

‘Yes. Yes, she had. A heartbreaking story. When she had time, she would work on tracking down leads on suspected traffickers, but I don’t believe anything came from it.’

‘What about the name Arkady Voronin?’

‘I’ve heard the name. Another rich, corrupt Russian, I suspect.’

Vera put two and two together with ease.

‘You think this Voronin is the reason for SBU’s interest?’

‘I’m sure it is. He was the person I was to interview, with Katya as my interpreter, in Kharkiv.’

‘Oh, my! I did not know this. All I knew was of a British publication needing Katya for a short assignment.’

She tapped a manicured nail against a front tooth before continuing.

‘So, you think Voronin may have been responsible for the bomb that killed Katya?’

‘That I don’t know. But I was hoping her notes may have helped.’

Vera chewed that over for a moment. While she pondered, I sipped my tea and took the opportunity to swallow an Oxycodone. My migraines didn’t appear to be fading off into the sunset anytime soon and with just six pills remaining, I’d shortly need a refill.

‘Perhaps Yulia can help.’

Yulia, of course! A name Katya had mentioned in passing. A friend she could confide in. I slipped the pill bottle back into my coat pocket and sat up straighter.

‘Yulia? I vaguely recall Katya mentioning the name.’

‘Yulia was Katya’s roommate. Here, I will write down her address and phone number.’

Vera’s assistant called for a taxi and Vera and I shook hands and promised each other to keep in touch. The cynic in me knew only one of us meant it.

Armed with Yulia’s information, I made my way down five flights of stairs to the street. With the Oxy kicking in, the trip down was much smoother than the trek up. I opened the glass-panelled door of the vestibule and went down two steps onto the street to find a silver Audi parked on the pavement, blocking my way. Immediately the back door opened and a familiar face peered out.

‘Can I offer you a ride, Mr Latham?’

Khotkov.

His deep-bronze tan hadn’t dimmed since we’d talked in the hospital, though his ski-jump nose appeared to have added a few degrees in pitch.

‘Sure. Thanks for saving me the taxi fare.’

I attempted a charming smile, but with my intestines doing backflips, I more than likely appeared constipated.

Khotkov slid across the back seat and I climbed in beside him. A mountain of a man filled the front seat: rounded shoulders tested the seams of his suit jacket; closely cropped black hair continued down his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt collar. Khotkov growled a command and the bear in the black suit slipped the Audi into drive and guided us silently down Pushkinska Street.

‘You look much better than when we last met. I trust your memory has returned?’

‘It has, Doctor— I never did catch your name. And what a coincidence that we meet again.’

He’d caught me off guard, but with some nimble mental gymnastics, I quickly remembered that I wasn’t to know he was SBU.

‘Please, Mr Latham. Call me Olek. And I think you know very well that I am not a doctor.’

‘Well, other than you had a lousy bedside manner, I was otherwise sold.’

‘Perhaps then you can explain why your embassy acted so quickly to come to your rescue?’

‘I’m Australian. There aren’t that many of us around. Got to protect the scarce resources, you know.’

I was laying it on thick. Khotkov seemed half amused but also half ready to turn loose the bear in the front seat to squirrel out a few straight answers. Figuring I’d poked him enough, and fearful of the bear, I delivered the coup de grâce.

‘Plus, my dad is a retired ambassador. A Knight of the Order of Australia, no less. Perhaps that has something to do with it.’

That gave Khotkov a moment of pause.

I decided to press home my slim advantage.

‘So, if not a doctor, what exactly do you do, Olek?’

Khotkov just smiled, his calm demeanour unruffled and ready to return the conversation to steadier footing.

‘Who I work for is of no matter, other than you should know my job is to protect the government of Ukraine from external forces that would do us harm.’

‘Can you fit all that on a business card?’

What amusement I’d noticed quickly evaporated, but I pressed on.

‘Then I gather you are the one who collected Katya’s files earlier today?’

‘That is correct. And if you wouldn’t mind, be so kind as to tell me why that is of your concern?’

I knew his interest was in Voronin, but he wasn’t to know I knew. That would quickly blow my cover of being an innocent journalist. I also knew, that he, presumably, was unaware of Katya’s pursuit of her sister. Would it hurt or help my cause if I volunteered that information? The mental gyrations I was attempting had my migraine doing some pre-game stretching exercises.

Knowing I was out of time, I made a decision and hoped I’d guessed correctly.

‘Did you know of Katya’s missing sister?’

The perplexed look on his face told the story.

While I told Khotkov the sad story of Nadiya, the well-trained bear circumnavigated the outer ring road of Kyiv. As we passed by the Motherland Monument for the second time, Khotkov focused on the female warrior holding her sword and shield aloft. The Russian-built memorial commemorated their victory over Germany in World War Two, a war in which many Ukrainians fought alongside the Germans to dispel the Russians from their lands.

‘That was a compelling story but, I’m afraid, one that will lead you nowhere.’

Khotkov appeared as conflicted as the history of his country.

‘Arkady Voronin is an enemy of our people and those of his ilk are dangerous men. I cannot be responsible for your safety while in Ukraine if you choose not to heed my warning. And I can assure you that there is nothing in Katya’s notes that would help you find her sister. My people have gone over them with a fine-tooth comb.’

Now it was my turn to appear conflicted. Khotkov’s concern for my safety regarding Voronin I could understand: I’d almost lost my life getting too close to the man. But other than taking a curious interest in my wellbeing, why warn me off pursuing the trafficking angle? I may have been way off base, but something didn’t smell right, and it wasn’t just the bear in the front seat passing gas.

‘How would you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘That her notes contained no leads. You didn’t know her sister was missing until I told you.’

Khotkov fixed me with a steely, deadpan glare. Had I crossed a line, or did he need a reboot?

Then his disarming smile reappeared.

‘Of course, but you told me her sister’s name. Nadiya. We cross-checked all names in her files against persons of interest to us. That name would have been an outlier and thus one I remembered. And any mention of Voronin or his pursuits is a matter of national security.’

He refrained from stating the obvious: the head of SBU Counter-Intelligence wasn’t about to share state secrets with the likes of me. I had as much chance of making headway in this conversation as a rock climber with acrophobia.

I slapped on my best look of disappointment.

‘Well, I guess I don’t have much choice but to take your word for it.’

‘I’m glad that you have seen reason. Now, can we drop you off at the airport?’

Khotkov clapped his hands as if the matter had been wrapped up in a tidy parcel.

‘My hotel, please. I’m catching a flight back to London in the morning.’

I gave the name of the hotel, which Khotkov relayed in Ukrainian to the bear. We sat in silence for the next five minutes until the hotel’s cobbled portico came into view.

‘Goodbye, Mr Latham. And I trust we won’t be meeting again anytime soon.’

One thing about spooks, they know how to deliver a veiled threat with superlative ease. Just like former girlfriends.

A smart man would have checked into his hotel room, gotten a good recommendation for a place to dine, perhaps had a few drinks in the lobby bar after dinner and then called it a night.

Unfortunately, accusations of my being a smart man were rare.

Lying against the headboard of the opulent king-size bed, I circled back through my conversation with Olek Khotkov, the slip of paper containing Yulia’s address and phone number burning a hole in my pocket.

Passport control at Boryspil International must have tipped off Khotkov’s agents I’d returned to Kyiv. Anticipating that I’d visit Katya’s former workplace wouldn’t require a vast leap of deductive reasoning. However, he’d not mentioned Katya’s roommate, Yulia, meaning my meeting with Vera had either not been bugged, so he had no idea I knew of her existence, or, most likely, her apartment had already been swept. I hoped, though, that Katya had shared with Yulia something of her research. It was a stretch, but it was the only lead I had in narrowing down the search for Nadiya.

I grabbed a local beer from the minifridge and took a swig as I paced back and forth, planning my next move. The beer was cold, but left a sour aftertaste in my mouth, much like the country itself. A quick search on the internet gave me the location of Yulia’s apartment: a short walk from the Politekhnichnyi Instytut Metro Station, just east of the Kyiv Zoo. A vision of Khotkov’s driver settling in at the zoo with his kin flashed across my mind and heightened my senses. The last thing I needed was to attract attention from the likes of him on my nocturnal adventure.

The Hotel Ukraine nestled conveniently between two of Kyiv’s three metro lines and one of those led to Yulia. A crescent moon hung low in the cloudless sky as I made my way down Institutskaya Street to the Khreshchatyk Metro Station entrance. The biting arctic wind tore through me without mercy. The brightly lit tunnel leading to the eastbound platforms provided shelter from the wind but nothing in the way of warmth, so I popped another Oxy to counteract the cold, swallowing it dry.

Pedestrian traffic was light at the station. Standing before the ticket machine, I glanced around nervously, checking for a tail. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but I took as a positive the lack of a flashing sign spelling out ‘spy’ above anyone’s head. I’d convinced myself Khotkov would consider a tail a waste of manpower. With Katya’s apartment the only logical place I may visit, a watcher there would be sufficient.

Twenty minutes later, signs announcing Politekhnichnyi Instytut flashed by the carriage’s windows at an ever-decreasing pace. I stepped from the warm cabin and towards the exit. Above ground, I kept the Polytechnic Institute Park to my left. If I’d memorised the short five-minute walk to Yulia’s correctly, I should be heading north. I crossed Peremohy Avenue – a main east–west arterial road – and continued along Vasylevskoi. Shuliavska Street was the next right, Yulia’s apartment was at number 35 – apartment 3A.

I moved slowly down Shuliavska Street, keeping to the deep shadows on the opposite of the street from number 35. My face had lost all feeling, and my thin leather gloves and shoes barely kept my extremities functioning. A row of cars lined the other side of the street, the footpaths empty, a blustery wind whistling through the treetops the only sound. I was about to cross the street when the flaring of a cigarette lighter caught my eye. The occupant of the dark-coloured Audi may have just been waiting for a friend … and I may have just been nominated for a Pulitzer.

With the entrance to Yulia’s apartment blocked, I needed a Plan B, and Plan B needed to include some form of heat. Across the road from Yulia’s, between the yellowish halos cast by the street’s sodium lamps, the soft lights of a coffee shop projected another pool of illumination onto the pavement. I backtracked carefully to the corner, then walked as briskly as my frozen body would allow around the block to the rear of the coffee shop.

An unpaved alleyway used for deliveries and trash pickup ran behind the row of shops. A narrow walkway between the coffee shop and a dry cleaners led back to Shuliavska Street. From a dumpster wafted the stench of rotting food mingled with the pungent aroma of coffee grounds. Leaning against its cold steel side, I pulled off a glove to punch in Yulia’s number on my phone. Luckily, my frozen finger didn’t shatter. From my vantage point, I had a clear view of the brick building. Steps leading up to a darkened entryway split the building in two. I guessed two apartments occupied the third floor, unless each were the size of a rabbit hutch; the building appeared too small for there to be any more. Lights shone to the left, but the apartment on the right was dark. A fifty-fifty chance she was home.

The phone rang five times before the answering machine picked up. The sound of Katya’s voice telling me in both Ukrainian and English to leave a message at the beep stole my breath away.

After gathering myself, I did as she requested.

‘It’s Matt. Can I buy you a coffee?’

Using my name probably wasn’t a smart move, but if Khotkov had the phone bugged, my accent would’ve still been instantly recognisable. I hoped to be long gone before any of it mattered.

I slipped the phone into my pocket while keeping watch of the windows on the third floor. The lights sparkled and danced before my eyes as memories of Katya filled the void. And, just like Katya, all at once the lights were extinguished. I wiped the moisture from my eyes and refocused on the building’s front entrance. It must have been the biting cold that made them water so.

A slip of a girl dressed in a knee-length overcoat and white beret skipped down the steps, crossed the street and entered the coffee shop.

I crunched over icy weeds, squeezed through a gap in the wire fence and snuck into the shop through the rear. The doorway opened onto a short corridor leading through to the shop’s cramped seating area. To my left was a storage room, to the right a tiny, malodorous bathroom.

Yulia stood at the counter waiting to order, searching furtively from face to face for a person she had never met. I caught her eye, offered a nod and a sad smile, then melted back into the shadows. My body also began to melt with the shop’s warmth. The burning sensation of pins and needles quickly spread through my extremities as blood flow resumed service.

How long her minder would wait patiently in the Audi was anyone’s guess. At best, I thought I had five minutes before suspicions got the better of him.

Yulia appeared a moment later with a look of sheer terror on her face.

‘We can speak in here.’

She bustled me into the storage room and shut the door.

‘You are Matt?’

‘Yes, I’m pleased to meet you.’

The words came out slurred, my mouth not yet fully thawed.

Yulia appraised my shabby coat, beanie and thin gloves. Then, with a frown, she pushed her coffee into my hands.

‘You not well dressed for Ukrainian winter. Here. Drink this.’

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if Katya had mentioned my name.’

The scalding hot liquid spiralled through my insides like drain cleaner.

‘Yes, she shared everything with me. I hoped we would one day meet.’

She spoke with a hint of sadness for a good friend gone.

‘They are watching me. It is not safe for you to be here.’

‘I know. We only have a few minutes.’

Yulia was a research assistant in veterinary medicine at the nearby polytechnic. Her face appeared pinched from squinting through microscope lenses. When combined with her squeaky voice, she could have passed for one of her lab experiments.

‘Did Katya pass along any information to you in regards to Nadiya? Spoke to you of her search? Keep notes, perhaps?’

My question produced a sharp intake of breath.

‘You know?’

‘Yes, Katya’s parents told me. I know of her search and want to help.’

‘Katya obsessed over finding her sister. She felt responsible, leaving her village, leaving her sister all alone. Katya would have done anything to bring her sister home. To redeem herself in her sister’s eyes.’

Was that what I also searched for: redemption? For failing to protect Katya? Would finding Nadiya set the world to rights? Or was I doing the only thing I knew how: running down a fascinating story with no regard for the characters involved, just like the cynical, unemotional bastard I’d always been? For once in my life, though, I found myself caring, and not just about a story. I cared about Katya and doing whatever it took to track down her sister. Of course, this commitment had yet to be tested. If the heat became too great, would I just cut and run in true Latham style?

‘The secret police came and took everything that belonged to Katya.’

Yulia’s words drained the tide of bravado engorging my mind and left me clutching at straws. Yulia’s coffee had me clutching my stomach.

‘But I’m guessing – hoping – Katya shared something with you.’

Yulia ruminated over my comment. I hoped she’d quickly make up her mind. The vapours wafting from the cleaning solutions in the confined storage area were threatening to bring on another migraine. Whether from the fumes, the lethal coffee or her minder becoming inquisitive, my spirits were sagging and I needed an answer.

‘Yulia … I need your help. You’re my last hope. And I’m Katya’s last hope of finding her sister.’

She peered up at me with her rodent-like eyes, sighed and dropped her shoulders.

‘Yes. There is a document. Katya kept a secret email account. She would write herself notes and save them as drafts. They are otherwise untraceable. I have the password to the account.’

I had a new appreciation for Katya’s tradecraft. My mind, on the verge of shut down, began churning again at warp speed. Though not as quickly as my stomach.

‘I need that document. How quickly? Can we print it somewhere?’

Yulia smiled and held up her phone. ‘I have it right here. What’s your email address?’

I slapped a palm to my forehead at my incompetence. A move I instantly regretted as my brain threatened to explode from my ears like steam from a kettle on the boil. I swallowed the acidic bile rising in my throat, regained my composure and quickly came up with a better plan which I shared with Yulia.

Shouting from the front of the shop signalled we were out of time. Yulia slipped out of the storage room and ducked into the toilet. Still nauseous from Yulia’s cup of drain cleaner and the pressure build-up in my head, I slumped onto an upturned bucket and closed my eyes. As a child playing hide and seek, the simple trick helped me become invisible; it was only years later I realised that no one had any real desire to find me. Of course, I knew the power to render myself invisible never truly existed, but at least the moment of calm and the soothing darkness helped to quell the pounding in my head. Even the remnants of the drain cleaner and my stomach reached an uneasy accord.

The low rumble of a baritone voice shouting the name Yulia, among other things, became louder, then the flushing of a toilet. Next, Yulia’s high-pitched voice elevated a few octaves higher, and there was a shouting match in the hallway. The voices gradually faded as the argument drifted through the coffee shop and out onto the street.

I took my next-to-last Oxycodone and remained in place for a further couple of minutes, the need to flee overridden by the prospect of the arctic chill that awaited.

The coffee shop’s vibe had returned to a muted buzz by the time I snuck out the back door. My phone began to vibrate as I squeezed through the gap between fence and gate. Beside the dumpster, I checked the incoming text message.

It was from Ryan and simply said, I got it.

I deleted the message from my phone’s history along with the one I’d sent him a few minutes earlier. I hoped Yulia remembered to do the same.

Eleven

Doctors, Details & Dire Straits

London, England

The incessant trill of my phone woke me from a deep and dreamless sleep. Rising from a dense fog in my search to shut it off, I momentarily couldn’t place my surroundings. If I was dead, heaven’s accommodations left a lot to be desired, but their mobile reception was first rate.

My phone lay on the bedside table. I’d knocked over a half-full bottle of Fuller’s reaching for it. How they’d both gotten there was almost as big of a mystery as to how I’d made it from the airport to my bed. The time display shone brightly with the numbers 11:07 as I hit the green button to answer.

‘Yeah. What?’

‘I haven’t called you too late, have I?’

So, it must be pm. I began to feel quite the intellect. However, I’d need a few clues to determine the day. Determining the caller required no prompts. The shrill voice, like the sound of nails dragged down a chalkboard, could only belong to my ex-wife, Samantha. Her voice’s poisonous, high-pitched whine darted through the ether, directly into my ear, inflicting further damage to my addled brain.

‘No. I … no.’

The ability to speak in complete sentences hadn’t yet kicked in. I was confident Sam could fill the void.

‘I just heard that you’d been, like, in an accident or something. Why didn’t you call and tell us? Poor Trevor has been worried sick. I can’t imagine what it would be like for him to have to grow up without his father. You are, like … so inconsiderate.’

I was waiting for one more ‘like’ but I guess she’d hit her limit. Sam was addicted to American reality shows and had quickly picked up the lingo. It was bad enough that reality television in the States had dumbed down their entire population, but now they were exporting it to the rest of the world. An attempt, I surmised, to keep the playing field even.

‘Yes, Sam, I got too close to an exploding building, but I’m fine.’

My head may wish to disagree, but I’d get no sympathy from my ex, so why belabour the point?

‘Why are you always, like, doing stupid shit?’

She pronounced it ‘stoopid’. The real housewives of one city or another would be clinking wine glasses in celebration.

‘It’s just like you, going off on some foolish adventure with total disregard for your family.’

I thought of bringing up her affair with Trevor’s soccer coach that was the final nail in our marriage coffin but just couldn’t muster the energy. Besides, I’d ripped that scab off so many times the underlying wound would never heal.

‘Then you go and change your number, so I had to, like, call Ryan.’

Make that another favour I owed Ryan for having to endure her call. Then I quickly scrubbed it off the board for him giving out my new number.

‘Can I speak to Trevor?’

‘Trevor?’

‘Yes, my son.’

‘Trevor is over at his friend’s house playing. If you, like, wanted to talk to Trevor, you should have called sooner.’

Arguing with her logic was going to get me nowhere in a hurry, so I let it slide.

‘Okay, then tell him I’ll call this weekend.’

‘This weekend he has soccer. You’d know that if you cared enough to keep up with things.’

‘Right. And say hello to Marco for me.’

To my relief, that quickly ended the call. Marco had been the uninvited guest into our marital bed. Well, uninvited by me, at least. I also knew Marco had since moved on from Sam in his never-ending quest of bedding a broad swath of Melbourne’s soccer mums. His conquests lay strewn across the suburbs like backfields that had endured a Lionel Messi blitz. He’d penetrated … Well, I gather you get the picture.

Early in our marriage, Sam had quickly tired of being dragged from one foreign port to another, and when she became pregnant with Trevor, she yearned for a more stable home. We moved back to Melbourne, but I continued my nomadic existence, which kept me away from home on one assignment or another for weeks at a time. Finally, after years of being a remote presence in my family’s life, our marriage reached a tipping point. If I’m honest with myself, I couldn’t blame her for wanting love and affection from another, the two things I’d failed to provide. But I would never forgive her.

Sam’s affair was what prompted my relocation to London. I’d told myself I wasn’t running away, rather the job opportunity was just too good to pass up. In reality, I replaced being distant in our marriage with actual distance. I knew I wasn’t close to being the ideal husband or father. My childhood indoctrination into hiding one’s emotions and feelings, painstakingly learned at the feet of Sir Frank, was something I doubted I’d ever be able to overcome.

The dredging up of memories and past failures left me reaching for the Oxycodone bottle. I found it in my backpack, empty. A fitting metaphor for my life.

Dr Cumming, hands on hips, ruddy cheeks glowing, continued the lecture in his thick Scottish burr.

‘Matt, this is the last prescription I can fill for ye.’

Standing ramrod straight, red vest stretched taut across his ample gut, he looked like a cross between a Scots Guard and Santa Claus. And as he huffed and puffed, I applied my best hang-dog expression while slumped on the end of his examining table. He’d been kind enough to squeeze me in between appointments, but now came the payback.

‘Oxycodone is a highly addictive opioid-based narcotic. The prescription I wrote for ye on yer return from Ukraine should have lasted another six days. This is the absolute last refill. Ye ken, laddie?’

‘Yes, doc. But the pain—’

‘Ye’re supposed to be resting, ye skull has still no’ had time to heal. Have you been overdoing things a wee bit?’

I doubted flying to and from Kyiv and clandestinely meeting Yulia under the noses of Ukrainian Intelligence would qualify as taking it easy, so I remained silent.

My reticence was quickly noted.

‘Aye, just as I thought. Matt, please take this seriously. If ye start hallucinating, blacking out or losing track of time, ye must tell me immediately.’

‘Of course. And I’m good in that regard. Nothing to report.’

Apart from those six hours yesterday.

‘Thank you, doc. I’ll be sure to make these last until I’m right as rain.’

Dr Cumming didn’t say another word, just slowly shook his head, a look of disappointment on his elderly face.

Clutching the prescription in both hands like a winning lottery ticket, I shuffled off along Uxbridge Road to the pharmacy three doors down.

Thirty minutes later, prescription filled, the familiar, comforting warmth enveloped me moments after washing down the first pill. With my head safely wrapped in a cloud of cotton wool, I floated down Uxbridge Road past St Stephens to have coffee and a chat with Aziz.

To the west, along Uxbridge Road, past the Church of St Stephen and St Thomas, the neighbourhood took on a decidedly Islamic slant. Back to the east of the Anglican church, Shepherd’s Bush retained its anglophile heritage. It was as if the Gothic towers of the church formed a bulwark against the advancing Muslim hordes. Though more correctly, from the sedate halal meat shops, falafel takeaways and Aziz’s workplace, Selin’s Café.

Mr Suluoglu, the owner of Selin’s – named after his wife – was sitting outside reading The Sun. The one small table with two rickety chairs was his eminent domain. And if he wished to sit there, it was best to move on if you ever hoped to be served again.

‘Morning, Mr Suluoglu. Anything interesting in the paper today?’

‘Nothing, as usual. Nothing to look forward to since they do away with page three girls.’

I got a chuckle out of that. Mr Suluoglu was seventy-five if he was a day. But good luck to him.

He folded the paper and took a sip of coffee before looking up to meet my eyes.

‘Matt, if you don’t mind me saying—’

‘I know, I know. I look like shit.’

I thought of having a T-shirt made spelling out the fact that, yes, I looked like shit. But that would probably just prompt further questions.

‘I’ve had a rough two weeks.’

The gash over my eye had, for the most part, healed. All that remained was a jagged scar, the bruising around it fading from purple to a sickly yellow. Skin lotion would’ve helped mask the skin peeling from the left side of my face, but that’d require purchasing a bottle. Of course, my skull fractures were hidden, the glassy eyes from the Oxy the only outward sign, but to those I was oblivious.

‘Is Aziz working this morning?’

‘Yes, he inside. He excellent worker. I can’t thank you enough for bringing him to me.’

He made it sound like I’d dropped Aziz in his lap like an adorable puppy, the perfect surprise birthday gift. After our escape from Tunisia, a distant cousin – and no fan of the new regime – had been more than happy to take in Aziz. Little did I know Selin’s was around the corner and looking for help. But, in truth, no one was happier than I that he’d landed on his feet. It was my foolhardy quest for a story that got Aziz into hot water in the first place. I was glad he and the Suluoglu family got along so well.

The intoxicating aromas of coffee and baked delicacies assaulted my senses the moment I walked through the door. Aziz was taking an order from a group of four women dressed in matching black hijabs, so I made myself comfortable and checked my phone for messages.

Ryan’s text with a time to meet later in the day reminded me that I’d yet to see the contents of the document Yulia had emailed two days prior. Dr Cumming’s parting words came back to taunt me, but I pushed them aside. Losing a few hours was nothing more than my brain’s way of calling in sick after a hectic work week. Right?

‘Hey! I’m calling Elvis, is he home?’ Aziz sidled up to the table and placed a large coffee before me. Steam rose from the cup in a meandering swirl that tantalised my nostrils and brought a smile to my face.

‘Brilliant, just what I needed. Thanks, Aziz.’

He took a seat and I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing a new pair of black skinny jeans.

‘For fuck’s sake, Aziz. Skinny jeans! What’s next, tatts and a nose ring?’

The comment came out sharper than I intended and Aziz appeared crestfallen. He’d been through so much in his life, it was hard for me to fathom that he was still just a kid in his mid-twenties.

‘Come on, Matt. Why you always be the slugger from Louisville and me be the ball? Chicks will dig holes for this look.’ He somehow managed to condense ‘Louisville’ to two syllables.

I resisted the urge to correct him on the ‘dig’ reference. Instead, I followed his glance to the four women sitting two tables away. The youngest of the four quickly averted her eyes, but not before her face turned the colour of a freshly sliced beet.

Well, good for Aziz. I let a broad smile test the elasticity of my burnt face and aimed it directly at my young friend.

‘Don’t say it, Matt. I know what you thinking. That she Iranian and her dad carry big knife.’

‘But … you are going to make a play, right?’

‘Sure, but got to find the right time.’

I was afraid to ask, but couldn’t help myself.

‘What’s the standard Aziz approach?’

Aziz slid forward to the edge of his seat, furtively glancing to his left then his right. The black-hooded assassins wielding scimitars failed to materialise so he felt safe to speak.

‘I move in real smooth, right? And say, “Hey, look at you, my baby. You know … we can get mild.”’

It was a good thing I’d swallowed my coffee. Aziz wouldn’t have appreciated the shower.

‘That’s … ah … that’s a sweet line. Very … comforting. But, unless I’m mistaken, not a Dire Straits song. You going off script today?’

To improve his range of English and to further test his musical knowledge, Aziz had the idea to only use lyrics from the same band on any given day.

‘Ah, Matt!’

A bell tinkled above the front door. Aziz rose and headed back behind the counter to greet the new customer. I finished my coffee, stood and waved a goodbye to him.

A smile split his face from ear to ear.

‘Mark Knopfler solo album. Still counts, right?’

Ryan was sitting on the same bench in Hyde Park as three days earlier. His coat, suit and shirt appeared to be identical and for one horrible moment, I thought I’d been transported back in time. The pills?

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, just had a strange thought.’

The sky was slate-grey, not blue, and hung low over the city. The branches of the plane tree stood stock-still. Ryan’s tie was red, not the blue one he’d worn Monday.

Okay, I’ve got this.

‘You sure? Want to sit down for a second?’

‘No. Come on, let’s walk.’

Ryan didn’t need to be asked twice. He sprang to his feet and was heading south towards Kensington Gardens in an instant. I dug my hands into my coat and tried my best to keep pace.

‘I’m not sure how informative that document you sent me from Kyiv is going to be. Just a bunch of company names, addresses where they were incorporated, etc. Looks like a wild goose chase.’

I knew it had to hold some clue to Voronin and his connection to Nadiya, otherwise why hide it from the prying eyes of Katya’s employers? Meaning both the newspaper and the SBU.

‘Did you bring a copy with you?’

Ryan slid two legal-sized pages from his inside coat pocket. The first company listed was a talent agency, presumably the company placing the advertisement for models, the one enticing a young Nadiya with dreams of a better life that had her scampering off to Kyiv. It was a good enough place to start.

What followed was a dizzying array of corporate names, addresses, registered agents and legal entities, just as Ryan described. But if Katya had found a link within this maze, I had to believe I could as well.

‘I also passed this along to Marcus.’

‘Marcus?’

Ryan stopped, turned and shot me a quizzical look.

‘The bloke in MI5 I told you about. You sure you’re okay?’

I blinked a couple of times, hoping it’d kickstart a few misfiring brain cells.

‘Yeah, right as rain. Marcus. Go on.’

‘Anyway, he’s also well connected with both Six and the Met. And wants to meet with you tomorrow.’

‘And he’s going to help me how?’

We’d reached the Round Pond. Ryan stopped to watch a swan and its mate waddle across the grass towards the water. Kensington Palace was to our right, home to Will and Kate and a gaggle of other royals. Strange how they all lived together. Though, judging from the size of the place, I doubted there’d be a line waiting for the bathroom each morning.

‘Bloody hell, Matt. Can you for once just accept someone’s help? You don’t always have to be the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. And you were the one asking for help, if I recall.’

‘Okay, okay. I just don’t want it to be a waste of time. I’ll talk to … Morris.’

‘It’s fucking Marcus. For fuck’s sake!’

Ryan was single and childless, so he’d yet to build up any reserves of patience. I wasn’t quite on his last nerve, but it was well within range.

‘And he has no clue you work for us. Keep it that way, alright?’

‘Any reason for that?’

‘We’re trying to improve our image.’

I wiped the smile from my face when I noticed Ryan was serious.

‘He offices out of Thames House. Know where that is?’

I nodded. The home of MI5 was a short walk from Lambeth Bridge, to the south of the Parliament buildings.

‘Good, there’s a breakfast place around the corner, the Regency Café. Nine o’clock in the morning. Think you’ve got all that?’

‘Yes, sir!’ I snapped off a sharp salute and, apparently, that was the proverbial straw— well, you know.

Without another word, Ryan marched off past the pond, scattering the swans in his wake, and away through the gardens. Over my shoulder, Queen Victoria’s sullen expression let me know she, too, was not amused. Overhead, leaden clouds seemed to descend as I slowly retraced my steps. Their closing in created a feeling of desolation and claustrophobia. Before I reached Queensway Station, a steady rain began to fall, a day made for the demons of one’s mind to come out and play.

I decided to spend the remainder of this dreary day holed up at home researching Katya’s notes. And hoping the busy work kept the dark thoughts deep in the shadows where they belonged.

Twelve

My Keeper’s Name

A bare light bulb hangs from the ceiling on a thirty-centimetre-long flex cord. It flickers, then dims periodically, as if signalling in some strange code that its days are numbered. Just when I think it has shone its last, it glows brightly, rejuvenated, and casts out the shadows gathering in the corners of my room.

To the left of the light, in a corner of the ceiling, is a stain that grows larger after each rain. If I concentrate on the damp patch long enough, it blurs, becoming ill-defined. At that moment, it reminds me of the patterns on Mother’s tablecloth that covered our kitchen table.

Bright yellow and blue embroidered flowers blossom from the corners of the white muslin cloth. Through the kitchen window, I see Katya and I taking turns on a makeshift swing. The thick rope attaching the tractor tyre to the bough of the willow tree groans in time with our counting; reaching ten, we exchange places. In the fields beyond, stalks of wheat wave to us as they catch the breeze.

The groaning stops and I turn towards the large mirror over the room’s dresser. A pale, flaccid body is reflected back. After a moment’s pause, the body rises from the bed and gathers its clothes. I breathe deeply, no longer trapped under his immense weight. He dresses methodically, in no rush. He speaks a few words of English as he looks into the mirror and runs his fingers through thinning hair. I tell him to ask for me the next time he visits. My command of the English language is still limited but adequate for my needs.

He slides one arm after the other into the sleeves of his camouflage combat jacket then slips buttons through holes, his brief interlude with me complete. Time to return to the bar, and his comrades, downstairs.

The rank insignias on his jacket denote that of a NATO warrant officer, American. I’ve become expert at such things in my seven months in this seaside village. It is a favoured location of the NATO peacekeeping forces in Kosovo for rest and recreation. An idyllically secluded dot on the map of the Croatian coast. It is also a respite for me after five brutal months in a brothel outside Zagreb. A reward for keeping most of my looks and some of my sanity.

I rise wearily from the bed, wait for the trickle of water into the room’s small wash basin to warm then wash away the remains of the night’s fourth and last customer. I wonder if the American is of sufficient rank to interest my keeper? It is of no mind to me. Nor do I care that the room’s mirror is two-way glass and that cameras record every thrust and moan.

To think I once wanted to be an actress, to light up the screen. Those days seem a lifetime ago. Now, I may as well be invisible, a nameless prop used and abused at each customer’s whim. A bit player in my keeper’s game of cat and mouse. What he does with the film and photos captured in the closet adjoining this room is not my concern. I do not profit from his enterprise. And I no longer care who sees my naked body, the abuses I endure or how my beauty fades with the passing of the seasons.

My keeper’s name is Josko. Not my employer, that would imply I was free to choose another. Nor my pimp, as we have no working relationship. He is my keeper, he takes care of my most basic needs and parades me before his customers like an animal in his private zoo.

Three o’clock in the morning and the bar below my room slowly empties. Music from the jukebox continues to seep through the wooden floorboards as chairs are placed on tables and the floor swept. I lie in bed, waiting for Josko’s assistant to bring me my medicine. I’m no longer trusted with the bottle of Temazepam. I’d hoped swallowing twenty pills one night would release me from my prison. Instead, I’d had a tube forcibly stuffed down my throat and liquid pumped in and sucked out over and over until I thought I would surely die anyway. Later that same night I was beaten with the same rubber hose for carelessly endangering one of Josko’s prized assets. An ‘asset’. Huh, I would laugh out loud if I could muster the strength. It was weeks before the welts that crisscrossed my back healed.

Antun opens the door after a short knock. The courteous act brings a small smile to my face. He crosses the room with two loping strides and looks down on me. I poke out my tongue expectantly, he smiles then places the sleeping pill gently on it. Antun is the only kind soul in my world, a giant of a man in his early twenties. He speaks quietly, haltingly and with a slight stammer, like his tongue refuses to take orders. He is also Josko’s nephew and will do his uncle’s bidding without question. Although polite and shy around us girls, when enraged, he is lethal.

I swallow the pill dry, smile again at Antun and open my mouth for him to inspect. I’d not think of trying to trick him. It would take just one word from Josko to flip the switch in Antun’s mind, and I shudder at the prospect of what that may unleash.

Until a month ago, I’d taken a much weaker dosage. That was until the pill no longer kept my nightmares at bay nor silenced the voices in my head. My screams at night became unbearable for everyone.

Antun retreats silently from the room. I close my eyes and wait for the wall of darkness to descend. To go to the place where no memories of a former life are capable of breaking through.

Thirteen

Like a Drug Dog Chasing Willie’s Tour Bus

London, England

My alarm clock wailed like a banshee at seven thirty, tearing me from a fitful sleep. Throwing back the covers revealed the same clothes I’d worn the day before. I’d toiled away on my laptop long into the night. The last I recall was waking close to four with my head lying on the desktop in a patch of drool. A steady rain tapped against my bedroom window and, judging from the gloom, looked like it would for the next month. Depending on one’s outlook, wintertime in London fit somewhere between ‘starkly picturesque’ to ‘hide all sharp objects’. To quell the drum solo in my brain, I popped an Oxycodone and washed it down with a glass of tap water from the kitchen.

Five minutes later, I’m letting water wash over me from a mildly hot shower until the warmth dissipates. Over the course of the evening I’d managed to piece together a rough outline of Katya’s notes and where they may lead. The corporate names were meaningless: ABC Holdings, DEF Entertainment, etc. However, through an internet search of incorporation filings, a pattern had started to emerge. Or so I hoped.

Three distinct locales handled the incorporation paperwork for each entity: Cyprus, Switzerland and Guernsey in the Channel Islands. And more specifically, the entertainment-themed businesses originated on Cyprus, the holding companies in Switzerland, and the third group of companies, of no discernible pattern, on the island of Guernsey. The registered agents for each enterprise were a collection of disparate law firms, also with offices in the same three locations: Bern, Switzerland; Nicosia, Cyprus; and St Peter Port on Guernsey.

I’d found nothing concrete linking Voronin to any of these companies, other than the few notes Katya had scribbled in the margins – tenuous at best. In a few instances, law firms listed as registered agents for these mysterious entities overlapped with their representation of his public enterprises. But for a billionaire businessman with worldwide operations, it was hardly a smoking gun. If guilt by association were a crime, we’d all be in water hotter than my shower could manage.

I threw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt that I found balled up in the corner of the closet. It smelled rank, but the hood would come in handy in the rain. And my pea coat, which had long since lost the moral high ground when it came to my sartorial elegance. Of which I had none; a fellow journo once quipped I filed quality firsthand accounts in skanky secondhand garb. If the scuffed shoe fits.

The short walk in the rain to the Shepherd’s Bush Market Station felt somewhat refreshing, a sign that either my health was improving or I’d lived in London for far too long. The LED sign hanging above the platform for the next Circle Line train changed from five to four minutes. While I shivered in the cold, I wondered what this meeting with Marcus might accomplish. My expectations were on par with the last few Coldplay albums: you hope for the best but usually come away disappointed.

From the Tube stop at St James’s Park I wandered south. Seven minutes later I spied the front door of the Regency Café. The café was a stone’s throw from the Thames and the stench of rotting fish and garbage-encrusted mud wafted on the breeze. At least, I thought it emanated from the river running at low-tide – the House of Commons close by was another option.

After shaking myself like a wet labrador, I stepped inside to the café’s cosy warmth. The early morning breakfast crowd had moved on, leaving only two of the tables occupied. The interior resembled a New York diner of a bygone era, but the menu prices above the counter whisked me back to the present.

Marcus sat beneath a large black and white photo of Muhammad Ali. Ali himself hovered menacingly over a groggy Sonny Liston, who lay spread-eagled on the canvas. Sonny appeared to be wishing he was anyone but Sonny Liston at that moment. Marcus was dressed immaculately in a grey three-piece Savile Row suit. I was sure the shirt was silk, and most likely handmade. He’d fashioned his red and white striped tie with a Windsor knot the size of a quartered sandwich. As I approached, he shot his cuffs, and the face of his Rolex shone like a polished jewel.

‘Marcus Ferguson, I presume.’

‘Yes, indeed. You must be quite the investigative reporter. How did you know it was me?’

I hooked a thumb over my shoulder to the only other customers in the café.

‘Well, unless you’d disguised yourself as one of the two elderly ladies over there, I thought I had a pretty good shot.’

‘Ha ha, indeed!’

How Marcus managed to talk without swallowing any of the marbles rolling around in that mouth of his was quite the party trick. He appeared to be in his late forties, though the smoothness of his skin made him look younger. With wavy hair, doe-like brown eyes and a weak chin that nestled into his Adam’s apple, his effete manner made it hard to fathom he’d once been a cop. I’d have bet a good chunk of change he’d not strayed too far from his desk during his time at Scotland Yard.

‘So, I don’t have a lot of time. Ryan tells me you need information on the sex trafficking trade for an upcoming article.’

His way of announcing that time was money, so I better make this worth his while.

‘Yeah, I’m doing an investigative piece. Any information you could share would be greatly appreciated.’

‘Well, it’s not exactly my bailiwick, being in counter-intelligence. Oh, another cappuccino please, Suze. For you, Matt?’

Our waitress was hovering over the table and Marcus shot her his best million-dollar smile. Even his brown eyes seemed to be smiling. I ordered the full English and an espresso, then watched Marcus admire Suze’s tight black skirt as she ambled back to the kitchen.

‘As I was saying. Tracking down the houses of ill repute is more a task for my old friends at Scotland Yard, however, with much of the labour force being smuggled in from the continent I, in my limited role, do liaise with MI6, the Yard and GCHQ to keep everyone in the proverbial loop.’

Unless I was mistaken, Marcus just made his ‘limited role’ sound like he was the most important man in English law enforcement since the Sheriff of Nottingham.

‘Tell me about GCHQ.’

Whereas MI5 handled counter-intelligence within the United Kingdom’s borders – much like America’s FBI – and MI6 and my paymasters at ASIS were the CIA equivalents, I wasn’t too sure how GCHQ fit into the picture.

‘Think cyber communications. Any signal transmissions that float around out there.’

Marcus waved one well-manicured hand in the air as if languidly shooing a swarm of blowflies.

‘They’re in the data collection business, both domestic and abroad, and share with other departments accordingly. Thank you, darling.’

Suze had returned with my breakfast and Marcus’s cappuccino.

‘So, what are you hearing, seeing? Where are the girls coming from? Any ideas on the main players?’

I tucked into my breakfast as I waited for Marcus to respond. The eggs were runny, the tomatoes fresh and juicy. A swirling miasma of glutinous yellow and watery red oozed across the plate as a thick slab of bacon and two sausages looked on in envy, waiting to dive into the kaleidoscopic pool.

‘Take your pick. Russia, the Baltic States, the Balkans. Pick an Eastern European country that has beautiful women, is poor as dirt, and we’ll have a house somewhere in London that can cater to your needs. And as soon as we shut one house down, another pops up across town.’

‘How do they acquire the properties?’

‘Ah, very ingenious are today’s criminals. Usually in the name of an offshore shell corporation. Very shady operations. Virtually impossible, if set up correctly, to determine who the actual person is that runs the whole show.’

I’d made a copy of Katya’s notes and slid them across the table.

‘Any of these corporations look familiar?’

Marcus glanced up and down both pages before pushing them aside.

‘Well, you have been busy! May I inquire where this list of names originated?’

‘You may, but it doesn’t matter. I came across this information from a colleague on the Continent with whom I’m liaising.’

If he could liaise, so could I. Plus, I just needed Marcus for his general expertise. Recounting the story of Katya and her sister was not his concern. If I was to get his help, I needed to keep the topic broad.

‘Nothing jumps out at me. Okay if I take this and run it through our database? I’ll have the most luck, I expect, with the corporations established in Guernsey. How about I concentrate on those for now and see where they lead?’ Marcus pocketed the two pages and looked down his nose at my plate of congealing eggs.

I paused mid-stab of my last slice of sausage.

‘Would you like some?’

By the look on his face, you’d think I’d offered him roadkill.

‘Certainly not! Vegan, you know.’

His loss. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. It was my first decent meal since … Kyiv?

My mouth was full of sausage.

‘You haven’t mentioned names of any key players.’

‘Just your usual assortment of Eastern European hoodlums. They come and go. Not a lot of job security, or longevity, in the circles these fellows run in. I hear the Romanians have been making a push for a share of the market lately, but aren’t anything the more established gangs can’t, or won’t, handle.’

‘Do you see any crossover from legit businessmen from the region looking to dip their toes into something a little more … adventurous?’

Marcus let out a full-throated howl, which gave the two elderly ladies a start and had them glancing nervously in our direction.

‘Dear boy, you just described every Eastern Euro oligarch and wannabe on the planet.’

He turned serious, folded his hands before him on the edge of the table and fixed me with an intense stare.

‘I sense that you have someone in mind? Do you plan on sharing, or are you just toying with me? I only agreed to meet with you based on the recommendation of Ryan Purcell. He tells me you two went to university together, or some such. Now either spit it out or stop wasting my time.’

I hadn’t planned on sharing Voronin’s name, but remembering Ryan’s words about always playing the Lone Ranger, I decided to audition Marcus for the role of Tonto.

‘Does the name Arkady Voronin mean anything to you?’

The look on Marcus’s face was hard to read, somewhere between surprise and wariness. I’d struck a nerve – possibly more than one.

‘It certainly does. We, of course, have our concerns about some of Mr Voronin’s business ventures. You cannot quote me on that, understood?’

Marcus jabbed an index finger in my direction, and I nodded in agreement.

‘But nothing leads us to believe he is involved in human trafficking. What information have you uncovered to suggest otherwise?’

What did I have? A list of corporations, none of them containing the name Voronin. An appointment with the man rudely cancelled by a few pounds of plastic explosive. And Katya’s paper-thin theory. I was searching for a missing link buried deep in the legal weeds of offshore accounts armed with nothing more than a hope, a prayer and a cheap torch with faltering batteries.

‘The only clue I have is somewhere within the pages I gave you.’

I’d seen the look on Marcus’s face before. It was the look of Sir Frank when I’d disappointed him yet again. Or the look on Jack Temple’s face when I pitched an outrageous idea for a story. Head tilted, then shaken slowly from side to side. A look of pity in his eyes for the poor deluded fool who sat before him.

‘Dear boy. Let me give you a word of advice. Tread very carefully. Voronin is not a man with whom to trifle. Best to leave it to the experts. Meddling in this man’s affairs will get you seriously hurt – or worse.’

I carefully folded my napkin and placed it on top of the sticky yellow remains of my eggs. Suze materialised to slide the plate from the table.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘That will be all thanks, Suze. Would you be a love and bring us the bill?’

Marcus smiled, Suze departed and I continued to seethe.

I knew Marcus meant well and, I felt sure, was only looking out for my best interests. Hell, even I knew how ridiculous my quest sounded. But the surest way to rev me up, point me in a certain direction and let me loose like a drug dog chasing Willie Nelson’s tour bus is to tell me what not to do. I’d spent a lifetime working to prove Frank was wrong about me. Jack never doubted me again after I nailed down an exposé on a Sydney drug kingpin that he’d, at first, refused to green light. Especially after I threatened to sell it to an opposing magazine. And Marcus was in for a rude awakening if he thought he could scare me off this story. It had already cost Katya her life, and it may very well have taken Nadiya’s. Some things were worth fighting for, no matter the cost.

‘Thanks for the advice, Marcus. I appreciate your insight and the time you’ve spent with me today.’

I surprised myself with how calm that sounded.

‘Not at all, dear boy. And like I said, I’ll run these company names from Guernsey through our database—’

He patted his breast pocket where he’d placed the list.

‘—and see what pops up. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

‘Yes, I think that’ll be the best place to start. In the meantime, I think I’ll take a vacation. This lousy weather is getting me down.’

‘Oh, yes? Where did you have in mind?’

‘I hear Cyprus is just grand this time of year.’

I rose from the table and slipped on my sodden and threadbare jacket. Suze stood beside me holding the bill.

‘Now, Matt. After all I’ve said, do you think it wise—’

‘Just a vacation, Marcus. Nothing more.’

I turned and smiled at Suze.

‘Thanks, Suze. Wonderful breakfast.’

A nod to the bill.

‘Marcus will take care of that.’

Fourteen

Olive Trees, Goats & Money Launderers

Nicosia, Cyprus

The pilot of the EasyJet Airbus A320 banked the aircraft hard to the left and began his approach to Larnaca International Airport. A few minutes later we were skimming over a calm sea lapping gently at the shore of the sleepy seaside town. Multistorey hotels, bleached white by the warm Mediterranean sun, glided past and seemed close enough to touch. Just as I thought we were going to land in a third-floor window of the local Hilton, our wheels touched down with a screech of rubber and clunk of the landing gear.

At passport control, the officer warily looked me up and down. He readjusted his scowl before welcoming me to Cyprus with a grunt and an entry stamp in my passport. He administered the imprint with authority, the sound exploding through the near-deserted terminal, rousing a sleeping policeman and putting his canine partner on high alert. While the German Shepherd’s gaze followed me to the exit, his partner resumed inspecting the inside of his eyelids.

The five-hour flight from London’s Gatwick Airport had been smooth and uneventful. And as I stood basking in the warm sun, waiting for a bus to the rental car facility, I congratulated myself for needing only one pill. Dr Cumming’s lifesavers were down into the single digits but I’d need to use them judiciously over the next few days. Once they were gone, I’d either be well enough to survive or be looking for a dealer on the street. The thought gave me chills and a new resolve to be a touch more circumspect in my activities. Unfortunately, I was preparing to visit a law firm in Nicosia that was the registered agent for each of the entertainment entities on Katya’s list. I assumed my endearing smile followed by a sweet ‘pretty please’ wouldn’t have them welcoming me with open arms and even wider file draws. I’d need a plausible cover story just to make it past the front desk.

In a country that thrived on its banking reputation, a fellow lawyer looking to establish offshore entities – and the tax advantages they held – for his clients in London seemed the simplest approach. I’d even managed to dress the part in suit and tie, but was quickly coming to regret the decision. Disgorged from the bus at the remote rental car lot, I began to simmer under the warm afternoon sun.

My rental arrived, followed closely by a cloud of dust, just as the first trickle of sweat made a slalom run down my spine. I rushed through the inspection, initialling paperwork the requisite eighteen times, tossed my backpack in the back seat and set the air conditioning to force ten and arctic. The temperature display read a mere twenty degrees, but as it bested London by fifteen, it felt much warmer.

The melodic voice trapped inside the vehicle’s GPS device sounded like Kate Winslet, a welcome companion for the forty-five-minute drive to the Cypriot capital. Halfway there, like a decompressing diver, I reached a comfortable equilibrium with the temperature. With the window down, the sweet scent of rosemary wafted in and filled the cabin. The main highway skirted a craggy mountain range to my right and followed the gently rolling countryside northward. The scenery reminded me of southern California but dotted with olive trees and goats rather than eucalypts and smog.

On the outskirts of Nicosia, the A1 motorway became Lemesou Avenue. Kate suggested I continue straight for another ten minutes before reaching my final destination. Who was I to argue? I was like putty in her electronic hands. Lemesou Avenue became Archbishop Makarios III Avenue for no discernible reason other than to ensure I was paying attention, and sure enough, the offices of Kapiris & Associates soon appeared on my right, across from a quaint but compact city park.

The waiting area inside the second-floor office was cool and dark, with ornate wooden shutters blocking out all but the tiniest slivers of sunlight. From a soft leather sofa, I watched the young receptionist file her nails in rhythm with the tick-tock of a grandfather clock. She looked up and smiled as a soft ‘gong’ announced three thirty. My scheduled appointment with Michail Kapiris, son of Petros, was for three. According to local custom, I was still early.

Ten minutes later, an athletically built man of around thirty strolled through the front door. Thick black hair straddled his shirt collar and his skin was honey coloured. Raising mirrored sunglasses to the top of his head, he made a beeline for the receptionist, leaned on the counter and spoke softly. She laughed, answered him in Cypriot Greek, then nodded in my direction.

‘Mr Latham, you are early. I am Michail Kapiris.’

Michail’s beer breath and cigarette-scented miasma reached me before his outstretched hand. Best to get the upper hand early.

‘I believe our appointment was for three. I have places to be, Mr Kapiris.’

‘Yes, indeed. Pleased to meet you. Come this way.’

Michail didn’t seem troubled by my mild rebuke. Either he was that important and considered me no threat or he was merely the owner’s son and just didn’t give a shit. I hoped it was the latter – that would play to my advantage.

I followed him along a short corridor lined with cheap reproductions of Grecian urns. Or they were originals and I was way in over my head. I guessed I’d find out soon enough.

‘Please, be seated. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Just water. I have a meeting in Zurich later this evening and have much work to do between now and then.’

In reality, I was spending the night at a cheap hotel near the airport in Larnaca, but he needn’t know that.

‘Certainly.’

Michail pressed a button on his desktop phone and rattled out something in his native tongue. Either he’d ordered me a glass of water or informed the cute receptionist I was full of crap.

‘So how can I, and my firm, be of assistance?’

‘Information, Mr Kapiris.’

‘Please, call me, Michail.’

‘Okay, Michail. My associates need to establish a number of corporate entities for business interests that happen to straddle various legal jurisdictions. I’ve recommended it best to set up these offshore to take advantage of the somewhat … relaxed tax regulations they would enjoy.’

‘A very wise decision, Mr Latham.’

‘Please, call me, Matt.’

Why not? We were getting along swimmingly.

‘And I am assuming you would require the services of a trustworthy banking representative to go along with these new businesses?’

‘You would be correct. I presume your firm is equipped to handle these needs?’

‘Most certainly. We have just the person at Cypriot Bank & Trust to meet your needs. Now, if you would tell me more about the type of business your clients will be conducting?’

Michail and I paused to watch the receptionist place a glass of water on the edge of the desk. She released her hold with exaggerated care. Perhaps it was an extremely pricey glass. Or filled with nitroglycerin.

‘Thank you, Eleni.’

Eleni gave me a lukewarm smile then turned the thermostat way up for Michail.

The preliminaries were over. Time to cast a line and see what was biting.

‘My clients operate in the entertainment world. All operations are cash intensive, if you get my meaning. Is this an area in which you are comfortable?’

‘But of course. However, as you know, we would only handle the incorporation documents. The banking side of the operation would not be our concern. Nor would the tax implications that follow.’

Shit. I should have understood that. Had I overplayed my hand? Michail watched my expression, for – what? A sign of nerves? That I picked up the glass and drank without my hand shaking was a miracle.

‘As you say, Michail, however, my clients also wish to maintain anonymity. What would you recommend?’

I may have figuratively strained a shoulder muscle patting myself on the back for that recovery.

‘Ah, now that is our specialty, Matt. We pride ourselves on structuring corporate documents layered upon one another and utilising various offshore channels worldwide – funds transferring from one account to another and so on. Not even Sherlock Holmes could track down the final recipient.’

I’d bet the folks back at GCHQ would be willing to take up that challenge, but I still had little to feed them.

‘Trust me, if your clients wish to be surreptitious in their dealings, invisible they will remain. Now, I’m sure you will find our fee structure much to your client’s liking. I have a full packet of information here for you.’

Michail’s doe-like eyes sparkled as the prospect of closing this deal danced before him.

Time to set the hook.

‘Excellent, Michail! That is precisely what I’d hoped to hear. Your services come highly recommended by an acquaintance of my clients. Now, if I could also meet this banking associate, the one you spoke of so highly?’

‘Certainly, I’m sure he will be able to make time to see you. And you mentioned an acquaintance who recommended our services? To whom shall I send thanks for the excellent referral?’

Hook, line and sinker gobbled up.

‘A good friend. The owner of KVE Talent Agency. Arkady Voronin.’

The only reaction from Michail was a slight dimming of the lights in his eyes. Either he was an actor on par with George Clooney or he had no idea who Voronin was.

‘Strange, that name does not sound familiar. Perhaps it is one of my father’s clients. In any case, I know you are a busy man. Here is my business card and the card of the man you are to meet at Cypriot Bank & Trust. His location is not more than a few blocks from here. I will call and let him know you are on your way.’

If I’d have been nimble enough, I would’ve kicked myself in the arse. Of course Voronin would deal with the father, not the son. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Armed with my packet of information, I shook hands with Michail, smiled at the lovely Eleni, told them I’d be in touch and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine.

The Cypriot Bank & Trust branch on John Kennedy Avenue occupied a dun-coloured storefront sandwiched between a Starbucks and an Orange Mobile store. As far as being a hub for international money-laundering, it certainly lacked gravitas, but this being the twenty-first century, all you truly needed was a computer and a willing participant.

Two tellers lounging behind the counter ignored my arrival and continued their conversation. I wandered through the lobby to the two offices in the rear. The door was closed to one and in the other, a bald, middle-aged man sat crouched in front of his terminal.

Stepping into the open doorway, I knocked on the doorjamb.

‘I’m looking for Mr … ah … Efstathiou?’ I stumbled over the pronunciation as I read the name from the business card.

The man looked up through thick lenses that significantly magnified the size of his eyes.

‘Mr Latham?’

He bounded from the chair as if a spring had shot through the cushion.

‘Please, come in, have a seat. And thank you for stopping by today. Michail told me you were in a hurry. I won’t keep you long. Whatever questions you have I’ll be happy to answer.’

The words came out as if he seldom had human contact and needed to vomit it all up at once lest I turn tail and run. The walls of his office, I’d wager, hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the British Army left en masse in the sixties after Cypriot independence, and the stains in the carpet may have dated back to the Byzantine period.

‘I’m sure you are less than enthused by our offices, but that is the point. We attract very little attention. And as for the services you require, well … we are merely the starting point. It is the final destination that is of importance.’

Drops of spittle had collected in the corners of his mouth.

‘That, I understand, Mr Ef—’

‘Please, call me Konstantin.’

‘Sure. Konstantin, don’t take this the wrong way, but the detailed transactions my client requires …’

I made a point of picking at a chip on the edge of his pressed wood desk.

He seemed to be reading my thoughts.

‘Please, do not judge a book by its cover, Mr Latham. I am here solely to attend to the needs of Mr Kapiris’s clients. You see, my beautiful younger sister is married to Mr Kapiris the elder.’

I thought of asking for proof of the beautiful sister but decided to take him at his word. Besides, I was preoccupied with the trajectory of the spittle, which had become airborne. I hoped I was clear of the landing zone.

‘And this is Cyprus, Mr Latham. Our banking regulations are very lax, so long as one does not become too greedy. And I can assure you, I have been in this position long enough to know what I can and can’t get away with.’

Konstantin made a compelling argument. If I had any dirty money, I’d gladly turn it over to this grubby man to wash it clean.

While Konstantin was in full arse-kissing mode, I decided to go in for the kill. Perhaps the name Voronin would get a rise from this nervy character.

‘You don’t have to convince me, Konstantin. It is my clients and the successful servicing of their needs that will ultimately decide your value. Do you understand?’

‘Most certainly, Mr Latham.’

‘My clients associate with, I’m led to believe, another client of yours … Mr Voronin? We would require—’

‘Please, Mr Latham, no names.’

Konstantin bounded from his chair and peeked through the Venetian blinds. The lobby was empty and the two tellers had disappeared.

‘I understand your needs. But you must not use names, for my safety and yours.’

Returning to his chair, he sighed and ran his fingers through his greasy hair, leaving deep furrows down to the scalp.

Was his overreaction caused by the name Voronin? Or was it just that of a timid man in a dangerous business?

‘Standard procedure is to operate using acronyms. Michail or his father establish these at incorporation and alternate them during each step of the process. Then, after three, perhaps four, transfers of funds between entities around the globe, the final delivery point – of the client’s choosing – becomes impossible to trace. Do I need to explain further?’

I’d have liked to have said yes, please draw me a diagram, but I was supposed to be smarter than that.

‘I believe I have the information I need. Thank you for your time, Konstantin. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Mr Latham, aren’t you forgetting something?’

Was I?

Not knowing what I was supposedly forgetting, I stared into his big brown eyes, magnified by the lenses, aiming for a look of nonchalance bordering on boredom.

‘Would your clients not like to know the cost of my bank’s services?’

‘Konstantin, if you are as good as advertised, my clients will be happy to pay the going rate.’

That brought a wet smile to his face that exposed two rows of uneven yellow teeth. Konstantin rose to offer his hand, but I deftly avoided his greasy paw and backed quickly out of the office.

I felt I’d received an important piece of information somewhere in our conversation, but what it was and its significance was beyond my reach. I needed time to think through each conversation and my stomach told me it needed filling.

I strolled aimlessly for a few blocks. Finding myself in the Old Town, I settled upon a quiet taverna with a shaded patio. The waitress dropped off a menu and fetched a cold beer as I sat back, closed my eyes and began to order my thoughts.

Bank and law firm work hand in hand – really, more a family business – creating a starting point.

An intricate web of shell companies and accounts are established to channel funds worldwide.

Kapiris & Associates, as the registered agents, shield the owner’s identities.

‘Standard procedure is to operate using acronyms.’

The waitress brought me a tall glass of Keo – the local beer – and placed it on the table next to the packet from Kapiris & Associates. I drew Konstantin Efstathiou’s business card from my pocket and threw it on top of the folder.

And as I drew the glass to my lips, the answer hit me.

Fifteen

A Lucky Charm & an Invitation

A generous helping of lamb souvlaki appeared before me as the soothing chant of the muezzin echoed through the cobbled lanes calling the faithful to prayer. The Old Town of Nicosia traced its roots back over twenty-five hundred years, although much of what remains today – city walls, buildings and laneways – dates to the sixteenth century and the reign of the Venetians. Christian and Muslim armies have fought endlessly over the island, historians losing count of the times ownership has passed back and forth. Even today, ownership remains in dispute.

Cyprus gained independence from the British in 1960 after a four-year-long uprising, however, peace and tranquillity proved to be short-lived. The Turkish army invaded in 1974 and it wasn’t until 2003 that UN troops were able to establish a buffer zone to keep the warring factions separated. And although the international community recognises the Greek Cypriot government, Turkish Cypriots – backed by the Turkish Army – still occupy the northern third of the country. The buffer zone, keeping the two sides apart, runs the width of the country and right through the centre of Nicosia’s Old Town, making this quaint, sun-drenched city the world’s only divided capital. Just to add to its quirkiness, Nicosia operates under two different time zones. Though time, as in punctuality, doesn’t mean much on the island.

With the souvlaki hitting the right spot, I ordered another Keo and pushed back from the table to relax for a moment and take in the Old Town’s ambiance.

Above the taverna’s tables was an intricate display of red, yellow, blue and green umbrellas. The colourful patchwork display stretched the length and breadth of the narrow laneway, diffusing the sunlight, and painting the dining area below with its delicate hues. On the table was another patchwork that had begun to take shape.

‘Standard procedure is to operate using acronyms.’

Voronin – Owner; Kapiris & Associates – Lawyer; Konstantin Efstathiou – Banker.

Voronin. Kapiris. Efstathiou.

V – K – E.

The corporate entities Katya had uncovered: KVE Talent Agency; VEK Media; EVK Holdings; VKE Capital.

Cunning, yet simple, but what exactly did it mean? I’d uncovered the same information as Katya. A link between the advertisements placed by KVE Talent Agency to the shell companies serving as conduits for the transfer of funds. What I didn’t have was conclusive evidence that ‘V’ stood for Voronin, much less that Voronin profited directly from the enterprise. And definitely nothing that would hold up in a court of law.

A dark feeling that I’d reached a dead end soured my mood. I pocketed the business cards, paid for my meal and set off at a slow amble through the congested alleyways in search of inspiration. Perhaps Marcus would have luck tracing the origins of the companies from the Guernsey list. Perhaps the key could be found in the Swiss entities I’d yet to research. Perhaps my visit to Cyprus will shake the trees sufficiently for something to fall into my lap.

I ducked under the low awning of a produce stall. Shaded from the sun, peaches, pears and ripe melons lay stacked to overflowing in small wooden crates, their sweet scent hanging in the air. However, I was too distracted by my musings to pay them any mind. I shook my head and, with a wry smile, chastised myself for thinking shaking trees was an acceptable investigative reporting technique.

Something brushed my right ear and delivered a stinging blow to my shoulder. At first, I thought the awning overhead had collapsed. I turned to see an enormous man cursing an oath and scrambling to his feet. He’d slipped on a piece of rotting fruit. I considered offering him a hand, but when I noticed his piercing glare, the scowl on his face, and the club that had clipped my ear in his hand, I decided running was a better option.

The narrow, curved alleyways and arching buildings made it impossible to know in which direction I ran. All I knew was that a slightly stooped, lumbering hulk dressed in jeans and a too small T-shirt was close behind. And where I dodged and weaved among startled tourists, he cleaved a path like a pita chip through a bowl of tzatziki.

He’d closed the gap to within twenty metres when I turned left at a gift shop. Rounding the corner, I toppled a tall stand of postcards. That brought about a howl of protest from the store owner and a slight stumble from my pursuer. My head was pounding and my lungs felt fit to burst, but I’d gained precious distance.

Another left was quickly followed by a right two storefronts later. I’d lost sight of my pursuer but wasn’t about to slow down and check. My legs burned from a build-up of lactic acid. I pushed the pain aside, knowing I’d collapse from lack of oxygen before cramps brought me down. I was hopelessly lost in the maze of cobbled lanes but pushed on, believing my manoeuvres would keep me out of sight long enough to find a space to hide. What I needed was a miracle. I turned right once more and slowed to a walk. Thirty metres ahead, the lane ended at a brick wall topped with barbed wire – the security zone border.

So much for a miracle.

I spun around to retrace my steps only to see the thug turn into the lane, stop and smile. His chest also heaved from the chase, though it was twice the size of mine and the bellows within worked at half the speed. Shoulder-length black hair matched his coal-black eyes and framed his square head, protruding eyebrows and large, off-centre nose. A thick gold chain hung around his neck and glistened in the late-afternoon sun. He’d torn his jeans at the knee when he’d slipped and fallen. An idea to engage him in conversation flashed through my mind, an appeal to his humanitarian side. Though he didn’t strike me as the talkative kind, nor – judging from the club – too concerned about my wellbeing. Besides, there was no doubting who had sent him. Meeting with either Michail or Konstantin – it mattered not which – had set off alarm bells and Quasimodo had answered the call.

My agreement with ASIS was that my limited contributions to keeping Australia safe from the worlds ne’er-do-wells was limited to the sharing of information. Even still, I’d been offered a self-defence course but had scoffed at the suggestion that it would ever come in handy. Now, with the behemoth advancing slowly towards me, I determined that as well as being a ‘cynical prick’, I should also add ‘stupid bastard’ to my CV.

His muscled arms hung loosely by his side, the club in his right hand twirling like a baton. He closed to within ten metres, grinning like a deranged clown. The alley was less than half that in width. I’d backed up to the border wall but scaling it was out of the question. I searched the ground for a weapon. Perhaps a skilled agent could have fashioned one from the plastic Pepsi bottle, discarded shoe, rubberised trash can lid or coffee can full of cigarette butts littering the alley. I only wondered what had become of the other shoe.

‘My boss want to talk. You come with me.’

It does talk! Though it was impossible to place his butchered English accent beyond ‘human’.

‘And who might that be?’

I didn’t expect a straight answer. But then again, I didn’t suppose his boss just wanted to talk.

Quasimodo was attempting to formulate a response when a door creaked open to my left and an old lady appeared. Head bowed and mumbling to herself, she swept a pile of dirt into the laneway.

As far as miracles go, this one was modest, but beggars can’t be choosers. I took off, hurdling her straw broom to rush through the doorway. Among the confusion, I heard the door slam shut behind me, then the old crone yelling at the top of her voice and fists the size of smoked hams banging on the door.

The dark hallway led to a shop selling Turkish nazars of all shapes and sizes. The brightly coloured trinkets have been used for centuries as a good luck charm in warding off the evil eye. I wasn’t the superstitious type nor did I have much time for religion, but I knew a fortuitous sign when I saw one.

Barely slowing to avoid the two tourists in the cramped store, I burst past them out the front door and to freedom beyond.

Five minutes later, I’d reached the main pedestrian thoroughfare that led out of the Old Town. Lost among the tourist throng, I moved speedily back to where I’d parked. My tie was askew, my suit jacket dirty and rumpled. The splotches of sweat that dotted my shirt felt cold against my skin. If the crowd noticed my dishevelled appearance, they paid it little mind. I dabbed at the trail of blood running from my right ear and down my neck. Raising my right arm sent a stab of pain through my shoulder. I wondered if the information I’d gleaned was worth it, then a knowing smile wiped away the pain. A puzzle piece had fallen into place and more importantly, I’d roused someone’s attention. I was on the right track.

Sunlight illuminated a display stand of colourful nazars as they swayed in the warm afternoon breeze. Now wasn’t the time to be shopping for souvenirs, but I’d be damned sure to pick up a handful at the airport gift shop before my flight in the morning.

Nursing a cold Keo at the bar of the Flamingo Beach Hotel, I watched the shadows lengthen across the wide strip of sand and out into the calm waters beyond. Two Oxycodone calmed my nerves and I soon nestled into a relaxed groove. The soothing rhythm of the waves helped still my mind as the flow of blood coursing through my body slowed to be one with the tide.

Traffic had been light on the highway heading south from Nicosia to Larnaca, yet I’d nervously kept one eye on the road and the other in the rear-view mirror the entire way. Not wanting to take a chance on my pursuers checking hotels, I cancelled my original reservation and paid cash for a room here at the Flamingo. The manager, a lovely tall Bulgarian girl, assured me I’d be the first to know if anyone called asking questions.

I’d still not attempted ordering dinner, let alone putting the afternoon’s events into some context, when my phone began to dance across the glass-topped table.

‘Yes.’

Silence. And then.

‘Mr Latham?’

‘Yeah, who’s this?’

‘Mr Latham. Finally, we speak. This is Arkady Voronin. Have I caught you at an inconvenient time?’

A drop of condensation trickled down the side of my glass. The waves crashed just a little louder on the shore, gently sighing as they raced up the sand, then hissing in retreat. It’s amazing the clarity of focus your mind can attain with just a bit of attention. Mine was now on full alert.

‘No, not at all, just enjoying the weather.’

‘Yes, I’m sure London is far more pleasant than Kharkiv at present.’

He believed I was in London? Or was that just a ruse? I thought it best to play along.

‘Not much better, but you take what you can get.’

‘Indeed. And I trust you have recovered from your injuries? Such a shame our last meeting was cancelled in such a ghastly fashion.’

‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr Voronin?’

‘Why, our interview, of course!’

Either he was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance or he had nothing to do with the blast in Kharkiv. And had no idea I was digging into his background in Cyprus.

‘Right, right. With everything that has happened, well, I’m sure you understand I’ve had other things on my mind.’

‘Yes, I understand. I too lost some dear friends in that explosion. Two of my most trusted employees were inside the club at the time.’

He knows of Katya’s death. Did he know she was SBU? Or looking to confront him about Nadiya? I began pacing the polished marble floor. I needed to think quickly, but the gears refused to mesh.

‘If you have sufficiently recovered, Mr Latham, I would like to meet with you to complete our arrangement.’

This had to be a set-up. I’d be walking into a trap. Warning signs flashed before my eyes.

In true Matt Latham style, I ignored them all. Besides, I’ve always considered stop signs more a suggestion than a hard and fast rule.

‘Sure, what did you have in mind?’

‘My philanthropic foundation is opening a new orphanage in Belgrade this weekend. Would you do me the honour of attending? I’m sure we can find some time to sit down and chat at some point during the day. After the events of Kharkiv, I’d be happy to pay for your airfare.’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’d be happy to attend.’

I’d usually found the direct approach to be the best, just not always the safest. A brooding Quasimodo was a testament to that.

‘Excellent, my assistant will be in touch with the details.’

Things were moving very quickly – and not at my urging. Luckily, a question sprang to mind to buy time.

‘Just one more thing, Mr Voronin.’

‘Yes?’

‘How did you get my phone number?’

‘Ah, yes, of course. The mobile number you gave my assistant the day before our scheduled meeting in Kharkiv is no longer in service. But luckily, we had your office number on hand. They were only too happy to give out your new number.’

Office? The fictitious British Philanthropy Today? The SBU front must still be in operation. At the very least they’d kept the telephone number active, and now will also know Voronin is trying to make contact. But how were they able to supply my new telephone number? I pushed that disturbing fact to the back burner. I’d think through the implications another time.

An image of that day flashed before me. I was standing by the window of our hotel room looking out over the Lopan River that flowed through the centre of town, hotel phone to my ear. Katya lay in bed watching television. I gave Voronin’s assistant my number just in case of any last-minute changes.

‘But it was fortunate that you did. You don’t remember me calling you?’

‘No. I—’

‘My bodyguards alerted me at the last moment not to attend. I called to cancel our meeting.’

A cloud passed before the sun. Seagulls gathered on the foreshore. My throat swelled with emotion, choking off all sound, and a cold sweat dotted my brow. I remembered walking along the pavement towards Klub Kremlin. My phone vibrating against my chest from inside my jacket. Stopping to answer the call. Motioning at Katya to go on ahead.

‘I was calling to warn you, Mr Latham.’

Sixteen

Score One for the Good Guys

London, England

I withdrew the bag from my pocket and casually tossed it to Ryan.

‘Here, I got you a gift.’

Ryan warily snatched the paper sack out of mid-air. We were standing inside the Serpentine Bar & Kitchen, waiting for our coffees. Customers filled all available tables. There was plenty of seating outside, but only the hardiest of Brits and tourists visiting from the Arctic Circle were game to brave the biting wind. Even the swans on the Serpentine had called it a day and taken shelter.

‘Picked it up in Cyprus for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Open it and see. But first, have a guess.’

‘I’m a foreign service employee, not a clairvoyant.’

He was much more than that, but I thought it best not to correct him inside the crowded café.

‘Just take it out, would you?’

Ryan pulled the charm from the bag and carefully turned it over as if looking for explosives.

‘What the hell is it?’

‘It’s a nazar. The Turks have made them for centuries to ward off the evil eye. It’s a good luck charm.’

‘Do they make a charm that’ll stop stupid bloody reporters doing dumbshit things?’

‘Very funny.’

I’d recounted to Ryan my run-in with the thug in Nicosia. And after being concerned about my welfare for a good three seconds, he’d gone back to his role of the over-protective handler.

‘I guess I could join the foreign service and protect diplomats from dodgy shrimp cocktails at state-sponsored garden parties. Do you get hazard pay for that?’

Ryan wasn’t about to defend himself from my barb; he knew all too well what a comfortable, yet tedious, position he held at the High Commission. As the lowest ranking officer in London, he had nothing to do but process visa applications and the odd passport reissue. And being on friendly territory, even his covert activities were restricted; babysitting yours truly was his sole responsibility. I knew the posting irritated him no end, like a potato chip fragment that sticks in your throat.

Caring little for personal advancement, Ryan joined the security forces for adventure. To see the world. He grew up in the town of Ouyen, population one thousand – not counting sheep and kangaroos. Melbourne’s thriving metropolis lay four hundred and thirty-five kilometres to the southeast. In the opposite direction, and encompassing a wide arc, there was nothing but desert for forty-eight hundred kilometres. From a young age, and even under a boundless sky, Ryan felt stifled in the sleepy, tight-knit farming community. To keep him busy outside of his studies, there was only football in the winter and cricket in the summer. Excelling at one of the three was his only ticket to leave. If not, a life atop his father’s combine harvester loomed like a death sentence. At night, in bed, he read the spy novels of John LeCarre, Len Deighton and Robert Ludlum by flashlight and dreamed of a life in the shadows where the course of history was determined.

‘It seems somewhat clumsy for Voronin to have sent someone after you.’

We were back to discussing the possible employers of Quasimodo.

‘I was thinking that, too. Plus, the bastard was so calm on the phone. No one could be that good an actor, could they?’

Ryan nodded.

‘It had to be either the lawyer or banker getting nervous when you mentioned Voronin’s name.’

‘My bet’s on Kapiris, senior. Konstantin wouldn’t take a crap without first checking with his brother-in-law. And the son …’

I waggled my hand as a sign of indifference.

‘I doubt he could work up the energy to set anything in motion beyond a lunch date.’

What I left unsaid was that word would eventually make it to Voronin regarding my inquiries, and quite likely before I visited him in Belgrade. It was pointless mentioning this to Ryan. Why run up another red flag for him to wave in my face? Plus I was banking on the fact that I was but a pesky fly in Voronin’s world. One not worthy of swatting.

I thought a change of topic a good idea.

‘Have you heard from Marcus?’

Ryan shook his head.

‘That unusual?’

‘Not for Marcus. He’ll most likely be in touch when he has something. That’s when he deigns to let us, the commoners, into the picture.’

‘That bad? I got the feeling he thinks he is something special.’

We collected our coffees and braced ourselves to battle the northerly wind.

‘Not thinks – he knows he’s of consequence. His father is a lord or something. The family owns a massive estate in the Midlands. Multiple properties both here and on the Continent. Marcus is just biding his time playing spy until the old man croaks, then he can play lord of the manor, or whatever it is that makes rich people happy.’

My hopes of Marcus making a breakthrough took a running jump into the Serpentine.

‘I thought you said he was an expert in the area of sex trafficking?’

‘I asked for an expert; he is what Five offered. You think I have the pull to do better?’

We pocketed our frustrations and walked on in silence for a minute, before Ryan finally spoke.

‘What are you going to do until Saturday?’

‘Take another look at Katya’s notes. Add in the small amount of information I learned in Cyprus. See if I can find a pattern.’

With two days to kill before flying to Belgrade, I had precious little to occupy my time unless Marcus came up with something.

‘You know, I’m not too thrilled about you going to Belgrade.’

We’d passed the bandstand and reached the southeastern edge of the park.

I dug my toe into the soft earth and toyed with a rock.

‘I know … But I have to.’

I didn’t expect to find a look of sympathy on his face and Ryan didn’t disappoint.

‘Just try and be careful, alright?’

I was about to say, ‘You know me.’

But that was the problem – he did.

‘Look on the bright side. If something catastrophic happens, you’ll get your transfer out of here.’

Ryan never did enjoy my gallows humour. With a shake of his head, he turned and headed silently towards the Tube station.

Back home, my living room’s walls soon began to close in. I’d searched for hours through both mine and Katya’s notes for a missing link, but it either remained well hidden or didn’t exist.

The prospect of a caffeine jolt from Aziz’s Turkish coffee began to overwhelm the threads of thought running through my mind, so I stuffed laptop and notes into a backpack and made my pilgrimage. Outside, it was pitch black. London’s winter darkness dropped so fast I was surprised it wasn’t accompanied by a resounding thud. A damp chill crept in around the edges of my battered old coat. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t yet tossed it in the trash. But as I made my way to Selin’s with the collar flipped up, I caught the briefest whiff of her scent and knew.

Out there somewhere was Katya’s killer, yet not one group had come forward to claim responsibility, and that created a problem. It likely meant a state-sponsored act gone wrong, which narrowed it down to CIA or Ukrainian SBU. Neither agency harboured much compunction about killing a few innocents if the prize was big enough, but finding proof would be near impossible. Unless, of course, Voronin had fallen afoul of his people. Then you could throw in another fistful of acronyms as likely saboteurs: GRU, SVR, FSB – which collectively amounted to the Russian government. Again, for all intents and purposes, a dead end.

Then there was the spectre of Katya’s missing sister, the few clues left behind by Katya my only prayer. The faint hope that a breakthrough in one area would lead to solving the other may have been only a pipedream, but I’d little else on which to hang my hat – a hat I’d gladly trade for a roadmap and compass to point me in the right direction. But in the real world, miracles don’t drop into your lap. Well, not my lap, without a few dire consequences to negotiate.

The lights from Selin’s Café bathed the footpath in a bluish glow but not so far as to chase away the darkness from the laneway next door. As I passed, movement in the alley caught my attention. I stepped deeper into the shadows to see the vague outlines of four men. They stood in a tight circle and were stomping on a bundle of rags at their feet. Except the rags weren’t rags and the bundle was groaning.

‘Hey! Hey, leave him alone!’

At the sound of my voice, three took off running but the one closest to me turned. The glint of something metallic flashed in the dim light. He looked no more than sixteen and barely came up to my shoulders, but the weapon quickly made a man of him.

‘I don’t want any trouble. Just take off, okay?’

In reply, I received a lopsided smile that revealed a mouthful of rotten teeth.

‘Gimme ya backpack, ya prick.’

The young punk advanced towards me, a cut-throat razor looming large. The bundle on the ground moaned something unintelligible.

‘Okay, okay. Here, take it.’

I slipped the strap off my shoulder and, as he held out his hand, spun like a whirling dervish and swung the backpack at his head. The edge of the laptop hit him flush on the temple and knocked him to his knees. He recovered quickly, but, not waiting to see if I’d follow up with another blow, took off at a stagger down the lane.

The bundle of rags moaned again and rose onto one knee.

‘Jeez, Matt. What you got in that backpack?’

Blood ran freely from Aziz’s nose and the corners of his mouth, and he cradled his ribs as if they were a newborn. I helped him to his feet and together we staggered from the lane and into the café.

‘Aziz! What happen to you?’

Mr Suluoglu came bounding from behind the counter, helped me seat Aziz, then gently wiped the blood from his face with a wet dishcloth.

‘I’m okay. They not kick near as hard as Tunisian police.’

‘Who would do such a thing? Here, Matt, hold towel. I make coffee.’

While Mr Suluoglu busied himself fixing a cup of the Turkish cure-all for Aziz, I applied pressure to his bleeding nose.

‘Aziz, who were they?’

‘Just some punks trying to muscle in. They think they can take this turf from the Iranians. They must be crazy.’

Aziz had been dealing for the local Iranian gang that controlled this section of Shepherd’s Bush. I’d tried to get him to quit, but old habits die hard; it was a way to relive his teenage years on the streets of Tunis. He sold – he assured me – nothing hardcore, just a few pills to help the local housewives take the edge off of life; abstaining from alcohol for religious reasons left the young Muslim mothers few options in coping with a house full of screaming kids. Downers, apparently, had managed to slip through the Quran’s cracks.

‘Ha ha. I tell ’em Saturday night is when it’s all right for fighting. But the fuckers of someone’s mother not want to wait.’

I had to smile. I couldn’t think of two people less likely to end up in a street fight than Aziz and Elton John.

‘But they looked like kids, Aziz, not hardened gang members.’

‘You right. Market being flooded lately with cheap pills, so everyone lining up to sell. Make some quick money.’

‘Where are they coming from?’

‘I don’t know, all white people look the same to me.’

‘I meant the pills.’

‘Oh. I hear Eastern Europe. Maybe Russians. Maybe someone else.’

Aziz grimaced as he drank the hot, bitter coffee.

‘I’ll be okay. You not worry. I be fit to piddle soon enough.’

‘Think you mean fit as a … Oh, never mind.’

But I was worried. Weighing in at sixty-two kilos, and that with pockets filled with rocks, Aziz wasn’t the best candidate to have at the sharp end of a gang war. And how serious the Iranians would take new competition was anyone’s guess.

‘Here, Matt. You have coffee, too. On the house. You save our friend, you do good.’

Mr Suluoglu placed another coffee on the table while Aziz shuffled off to the restroom. I smiled uneasily and withdrew the laptop from my backpack.

On to other life-and-death matters.

After two hours of maddeningly unproductive research, I headed home and slept fitfully. My brain was calling for reinforcements to quell the voices in my head in the form of a little white pill, but I resisted.

By morning I was paying the price. Dave Grohl was reliving his Nirvana days on drums and had camped out in my skull for rehearsals. I promised myself it would be the only pill for the day and washed it down with a glass of tap water. Only four pills remained – that is, if I trusted myself not to buy more on the street.

It took a moment to understand that Dave wasn’t banging away on the cymbals and that my phone was ringing. Ryan’s name flashed on the screen.

‘Matt. Marcus has something for you. How soon can you meet?’

Thirty minutes later I bustled into the Regency Café. Marcus was at the same table, beneath the poster of Ali, looking like a model from the Brooks Brothers catalogue. Ryan sat across from him and turned as I approached.

‘Here he is. Score another one for the Australians.’

Ryan was beaming like the Cheshire cat. Marcus, fingertips dancing on the tabletop, more resembled the Mad Hatter. I nodded a hello to Marcus and slid into the booth beside Ryan.

‘What do you mean? Score, how?’

Ryan pointed his chin towards Marcus.

‘You tell him. It’s your capture.’

‘Indeed! But we couldn’t have done it without the intel provided by your good friend sitting here.’

‘Agreed. Fucking brilliant stuff.’

My head swivelled back and forth at speed following the rapid-fire exchange.

‘Someone care to tell me what has you two giddy as a couple of schoolgirls at a Taylor Swift concert?’

‘Of course! But first, let me explain how it all unfolded.’

I wasn’t going to get a quick answer. Marcus was intent on playing this for all it was worth.

‘It began with your list. We ran a check on those company names. Not the easiest thing to sort through, but the folks at GCHQ are first rate. They once—’

‘Marcus, would you get to the point?’

‘Right, right. Oh, Suze, coffee for everyone, please.’

The appearance of Suze proved another distraction, like a passing butterfly, that Marcus was happy to follow.

Ryan, sensing my growing annoyance, filled the void.

‘The list you provided got MI5 searching down corporate document wormholes that led to the discovery. Marcus, you explain the rest.’

Discovery? Had they found a link to Nadiya?

‘Fascinating the way these folks can conjure up information most people would have thought dead and buried. Well, long story short, three layers deep in corporate paperwork, our boys found an anomaly.’

Ryan was smiling and shaking his head up and down as if a Springsteen concert had broken out. I leaned forward and waited for the payoff.

‘It seems a certain law firm that provided some of the incorporation handiwork for the Guernsey companies also has a link to a firm here on the mainland. Manchester, to be exact.’

I wasn’t sure how this related to Nadiya, but my patience hadn’t yet completely deserted me.

‘And this law firm’s work in Manchester is linked to Voronin?’

‘Well, not based on “what” they do. More of a “who” does it.’

Ryan’s whole body was now rocking back and forth. I expected him to belt out the chorus to ‘Glory Days’ at any moment.

‘Who?’

‘Trenton Farnsworth.’

Marcus spoke the name and smiled.

Ryan smiled in return.

My patience called for the bill.

‘Okay, I give. Who the fuck is Trenton Farnsworth?’

‘Steady on, dear man. Let me explain.’

‘Please do. And could you make it today?’

The officious twerp appeared peeved that I wasn’t enjoying his dramatic recitation.

‘Trenton Farnsworth is a junior partner at the firm of Watkins, Stoke & Aspel. His duties include preparing formation documents for their corporate clients. Farnsworth has worked in the Manchester office these past five years. Before that he worked as an associate at another firm that is partially owned by Watkins, et al. They use these off-shoot firms as a feeder system for sending promising talent to the big boys in Manchester. That particular entity has several satellite offices, including—’

‘Guernsey.’

Ryan finally spoke.

‘Give the man a prize.’

‘But what has that to do with Voronin?’

‘Good question.’

Marcus leaned forward and lowered his voice.

‘Farnsworth’s fingerprints are all over the incorporation documents prepared in Guernsey for the shell companies from your list.’

‘And he’s also prepared documents for some of Voronin’s legal companies established in the UK?’

I asked the question, wishing it to be true. Could this be the bridge linking Voronin’s legal pursuits to the illegal?

‘Not exactly.’

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.

‘No? What do you mean?’

Ryan sensed my disappointment and placed a hand on my forearm.

‘Oh, there may well be a link. But Marcus’s people haven’t been able to make that connection yet. Listen up, this is still valuable stuff.’

‘Yes, Matt. We wouldn’t have been able to find the link if not for your list.’

What link? I was a heartbeat away from recreating the Ali poster, with Marcus playing the part of Sonny Liston.

‘The name of Trenton Farnsworth triggered something in my subconscious. Not, in itself, an unusual name, but one very similar to Branton Farnsworth.’

I slumped in my seat. Marcus’s deep dive down Alice’s rabbit hole wasn’t about to end anytime soon.

‘And Branton Farnsworth is?’

‘One of our cipher experts at GCHQ.’

The penny dropped. Above Marcus’s head, Ali mouthed the words ‘About goddamn time!’

‘I recalled that young Branton, sometime in the past, mentioned that his brother was a lawyer. Working on the assumption that you’re correct and that these companies connect back to Voronin, I had some of my colleagues do some digging into Branton. At this moment, MI5 agents are squirrelling through his bedsit in Hammersmith.’

Marcus wove an index finger across the Formica tabletop, between the cutlery and around the salt shaker, as if reenacting the search taking place across town.

‘I doubt they’ll find anything incriminating there. The fact he’s remained hidden to us for a good long time tells me we aren’t dealing with an amateur. But the account at Barclays we discovered, which he surreptitiously hid from his vetting paperwork, looks bloody well damning. We have him in custody and can’t wait to hear how he explains the one hundred and twenty-five thousand pound account balance. Especially on his meagre salary.’

‘Your research helped uncover the mole, Matt.’

Ryan squeezed my shoulder, which made me wince; the blow I’d taken in Cyprus still sore to the touch.

‘This discovery will be a huge setback to the Russians and we have you to thank. Five has been searching for this bastard for years. And your list proved to be the first breadcrumb in the trail leading the way.

‘To think, it was such a simple link. The details of how the Russians first approached the lawyer, then how they managed to recruit the brother are still a little murky, but we’ll squeeze it out of him one way or another. Yes, indeed! And won’t I have something to celebrate at my club tonight!’

‘You club on Thursdays also, Marcus?’

Letting the image of these two knocking back sherries while sprawled across chintz furniture pass, I focused on Marcus’s final comment. My journalistic cynicism was tapping me on the shoulder, playing devil’s advocate with the entire scenario, but why rain on their parade? I had other matters on my mind, among them a feeling of deflation that the link I’d hoped for was non-existent. Perhaps the interrogation of Branton Farnsworth would lead to further information into Voronin’s activities, but I wasn’t about to hold my breath.

I slipped from the booth and made to leave, allowing Marcus and Ryan the space to revel in their conquest and plan their impending knighthoods.

‘Here, don’t forget this.’

Marcus handed me Katya’s notes, now including some additional information his team had extracted that led to the capture of Branton Farnsworth, the Russian mole. It didn’t appear to be of much consequence, just an address or two scribbled here and there.

‘And while we’re at it, sign this.’

Marcus placed a pen on a copy of the Official Secrets Act. I scrawled my signature and slid it back across the table. Little did he know I’d already signed the Australian version years earlier.

‘Shame you can’t use any of this for an article. Would be bloody explosive, I dare say.’

I stuffed Marcus’s pen into my jacket pocket and left the café without a word.

Seventeen

How I Wish My Family to Remember Me

A cool breeze rushes in through the open window, cleansing the air in the cramped cabin. I close my eyes and bask in the afternoon sun warming my face. I feel the wind catch my hand, it rises and falls as I adjust the pitch for it to slice through the air currents. Father points out to Mother a yacht skimming over the waves as we drive the coast road outside Odessa. Beside me in the back seat, Katya reads. Our summer trip is over and it’s time to return to Bratslav for the new school year.

The air turns chill and I awaken from my slumber. The coast we drive along belongs not to the Black Sea, but the Adriatic. And Antun is driving. Memories of my family are now fleeting. Can it be almost two years? Between the pills, drugs and working six days a week with no end to my captivity in sight, time has no meaning.

Antun and I have become close – within limits. I know not to force the bounds of our friendship. Which is the reason why he allows me to ride in the front seat of the Transit van. In the back, bound and gagged, are five other girls owned by Josko. I know none of their names. They’d only just arrived at the club, still not fully aware of what their lives were to become. We are being moved to another town, another brothel. Where? I do not know. And care too little to ask. Just so long as Antun supplies me with what I need.

A tip-off from the local police forced our departure. Josko’s blackmail operation had bitten off more than it could chew – incriminating photos had been sent to a public official not afraid of exposure. So now we travel northward. And I enjoy the freedom of riding beside Antun.

An orange sun sinks slowly into the sea. The air turns cooler as the light fades and a prickling sensation creeps along my exposed arms. I wind up the window, rest them on my lap – palms facing upward – and stare at the tracks that show the passage of time. The needle marks running up and down both arms carve a plaintive roadmap charting the course of my life these past twelve months. The first tiny pinprick appeared soon after they ripped another child from my womb. The punishment that followed for my carelessness left me unable to walk for a week. I’ve dealt with constant pain ever since, thus the need for something stronger to get through each day. Then again at night, as sleeping pills no longer keep the demons at bay. Luckily, Josko has a steady supply of heroin available. Another layer to his multifaceted business operations.

The coast road curves westward. The setting sun glints off the windshield, so I lower the van’s visor. If I still retained feelings for my appearance, I would be shocked at the image reflected by the visor’s mirror. Dark circles surround watery blue eyes. Dilated pupils – the only alarm I care for – signal the approaching need for a fix. Sallow skin hangs limply over my cheekbones, tone and texture gone. Straw-coloured hair lacks shine or body. I shut my eyes to block out the image and wonder why anyone would pay to lie on my haggard bag of bones to exact their wildest and darkest fantasies.

Antun guides the van into a petrol station an hour beyond Trieste and to a pump well away from other vehicles. Beyond the lights of the service bay, the Italian countryside is an impenetrable wall of darkness. Ten minutes earlier, he allowed everyone to relieve themselves among the scrub bordering a dirt track that led off the highway.

I know nothing of the other girls, nothing of their capture, of their hometowns. Getting attached only leads to additional heartbreak. I’m resigned to the fact Tatiana and Lesia would be the last two people I’d ever call friends. We’d said goodbye to Lesia over a year ago, sold to an elderly Middle Eastern man in an Armani suit with one gold tooth and breath that smelled like death. That day, before she departed, we three hugged and cried like sisters.

Tatiana’s death last summer hardened my heart. One night, a customer, displeased with her attentiveness to his needs, began to beat her. Not so unusual for us, but this time Tatiana fought back. Her screams alerted Antun, but before he was able to subdue the client, he’d stabbed her sixteen times. The man was taken to the courtyard behind our rooms, bound, gagged and strung up by his arms from the branch of an oak tree. Josko sliced strips from him as if he were a rack of meat at a gyros stand. Both bodies were gone by the next morning.

After refilling the petrol tank, Antun lumbers slowly into the kiosk to pay. I notice the bulge of the kit stuffed into the back of his pants, a precaution to prevent me shooting up on my own. Not that I would, I’m far too clumsy to manage alone. I need Antun more than he knows.

I close my eyes and picture the constriction of the rubber band around my upper arm forcing a near-dormant vein to the surface. Visualise the lick of flame engulfing, blackening, the teaspoon. The sweet smell rising from the brown powder as it bubbles then liquefies. The short, sharp prick as the needle breaks the skin, then slides below the surface. Pressure building as the syringe is depressed. The release of the rubber band. A golden warmth flowing through my veins.

Before I drift away, I see my parents smiling down on me. My sister, holding my hand as we run through the fields. And I see myself, at a much younger age, when I was beautiful, the way I wish my family to remember me.

A car stops next to the pump beside our van. I look across to see a young man jump from the vehicle. Loud music escapes through the open door. From the passenger side, a young woman emerges. She stands, arches her back and reaches her arms high into the air. As she turns her eyes meet mine, the smile on her face slowly fades and she averts her eyes.

I could run to them. Tell them to call the police. Tell them of my ordeal. But why would they believe me? Why should they dirty their hands dealing with a wretch such as I? Besides, would they have what I need?

The door of the van opens with a prolonged creak. Antun has returned. He smiles, slips the vehicle into gear and asks if I am ready.

At the side of the road, beyond the harsh glare of the petrol station, he begins his preparations. I lick my cracked, dry lips in anticipation.

As the needle bites into my skin, Antun tells me we will be driving all night. That we’ll stop at a hotel outside Genoa, where Josko is well known and where Antun can sleep. Then the next night, we’ll drive on to my new home.

I drift away into the warmth and comfort of a dreamless sleep before learning where that home will be.

Eighteen

Playing Dumb in the Belly of the Beast

Belgrade, Serbia

Voronin’s people booked me on a flight connecting through Zurich to Belgrade. That the ticket included a return flight to London, I took as a good sign. Though the waste of two hundred euros on the unused portion if I proved troublesome, to someone of Voronin’s wealth, tempered my enthusiasm.

I’d heard nothing more from Ryan regarding the questioning of the GCHQ cipher clerk and didn’t expect to. Whether a hapless stooge the Russians had used for misdirection or the second coming of Kim Philby, MI5 wasn’t about to share their dirty laundry with the likes of me. The quiet expulsion of a few low-level Russian Embassy officials would most likely be the only tip-off. Or Branton Farnsworth could already be back at his GCHQ desk, either exonerated or turned as a triple agent to peddle disinformation back to the Russians. I doubted being chained up in a dark prison with electrodes attached to his balls was an option, unless poor Farnsworth had drawn the short straw and his interrogator was a holdover from the service’s darker days.

Whatever the case, I was half a continent removed from his tribulations and preparing to enter the belly of the beast.

I arrived late Friday evening to be greeted in baggage claim by a dark-haired Serbian girl in her mid-twenties. Her name was Jelena and if she’d told me she was the reigning Miss Serbia, I wouldn’t have disagreed. I gladly followed her slinking form to the limousine idling at the kerb. Vapour from the exhaust rose then quickly dissipated into the dark Serbian night. During the short ride to the hotel, with a playful smile on her lips, Jelena told me to merely ask if I required anything during my stay. Knowing of Voronin’s seamier business interests helped clarify the definition of ‘anything’.

The Square Nine Hotel overlooked Studentski Park and rubbed shoulders with a Banca Intesa branch and a quaint café in the heart of the city centre, close to the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers. With much reluctance, I bid goodnight to Jelena’s ample curves, pouty lips and almond-shaped obsidian eyes and strode into the lobby.

The clerk gave me a quick rundown of the hotel’s amenities and directions to my suite as I signed the guest registry. If Voronin knew of my ulterior motive for tomorrow’s meet and of my prying into his affairs in Nicosia, he certainly had a strange way of fortifying his defences. Or was all this luxury laid out as subterfuge, before tomorrow’s interview morphed into interrogation? Visions of Branton Farnsworth and his electrified scrotum danced in my head. With overnight bag in tow and inner voice packed full of cynicism along for the ride, I trudged off to the elevator.

The grand opening of the orphanage was scheduled for eleven the following morning and Voronin had agreed to set aside an hour after the reception for the interview. Nursing a cold beer from the minibar, I reviewed the original interview questions prepared for the aborted Kharkiv meet. The combination of cold beer and the troubling images evoked by reviewing my notes helped to quell the fire that Jelena had stoked. However, fine-tuning the newer questions I’d slipped into the original list approved by Voronin stoked a fire of a different sort.

The sprawling orphanage grounds nestled snuggly up against the banks of the Danube fifty kilometres north of Belgrade. Voronin’s foundation had purchased the sixteenth-century monastery from the Serbian Orthodox Church. The church had opted for hard cash up-front over the trickle of tourist dinars daily tours generated, the fifteen relocated monks receiving a twenty-first-century fiscal update to the Lord’s teachings.

Over two dozen vehicles lined the gravel drive that led to the main building. A gaggle of young children chased a soccer ball over the expansive lawn. A three-metre stone wall surrounded the property; beyond the walls, an impenetrable forest. Voronin’s driver brought the Mercedes to a stop at the front steps. I helped myself from the back seat, climbed the five steps to the massive oak doors – propped open for the occasion – and stepped inside.

‘Your name, sir?’

Two young ladies who may have been Jelena’s cousins manned the reception desk, its surface covered with name tags and champagne flutes.

‘Latham, Matt.’

One supermodel checked the list of invitees and the other showed me just how far dentistry had progressed in the field of teeth whitening. Before I was able to comment on a few other enhancements I’d noticed, Jelena’s cousin handed me a badge with my name written in both English and Cyrillic.

Armed with a glass of champagne, I passed through to the main hall where a lectern stood forlornly at the far end. Conversations in hushed tones emanated from the cluster of people dotted around the room. The sound of my footfalls on the polished wooden floorboards reverberated around the walls. In one corner, members of the local press gorged themselves like food was a new invention and kept the drink waiters working overtime.

‘We’re glad you could make it, Mr Latham.’

I turned to face the owner of the voice that rose and fell like birdsong. The vision that stood before me was tall and slender, her skin white and fine as porcelain. Straight, platinum blonde hair caressed her shoulders and grey eyes sparkled with warmth under the room’s lighting. In her wake slunk a short, grubby man, balding, with a pinched face and thick glasses. His suit draped off him like a potato sack, the sleeves swallowing up most of his bird-like hands.

‘Please excuse me. My name is Daniela and I am Mr Voronin’s personal assistant. And this is George Shubladze. George handles much of Mr Voronin’s legal work.’

George gave me a quick once-over and decided I wasn’t worth his time. Without speaking a word, he stuck a wrinkled, damp business card in my hand, turned and slithered away. I glanced at the floorboards to see if he’d left a trail. His leaving me alone with Daniela, though, did help revive my limited faith in lawyers. I slipped the card into my pocket then clasped Daniela’s proffered hand with great care, afraid I’d crush an exquisite work of art.

‘Please excuse George. He has other business to attend to and speaks very little English.’

I’d already forgotten the wrinkled prune’s name.

‘Daniela. That is a beautiful name. Scandinavian?’

‘Latvian, to be precise. Have you visited Latvia in your travels, Mr Latham?’

‘Please, just Matt. And no, but it’s suddenly jumped to the top of my list.’

Her laugh would have made angels weep with joy. And foreign correspondents weak at the knees.

‘I must thank you, and Mr Voronin, for the hospitality.’

‘Not at all. It is the least we could do after the most unfortunate circumstances in Kharkiv. You will find Mr Voronin very accommodating. He wants very much for the interview to proceed. He receives so very little good press in the West.’

Daniela and I were off to a smashing start; best, then, not to point out that running guns, trafficking humans and planting moles in positions of power would tend to sway minds towards the negative.

‘So, Daniela, how long have you been with Mr Voronin?’

A subtle shadow passed over her eyes, like a fast-moving cloud before the sun.

‘More than fifteen years.’

She paused, before resuming.

‘You will discover that Mr Voronin is very loyal to those that return the favour.’

The cloud passed and the sparkle in her eyes returned. I was still trying to deduct fifteen from the youthful vision standing before me and come up with an answer greater than ten.

‘Excuse me, please. I must attend to a few last-minute arrangements. More champagne?’

Daniela flagged down a passing waiter as the lights dimmed and a video monitor’s stark white light illuminated the wall behind the lectern.

For the next ten minutes, we were transported – courtesy of the Voronin Foundation – from this quaint monastery in Serbia to Turkey, then on to the Middle East, Romania and Bulgaria. Smiling children of all colours and nationalities flashed before our eyes. Photo collages filled the screen: school rooms, playgrounds, nature walks in the mountains, summer scenes from lakeside cabins. And front and centre in each, a smiling Arkady Voronin playing a latter-day St Nicholas. Though the suit was more Savile Row than red velvet with fur trim, the paunch non-existent and tresses of pure black replaced white hair and beard.

The presentation faded to black, the lights in the room rose and Arkady Igorovich Voronin strode into the banquet hall.

He spoke in a rapid-fire Slavic language, resorting to a more than competent English at various times during his ten-minute speech. I focused on the man, missing most of what he was saying.

I’d expected to be awed – I was incredibly underwhelmed. Deep lines etched his long, drawn face, yet its strength was diminished by his meek presence. He was barely visible over the modest rostrum, an aging jockey now pursuing other interests. His voice was more contralto than tenor and his hand gestures bordered on the effeminate: wrinkled marionette rather than wizened businessman, let alone imposing gangster. All cameras and recording devices had been banned from the event; I’d assumed for reasons of privacy, but now I wondered if it had more to do with ego.

Voronin’s succinct presentation ended and members of the local press were quickly shepherded from the hall by a small army of security folks. Daniela, towering over Voronin’s demure figure, led him towards a cluster of government officials. I whisked another champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and attempted to reconcile the in-person Voronin with the Russian oligarch, spy, arms and sex trafficker of mythic proportions. If a picture painted a thousand words, Voronin’s portrait was missing several hundred.

‘Mr Latham, it is good to meet you at last.’

Voronin extended a limp hand that was smooth and cold to the touch. He’d adroitly dispensed with the group of officials before I’d finished my champagne.

‘Mr Voronin, I appreciate your hospitality and making time for me.’

Daniela hovered over Voronin’s right shoulder, her twinkling eyes now wary rather than inviting. I wondered why.

‘So, let us find a quiet space. Daniela will accompany us, if you don’t mind. My English is somewhat proficient, but with so few opportunities to … how you say … perfect nuance, I worry about being misinterpreted. You understand?’

I returned his steely glare.

‘Of course, Mr Voronin. The last thing I’d want to share with my readers is an inaccurate portrayal of yourself and your many philanthropic pursuits.’

We retired to an anteroom. Built-in bookcases filled three walls. A fire crackled in the hearth centred in the fourth. Two leather armchairs faced the fire, separated by a teak end table. Voronin invited me to sit, then took his place beside me, careful to straighten the crease in his pants after crossing left leg over right. Daniela remained standing behind her master.

‘Let us begin, Mr Latham. May I call you Matt?’

‘Please do.’

‘And you may call me Arkady.’

I opened my notebook with the prepared list of questions. My nerves had evaporated. This powerful oligarch may hold my life in his hands, but he appeared no more threatening than a stray bottle cap beneath a shoeless foot.

For the next forty-five minutes, we covered his life story, that of the well-to-do son of a one-star Russian general. How he came to join the retired general’s import-export conglomerate a few short years after graduating from Moscow University. Later, replacing his elderly father as CEO, then using his business acumen to quadruple revenue within his first five years at the helm. Finally, branching out into his passion for providing homes and opportunities to many of the displaced children of the world.

I shook my head, smiled and jotted down a few notes. Voronin played the humble oligarch. Daniela spoke infrequently, a circumspect smile playing on her lips, steel-grey eyes gazing intently in my direction, never faltering.

It was a truly inspiring story, so long as one didn’t dig too deeply into how a mid-level general managed to transition to owning a billion-dollar import-export business overnight. Or how competing businesses kept mysteriously failing. And what were the imported and exported products that had made this man’s family into billionaires?

Time to batten down the hatches and go off-script.

‘The work you do for orphans around the globe is truly commendable. Do you have other altruistic ventures?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Well, I know what you do for the young. What about young adults? Anything to promote their advancement in this world?’

Voronin stared into my eyes. Daniela leaned over and whispered in his ear. He waved her off.

‘It is okay, my love. Perhaps, Matt, you could be more specific.’

‘KVE Talent Agency. That is your company, correct? Or are my sources way off base?’

An Oxycodone washed down with three glasses of champagne was most likely not the preferred diet to prepare for an important interview, but Voronin’s response was even less textbook. The demure man stood, clapped his hands together and let out a high-pitched scream of laughter.

‘Ah, Mr Latham! Matt. You do not disappoint. I was wondering when you would get to the … how you say … hard-hitting questions.’

He began pacing before the hearth. Daniela, for the first time, averted her eyes from mine.

‘This world is there to be taken by the bold.’

He balled one tiny hand into a fist. I thought it would hold very little, let alone the world.

‘I provide opportunity, Mr Latham. For these orphans you see here today. For many others looking to escape their drab existence. You think my upbringing was any different? The son of a general in military intelligence? A son that much preferred to knit and sew than play war games with the other boys his age! I learned to survive, Mr Latham.’

I sat, transfixed. The pacing back and forth had taken on manic proportions, his words punctuated by wild arm gestures.

‘I can always buy the muscle I need to remain a power. You think rubles don’t speak louder than a slightly effeminate boss?’

‘So, you don’t deny your involvement in human trafficking?’

‘Mr Latham, please.’

He paused, hands on hips, breathing heavily.

‘I give opportunity where none existed. Let me explain. America has reality television. You think network executives don’t take advantage of these sad people craving fame and fortune? Do you frown upon prostitution? Where is the crime? Money for sex is as pure as the capitalist system. And, just as the West bows down to the capitalist system, these people can make or break their own lives.’

A soccer ball bounced off the large picture window, rattling the panes. A small boy chased the errant pass.

‘Children need protectors, Matt, a chance in life. My misfortunate orphans more so than others. Whereas adults are capable of making their own decisions – whether good or bad, that is up to them. Isn’t that right, Daniela?’

Daniela’s icy glare brought a wry smile to Voronin’s face. Something passed between the two, but I’d become distracted by the boy in the garden. He cupped his hands to the window and stared through impassively. Before running back to play with his friends, he glanced in my direction; cherubic face, rosy cheeks, sparkling blue eyes. A face that momentarily froze time.

‘Some grab that chance with both hands, others fall by the wayside. I will not apologise for what I provide.’

The boy’s eyes left me transfixed. Arkady’s words begged for a follow-up question, but I was struck mute. Where had I seen those eyes before?

The room had fallen silent. Arkady had stopped pacing and stood before the fire. I struggled to regain my composure as my mind raced.

‘Mr Latham? Is there something wrong?’

Daniela had noticed my look of confusion.

To regain some semblance of control, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

‘Yes, yes. I’m fine. But you want respect in the West. Why else would I be here?’

Voronin removed a volume from the bookshelf and leafed through the pages.

‘True, Mr Latham. I want respect for the public information you can report. But I’d also like to know a few other things. Like why you thought you’d need an interpreter for our meeting in Kharkiv. Shall we start there?’

Kharkiv? My interpreter? Of course, Katya – her reason for accompanying me there. And the face of the boy? Images were running wild through the craggy dunes of my memory. The Oxy running through my bloodstream not helping. Voronin had turned me from interviewer to interviewee, and I was struggling for a response.

‘My interpreter? It was a requirement for the interview.’

‘Not by me, Matt. As you see, I have Daniela if the need arises. I’m afraid someone was using you to get to me. Would you know who that would be?’

Voronin would never be able to guess Katya’s true intentions. If he thought her SBU, he wouldn’t be looking to me for confirmation. Best to play dumb to protect what I knew. I was on safe footing playing dumb – I’d had a lot of practice.

‘I … I just followed directions and assumed an interpreter was required.’

‘Yes, most likely. But, alas, she is dead. Now we will never know. Probably for the best. It would have been quite an unpleasant conversation she and I would have had.’

It took all my self-restraint not to leap from the chair and break this man in two.

‘Let’s move on, shall we? You think your excursion to Cyprus provided the proof you needed to expose my … side projects? You have nothing and if you know what is best, you will report nothing.’

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Unfortunately, I was the only one to notice. The implied threat backed me into a corner.

And when backed into a corner, as they say, best to come out swinging. I’d deal with the threat another day, hopefully.

‘You sent that thug after me. Am I getting too close?’

‘Thug?’

Voronin let out another squeal of laughter and replaced the leather-bound book on the shelf.

‘Matt, Matt … If I sent someone to … talk with you, trust me, you would know the difference.’

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Daniela gaze in my direction, followed by a slight straightening of her shoulders.

‘And you are clutching at straws if you think a few shell corporations established in Cyprus will lead to anything.’

His reassurance wasn’t the calming influence for which I’d hoped. My shoulder still ached from the inconsequential ‘talk’ I’d had with the Cypriot version of Quasimodo. And it sure wasn’t the best time to come clean about the room service tab I’d run up at his expense. But was that a bluff regarding his business affairs in Cyprus, or had I been running in the wrong direction?

‘And now, I’m afraid, I find I have no further use for you. This conversation has lost its allure and unfortunately triggered a micro headache to which I am regrettably quite susceptible.’

So much for dealing with the threat another day. Last night’s extravagant prime rib dinner made its presence known deep in my gut. I glanced nervously towards Daniela, expecting to see she’d drawn a gun. Instead she was casually inspecting her nails. The prospect of her strangling me with those exquisite hands as I peered deeply into her ash-grey eyes held a certain macabre appeal.

‘I had hoped you would write an enlightening piece about the good works I do for the less fortunate children in this world. But it appears you want to play politics. That is disappointing to me. Especially from someone who has despised the politics his father played for so many years.’

‘You know my father?’

If there was a step beyond the back foot, I was balanced precariously there.

‘I know of your father. He and my father crossed paths at various diplomatic functions over the years. You, better than anyone, know that we are mere pawns in the inner workings of the halls of power. We believe ourselves to be our own men, to chart our own course, but that is often easier said than done.’

He spoke these final words softly while staring at the dying embers within the hearth.

I was too thrown at the mention of Frank to understand his meaning.

A knock at the door left a hastily composed follow-up question unspoken. A young child was led into the room by one of the orphanage attendants. It was the boy whose face I’d seen pressed against the window. He quietly crossed the carpet, hand in hand with the attendant, then was scooped into Voronin’s waiting arms.

‘Ah, Maxim! Have you had fun playing with the other children?’

The young boy remained impassive as Voronin tousled his hair, then nodded his head in the affirmative.

‘Maxim, say hello to Mr Latham.’

The child turned to face me. Maxim spoke not a word, his face set, eyes lifeless and mouth grim.

‘Maxim speaks rarely. Still traumatised by the loss of his parents; an unfortunate car accident in his native Belarus. I have personally decided to take him under my wing.’

Voronin fastidiously tucked the boy’s long brown hair behind each ear, then kissed him twice on the left cheek.

Maxim’s sad blue eyes never left mine; eyes that seemed to beg, plead, but for what?

The same sad blue eyes I’d seen once before. In Kharkiv. Peering from the back window of an SUV seconds before the blast.

‘We shall say goodbye now, Mr Latham. You understand we will have no further dealings. And that anything you … believe you may have learned here today will stay in the strictest of confidence.’

Voronin held my gaze, aiming for intimidation. It looked more like he’d eaten a dodgy canapé.

‘Trust me when I say my team of lawyers and business associates have ways to suppress spurious accusations. And now, Daniela will escort you back to your hotel.’

His thinly veiled threat was neatly delivered. I presumed he’d had plenty of practice.

I may not have been afraid of this weasel, but his henchmen were an entirely different matter. The smartarse retort on the tip of my tongue stayed put. Plus our talk had given me plenty of food for thought. I assumed those details would be simpler to digest without any broken bones.

Nineteen

Separating Wheat from Chaff

Daniela sat by my side, long legs crossed.

‘You are very quiet, Mr Latham. I hope you were not offended by Arkady’s words.’

I’d not spoken since leaving the orphanage, replaying the conversation over and over in my mind. Committing them to memory as I stared at my reflection in the soundproof glass separating front seat from back. The former monastery disappeared among the trees as we rounded a bend in the road.

‘Offended? Why would you think that?’

As far as threats went, Voronin’s were low on my list. Until accompanied by actual bodily harm, he’d not crack my personal top ten. Not that I’d tell him that. I’d hate to see him up his game just for the recognition.

‘Arkady is very passionate about his causes. For those in the West, it can be difficult to understand his motivations. Let me tell you a little of my background; it may help.’

Daniela turned ever so slightly to face me, left foot brushing my leg. She rested a hand on my thigh. Her touch was as light as a feather but the spark of desire it generated was immediate. I thought I smelled smoke from my singed trousers.

‘At my last birthday, I turned thirty.’

And she’d been with Voronin how long? Fifteen years?

‘Yes, I couldn’t help noticing the look on your face earlier when I mentioned how long I’d been with Arkady. Of course, I wasn’t always his personal assistant. It took twelve long years to work my way up to that position.’

I remained silent.

Daniela, after a deep sigh, continued.

‘My stepfather first raped me when I was ten years old. My mother, if she’d either cared or been sober enough to notice, would have been powerless to stop him. I left home soon after. For three years I lived on the streets of Riga. Until, not wanting to face another harsh winter, I decided to hitchhike south to a warmer climate. My travel, alas, was paid for with sexual favours. I fought back the first time and received a horrible beating. I soon understood men would always take what they want – why fight if I could get something in return? The Bulgarian capital, Sofia, became my new home. One night, at the hotel bar where a friend and I lured businessmen upstairs, Arkady sat on the stool next to mine.’

Tears welled in her eyes. Before she could regain her composure, the banks were breached and a glistening trail raced down her cheeks.

‘From that day forward, Arkady took me under his wing and cared for me. He genuinely has a kind heart, Mr Latham.’

Her beauty combined with the tears was making an impact. But I was far from becoming Voronin’s champion for sainthood.

‘And he’s always that kind? What of those taken against their will? Working closely with him, you must know of his trafficking operation.’

‘You must understand, Mr Latham, some of what Arkady is involved in is against his wishes, but he has no choice.’

Was that what he’d been alluding to earlier? Pressure from above? Was he too just a pawn of Russian Intelligence? Perhaps, but a billion or two in the bank is a tidy pay-off to do his master’s bidding. I wouldn’t be weeping tears of sympathy for Arkady Voronin anytime soon.

And what of Daniela? Was she just being helpful? Or laying down a smokescreen to dissuade me from digging further?

‘I like you, Mr Latham. I hope you will take Arkady’s words to heart and not dig deeper into his affairs. If there is anything I can do to help persuade you …’

As her hand climbed along my thigh to meet the blood rushing southward from my head, I knew I had my answer.

Marshalling my reserve of honour, laboriously built up over the years, I resisted the urge to allow Daniela to seduce me in the back of the limousine, a choice I knew I’d regret the second I stepped from the vehicle.

Taking the high road – the one where the journalist doesn’t get laid – I leaned back slightly to disengage her lips from my earlobe.

‘There is something you can do for me. I’m looking for a girl.’

Daniela appeared stunned that she wasn’t the girl. Then she smiled, thinking my tastes ran differently.

‘Of course, Mr Latham. Just name the type and age of girl you desire and I can make that happen.’

‘I’m sure you can. But I want only one girl. Her name is Nadiya Fomina.’

By the perplexed look on her face, the name meant nothing to Daniela. But I recounted Nadiya’s tragic story and it appeared to strike a chord. I hoped it wasn’t just a trick of the light filtering through the tinted windows playing on her features.

I pressed on.

‘Nadiya wasn’t lucky enough to be saved by Arkady as you were. She was scooped up like bulk trash and hauled off to God knows where. I’m not sure if Arkady personally directed that operation; I’ll take you at your word that he has little to do with many of his business ventures. But I can prove it’s his name associated with the corporation involved. You want to protect your boss, find me Nadiya, and my story on Arkady never sees the light of day.’

Pine forests and rolling farmland gave way to drab concrete housing blocks on the outskirts of Belgrade. Daniela peered out the window, mulling over my offer.

‘And that is all you wish?’

‘Yes. You have my word.’

‘I cannot tell Arkady of this. He will not negotiate. He would sooner kill you.’

‘Today was just window dressing. My story is already complete, and my death won’t stop its publication.’

As a rule, I abhor lying but thought this one was for the greater good. Namely, my health. I’d not written one word of this story. Without additional sources to back up what I knew and just my gut instinct for the remainder, who’d publish it? It was about finishing what Katya had started – finding Nadiya. An act of atonement that may help ease my conscience. Time to swing for the fences, push all my chips to the centre of the table and hope that most of what I threw against the wall stuck.

‘Sex trafficking, gunrunning, espionage. The public will lap this story up. It may not happen overnight, but it’ll eventually spread like wildfire. Other news agencies will pick up the thread and – trust me – they’ll tear apart his empire like vultures fighting over roadkill.’

As far as bluffing went, I had a decent poker face, yet this was the first time I’d gone all-in with my life on the line. I felt my face flush. Daniela’s hand resting gently on my thigh was definitely not helping.

‘He helped you, Daniela. Saved you from a life on the streets. Deep down, that must mean something. Pass it on to another. Help me find Nadiya. And, even though the son of a bitch doesn’t deserve it, you can help Arkady, too.’

The driver pulled into the hotel’s courtyard, the limousine gliding serenely across the rough cobblestones. Daniela continued to weigh my words. I sat watching one guest after another slip through the silent automatic doors leading from footpath to lobby, nothing left to offer.

‘What if I’m unable to find her?’

‘I will take you at your word.’

Sure, the word of a sex trafficker’s PA, who’d been a street-hustling whore as a teenager. But who was I to judge? I’d had my moments of being ethically challenged over the course of my career. Besides, better options weren’t lining up for consideration like a row of beer taps down at the local.

‘All I ask, if you’re not successful, is sharing the last trail you uncovered. Perhaps I’ll have more luck.’

‘And you will not publish?’

‘Correct.’

A group of Chinese tourists huddled together in the cold, waiting for a taxi. Daniela stared at them intently.

‘Arkady will kill me if he finds out.’

‘I doubt that very much, Daniela. You are, after all, doing it to protect him.’

Back to clutching at straws. I’d no idea how Voronin would react, though I hoped I was right. I had no appetite for another body weighing on my conscience.

Daniela sighed with a note of resignation.

‘Very well. I will do my best, Mr Latham.’

‘Thank you, Daniela.’

I hurriedly passed along the last known whereabouts of Nadiya and information on how we should stay in contact before she changed her mind.

Daniela touched the back of her hand to my cheek as I slid from the cabin, a commiserative smile on her lips. The limousine pulled from the kerb the moment I closed the door.

The encounter with Voronin at the orphanage continued to play on my mind. I grabbed a beer from the minibar and set my laptop on the countertop beside the television. While waiting for it to show signs of life, I stared into the gloom beyond my hotel window. How could the man be so blasé about being connected to a sex-trafficking operation? And was he so disassociated from the real world that he thought saving one or two individuals squared the ledger? Or, as Daniela had intimated, was he merely a pawn in the larger machinations of the Russian intelligence apparatus?

One thing I knew for sure was that I needed another beer. I took the opportunity to wash down another Oxycodone to help me concentrate; it would be a long night transcribing my thoughts and planning my next move. I tossed the empty pill bottle onto the bed.

Strange, I’d thought I had two left.

I’d typed two full pages of notes from the meeting before I noticed that the pressure-filled coursing of blood pumping into my brain had subsided. Five empty beer bottles littered the surface of the desk and the time on my laptop read 10:07. Could that be correct? Noticing the empties ignited a familiar pressure on my bladder. I made for the bathroom and released into the bowl the contents of at least four of the five. Staring into the mirror didn’t help to locate the three hours I’d lost track of, but the person staring back certainly had my attention.

I was never going to win a beauty contest but my face resembled a failed assignment at mortician school. Apart from the flaking pallid skin, dark circles ringed my eyes as if a family of possums occupied a hidden branch in my lineage. Gently probing my skull around the fracture produced no pain, just a disassociated feeling akin to pins and needles, most likely a by-product of the Oxy. I wanted to write off the haggard appearance as just pushing myself too hard, but the man in the mirror called bullshit on that excuse.

After a minute’s contemplation, my reflection and I made a deal, resolving that we’d taken our last pill. I wondered if he had his fingers crossed.

Back at the makeshift desk, I reviewed my notes. The sage words of my editor, Jack Temple, swam through my conscience and I pictured him rubbing his gnarled hands over his heavily lined face in frustration before castigating all us young reporters on the importance of separating the wheat from the chaff; investigative reporting involved concise facts, not flowery bullshit. His bulbous nose glowed red as he extolled the importance of not biting off more than you could chew. To report what you can prove – conspiracy theories were for novels and hack blogs, not newspapers.

I refocused on keeping those mantras in mind. My goal remained finding Nadiya. Voronin mentioning my father was a left turn that only served to distract. I knew his father was military intelligence so it made sense that their paths would’ve crossed at some point. Then there was the entire sex-trafficking, Russian Intelligence angle to Voronin’s enterprise.

Separate the wheat from the chaff and don’t bite off more than you could chew.

Trying to burrow through the myriad wormholes of corporate entities may one day make for a great story, but it wouldn’t get me any closer to achieving my goal.

Daniela was the key to finding Nadiya. She was inside Voronin’s organisation and would either be able to find a trace of Katya’s lost sister or she wouldn’t. I’d established a safe method for us to communicate, now all that remained was for me to be patient.

Though like an itch that lies stubbornly out of reach, one point continued to irritate – Maxim. Was it just my imagination the way Voronin seemed to have such an unhealthy affection for the boy? Compounding the feeling was that I’d seen the boy in Kharkiv the night of the explosion. Foreboding images of Voronin’s orphanages overlapped with memories of Jack shouting at me to ‘concentrate on the wheat, not the fucking chaff’.

And Maxim’s eyes, they seemed to reach out to me; eyes that reminded me of another boy very close to the same age.

I reached for my phone and scrolled through the list of programmed numbers. It was morning in Melbourne. I wondered if he’d answer.

‘Hi. You’ve reached—’

The metallic din of Sam’s voice on the recorder produced an involuntary wince. I waited for the message to end with the phone at arm’s length.

‘Trevor? Hi, it’s your dad. I just wanted to call to say …’

To say what? That I met an orphan today that looked so sad, I couldn’t help think of you? And why would I think Trevor would be sad?

‘… to say that I … I wanted to know how your soccer team was doing, and that you’re well.’

And I’m so sorry I’m not there to hug and kiss you and tuck you in every night. That I fucked up by leaving. That I should have said I loved you more often. Hell, once. And fought for you when your mother and I decided to separate. Or at least stayed close to take you to soccer. To school. To be there when you fall, to wipe away your tears and help you back up. All the little things for which my father never found time.

But, like the weak bastard I am, I said none of those things.

‘Well, I have to get back to work. Call me when you get a chance, Mum will dial the number for you. You just have to ask. Bye-bye.’

I disconnected the line and tossed the phone onto the bed in disgust. The minifridge offered up one last beer and, remembering Voronin was picking up the tab, I greedily ripped off the cap. Waiting on the interchange bench was a bottle of vodka of dubious origins.

The late-night news was filled with stories each more depressing than the last. Famine. Civil wars. A strange new virus in China; an entire province in lockdown.

And here was I worried about disappointing one small boy.

Before turning in for the night, I double-checked the time of my flight back to London before muting the television. In the silence, I heard the muffled ringtone of my phone floating up from beneath the pillows.

I pounced on it like a hungry cat on a field mouse, hoping.

‘Trevor?’

‘Who? Mr Latham? This is Yulia.’

Disappointment turned to puzzlement.

‘Yulia? Yeah, yeah. Sorry for the confusion. Is everything alright?’

‘Yes, of course. I was just wondering if you’d remembered to send the information about London I’d requested?’

Information? What the hell did she mean?

‘Ah, no. Sorry, I haven’t had time. Remind me again what you needed.’

‘No matter. I guess you didn’t see my email. I can find what I need elsewhere. Sorry to bother you.’

With that, she hung up.

Her oblique reference dawned on me – email. I rushed to my laptop and logged in to Katya’s email account.

Sure enough, I found a new draft. I clicked on the folder and opened the message.

Mr Latham,

When packing up Katya’s closet to send her clothes to charity as her mother requested, I found in pocket of jeans a slip of paper. On it was written:

Tyburn House – Geraskin & Assoc.

Don’t know what it means, but hopefully, it will help.

Yulia

The name ‘Tyburn House’ meant nothing to me, but the other name certainly did. I deleted the draft, logged out and closed the window.

I pushed back from the desk, swallowed the last of the beer, then placed the empty on the desk. Beside the bottle lay six bent caps, an opener and the contents of my pockets. Among a collection of Serbian coins was a crumpled business card.

George Shubladze

Geraskin & Associates

Voronin’s lawyer. But what linked Shubladze’s firm to this Tyburn House? And why was it of interest to Katya? The wheels in my addled brain were turning ever so slowly, the gears slipping badly.

Acting on a hunch, I retrieved Katya’s notes.

Just as I thought. Figuring prominently in many of the offshore corporations established on Guernsey were Geraskin & Associates.

The wheels were picking up speed, the gears starting to mesh.

Beside two of the corporate names there was a list of addresses scattered throughout the United Kingdom, addresses scribbled out by Marcus’s near-illegible hand. My hunch was morphing into a plan of action.

At that moment, if I’d listened carefully, I could probably have heard a faint cry from the office of Jack Temple telling me to stop biting off more than I could chew.

I had disappointed the man on so many occasions over the years, what could one more time hurt?

Twenty

Troubling Conclusions

London, England

Bright sunlight streamed through the aircraft’s Perspex porthole as the pilot banked on final approach to Heathrow Airport. Below, the Thames shone like a snake slithering through the heart of London. And among London’s sprawling metropolis of nine million inhabitants were four properties connected with Voronin. Including, I hoped, one named the Tyburn House, which I also hoped held another clue in my search for Nadiya.

Heathrow’s crowded concourses were as chaotic as ever. Suited businessmen with phones attached to ears sliced through throngs of colourfully dressed Africans transfixed by departure screens. Families chugged along from kerb to check-in pushing trolley trains loaded with mountains of suitcases. All the while airport personnel moved as if in a daze, anaesthetised to the cacophony of noise and bedlam surrounding them.

I made it to the kerb outside arrivals with only minimal bodily damage. However, the silky veil of oblivion provided by my friends in the green pill bottle had abandoned me. The bottle’s carcass lay in a shallow trash can in Belgrade beside a half-dozen just as empty beer bottles. What remained was a heightened sensitivity to light and sound, each piercing shriek of an unruly child like a pick-axe to an eardrum. Sunlight glinting off windshields pulsated through retinae too weak to resist, my brain searing like it’d been plopped on a hibachi grill.

Ryan had agreed to meet me at the airport, promising a tantalising update to the Russian mole saga. He was easy to spot, a head taller than the milling crowd, leaning against the front fender of a black Range Rover.

I tossed my bag onto the back seat as Ryan held the passenger door open for me, chauffeur style.

‘What, the Rolls was in the shop?’

‘You want a lift or not? Besides, this thing handles better than that old piece of crap. Don’t know why his lordship hangs on to it. It’s like trying to steer a bloody battleship. Nah, this is the ride.’

He patted the dashboard of the ten-year-old embassy vehicle as he got in, then pulled out into traffic with barely a glance.

‘Glad to see you survived your encounter with Voronin. You reduce him to a quivering mass of pudding with your sharp-edged questions? He surrendering to the war crimes tribunal at The Hague as we speak?’

‘Well, aren’t you in a gay old mood. No surrender, but our talk was very … enlightening.’

‘Really! Go on.’

‘First, can you turn the music down to a dull roar? My head’s about to explode.’

Ryan begrudgingly lowered the volume, and an Augie March tune faded into the background.

‘Your head still giving you problems?’

‘Without the pills, yes.’

‘Need to go easy on those things, mate.’

‘Thanks, Dr Purcell, for the excellent advice.’

‘Hey, I don’t want you to get addicted. You already being a dick is bad enough.’

He chuckled at his joke as he swerved from one lane to another. A chorus of horns greeted the move.

‘Fuckin’ English. Can’t drive worth a shit.’

Ryan learned to drive in Ouyen, a town with more sheep than cars, and where a herd of kangaroos constituted a traffic jam.

‘Yeah, hard to see them ever producing a Formula 1 driver worth a shit.’

‘Too right.’

My sarcasm missed its mark by a wider margin than Ryan missed the back bumper of a Saab station wagon.

‘Anyway. Long story short: Voronin threw down the gauntlet about the trafficking. Didn’t deny it, but also pointed out I couldn’t prove my case. And if I continued to dig, he said he’d send some heavies to have a chat with me. I got the impression that “chat” doesn’t mean the same thing in Russian as it does in English.’

‘So, you’re fucked then. Dead end, right?’

‘Not necessarily.’

Ryan didn’t need to hear about the deal I’d made with Daniela, that would just induce another scolding. I could do without the lecture on recklessness and involving other people in my schemes. I also didn’t want to hear it because he would most likely be right.

‘I picked up a vibe that he’s not too happy about being controlled by Russian Intelligence. If I had to guess, he’s more of a pawn in their games than a willing participant.’

‘Interesting. But it doesn’t mean much here anymore.’

‘How so?’

‘He’s dead.’

Ryan braked hard to avoid a collision with a gaggle of vehicles stopped at a red light. The M4 ended in Chiswick, but the switch to surface roads meant nothing to Ryan.

‘Who’s dead? Voronin?’

‘Nah, the mole. Branton Farnsworth. Hung himself in his room at the MI5 safe house. Marcus was pretty pissed off he hadn’t gotten a confession, but with the brother disappearing … well, it doesn’t take much to put two and two together.’

My head was reeling, and not just because of Ryan’s driving.

‘Slow down a minute, would you? Branton, the GCHQ cipher clerk?’

‘Yep.’

‘Killed himself?’

‘Bed sheet tied to a closet rod. Poor bastard had to sit down to make it work. Could’ve stood at any time, so he must have been bloody determined. Agents found him the next morning.’

‘CCTV in the room? Guards checking on him?’

‘Nope. Didn’t think he was a suicide risk, especially as he was protesting so loudly that he was innocent.’

‘And what happened to the brother?’

‘Like I said. Disappeared. Didn’t show up for work Friday morning. Signs of a hurried departure from his flat.’

‘And let me guess. They weren’t watching him either.’

‘What are you getting at?’

Good question. Was it just my journalistic instinct seeing a conspiracy at every turn? I wanted to believe there was a link to Voronin in this affair, but he did appear unconcerned by the loss of his asset at GCHQ. Or had plans already been made to snuff out any trace of his role?

‘I don’t know. It just seems all too easy.’

‘Come on. Do I need to stop and pick you up a tinfoil hat? Your research helped uncover a Russian mole. End of story. Stop being a bloody journo for once.’

Ryan swung the Range Rover off Uxbridge Road, barely missing a woman with a stroller, and into my street. He pulled to a stop with three wheels on the road and one on the footpath and slammed the gearshift into park.

‘Here you go. Home safe and sound. Oh, and before I forget, Marcus says thanks for the help. He doesn’t expect you’ll be needing his assistance any further. Think you pissed him off when you stuck him with the bill at the café.’

‘Good. He’s a pompous prick.’

‘Strange. I thought you two were a match made in heaven.’

Another chuckle from Ryan. He was in rare form today; must have received a commendation from MI5 for the Russian mole affair.

‘So, what’s next? Seems you’ve about exhausted all your leads in finding that girl, right?’

He lowered the passenger side window.

With feet back safely on solid ground, I leaned in.

‘I’ve still got a couple of things needing follow up.’

‘You know, you’ve got a strange look in your eye. Something’s gotten hold of you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, you’re as dogged as the next journo when it comes to a juicy story. But usually your enthusiasm wanes when either you stop getting paid or laid. No offence.’

He threw up in his hands in a defensive gesture and smiled.

‘None taken.’

I turned away with a grimace. The truth hurt.

‘Yeah, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say it was a sign of maturity.’

‘You do know I graduated into long pants many moons ago?’

‘Nah, something’s warmed your cold heart, and it’s not just that shitty coat you wear. I’m also glad you can dress yourself.’

‘Thanks, for the insight, Dr Freud. And the ride.’

‘No worries, Matt. Gotta run.’

Ryan tore away with a kerb-jumping U-turn back to Uxbridge Road. Caught in his wake was my Pakistani neighbour on his bicycle. Braking to avoid the Range Rover, Wasim tumbled over the handlebars and ended up sprawled on the road.

I rushed over and helped him to his feet.

‘Wasim, are you okay?’

‘What a bastard! Did you see that? He almost killed me! Was that a friend of yours?’

More than he’d ever know.

‘Nah, Uber.’

A microwaved lasagne filled the yawning chasm in my stomach and two cold Fuller’s London Pride slid down smoothly, yet neither had managed to subdue the pounding in my skull. It felt as if a shoe repair store had opened upstairs and a miniature tinker was putting in a lot of overtime.

It had been twenty-four days since the explosion. A quick calculation of prescription refills told me I’d taken sixty pills. An article online stated that taking Oxycodone for longer than two weeks significantly multiplied the risk of addiction. And an empty beer told me I needed a refill. I’d never been good at mathematics, but even I could put those statistics together.

So, cold turkey it would be – promise made. Then quickly back to work before debating whether it would be promise kept.

I rolled the cold bottle of Fuller’s finest across my forehead, waiting for search results to load. The fourth and final address – courtesy of Marcus’s scribble on Katya’s list – was of little interest: a storage facility in Millwall. The first three belonged to office buildings scattered across London.

Staring at the screen provided no insight. Surveying my barren living room provided no joy. I felt the walls closing in, slowly sucking the air from the room as I toiled in vain for a tangible link, for some sliver of hope to breathe new life into the search for Nadiya. What was I missing?

I paced the length of my drab home, from front door to kitchen and back again. Grabbing a Mick Herron novel off the hall table, I idly fanned the pages, hoping it would also fan the flames of inspiration.

Not for the first time, I rearranged the square pegs of my discoveries to force them into the round holes provided by Katya.

Four properties linked Voronin, through his lawyer, George Shubladze, to London. And Katya’s note linked Shubladze to a Tyburn House. All I’d discovered were three unexceptional real estate holdings. A warehouse on the Isle of Dogs that could’ve been purchased for any number of reasons. No mention of a Tyburn House.

I dropped the paperback onto the desk and, with a whiff of finality lingering, typed ‘Tyburn House’ into the search engine. A kitschy pub in Birmingham was the first hit and accounted for the next twenty results. But buried on page two was a notation that piqued my interest: a long-shuttered orphanage in Pimlico.

The tinker working upstairs downed tools. Mick Herron may even have shot me a sly wink. I read on.

Built in 1862, the Tyburn House was operated by the Church of England as an orphanage for girls as well as a training college for daughters of the clergy until the 1960s. Its name derived from the Tyburn River that once flowed from Hampstead through Regents Park to the Thames. Today, the long since culverted river still flows beneath the homes of Pimlico and empties into the Thames near Vauxhall Bridge.

I’d no interest in the lost rivers of London, but the next paragraph caught my eye. The building was saved from demolition in the 1980s when listed as a Grade II historical site. It was later sold in 1991 to a private investor who reopened the Tyburn House as an exclusive club for gentlemen. I’d even less interest in the pompous arseholes who thought private clubs for men were the ultimate in entertainment. Though keeping their ilk confined and separated from the general public did serve a legitimate purpose.

The article concluded with a note on the ownership having changed hands one last time in 2012. The change in ownership hadn’t affected the continued operation of the club; however, I drew a blank on a name.

Luckily, I knew someone who could solve my dilemma. It was after midnight, but Kat answered on the second ring.

‘Matt. Please tell me you want to come over for a quickie?’

Kat – Katherine Phelan – was a dour forty-something conspiracy theorist who worked in the archives department at the British Library. She also believed that we would make the perfect couple, and yours truly a worthy stepfather to her family of seven cats. Kat spent her evenings trawling through government databases searching for signs of an impending takeover by communist, jihadist, totalitarian – you name it – forces. If you could filter out the crazy, she was an excellent source for a wealth of hard-to-find information.

‘Sorry, love. Can’t tonight. I’m working on a story. But first, how are the kids?’

‘Just grand, though I had a scare with Sparkles last week. Poor dear was all bloated, off her food, thought the old bastard upstairs had poisoned her as he’d threatened. Turns out she was just constipated.’

Her running battle with the pensioner in the apartment above was the stuff of legend.

‘Well, that’s good. Glad everything came out okay.’

‘Come out it bloody did, alright. You’d have thought she’d eaten her weight in dodgy vindaloos.’

Time to steer this conversation back on course.

‘Kat, I need some help. If I give you an address, think you can track down the owners?’

‘Sure thing, anything for you, my love. Land Registry database is as simple as it gets.’

I gave her the address and patiently waited as she typed and nattered away to whichever cat was sitting on her lap.

‘Here it is. Offshore company – aren’t they bloody all these days? Probably Arabs, you wouldn’t believe how much of London they own. Mark my words …’

Interrupting her wouldn’t get me an answer any sooner, best to just let her ramble on.

‘… then we’ll be fucked. Yeah, mark my words. So, you want the name?’

‘Please. And then if you’d do me one last favour …’

Thanking Kat for her help, I hung up and stared at the name I’d jotted down. Not that I’d expected fireworks, but the discovery certainly buoyed my spirits.

Green Hill Holdings Pty. Ltd.

On the face of it, just another offshore company owning a valuable piece of London real estate, of which there was a multitude in today’s world. Except for the fact that I also knew – from Katya’s notes – the registered agent for Green Hill Holdings was Gersakin & Associates, and in particular, George Shubladze.

I twisted the top off of another beer and, noticing it was after two am, headed to bed knowing I faced another night of fitful sleep. Breaking free from my Oxy habit like a cicada shedding its skin was proving more difficult than I’d imagined. The throbbing in my temples was a pulsating techno beat. My mind refused to shut down. And tonight, it replayed over and over the growing number of threads requiring follow-up.

Voronin owned the Tyburn House, but for what purpose? What made it of importance to Katya? Did it involve Nadiya? And what of Daniela? Would she discover a link to Nadiya’s whereabouts? Is Nadiya still alive? Like Alice down the rabbit hole, my mind blindly followed, twisting, turning, in hot pursuit of answers.

I tossed and turned for hours, fighting for control. Then just before a welcome veil of sleep descended, a new question emerged, a rogue wave that put paid to any rest.

Why didn’t the notes added to Katya’s report include the Tyburn House address?

Twenty-One

A Simple Transfer of Ownership

I awoke to the sight of a majestic full moon. The French countryside, where not buried in shadow, shone blue. And the Mediterranean, glistening with phosphorescent threads of silver, had come alive. Every trough, every swell, every ripple on its roiling surface brought about a change of colour. When I reached out and cupped my hands beneath the giant orb hanging low in the sky, it was as if I could feel its immense weight.

My childlike innocence cracked Antun’s brooding countenance. A brief smile, then a comment about the quality of drugs I’d been given by Josko’s cousin in Genoa. I wasn’t sure what the capsules contained, nor did I care, but they had eased my craving for heroin.

While Antun slept, Josko’s cousin, Marinko, put us girls to work for the day. I was not the youngest or prettiest but proved to be the most popular. The most compliant. I wore that distinction like a badge of honour. After two years, I’d learned how to survive, how to avoid beatings – for the most part. The sooner you learn not to laugh at a customer’s size or softness, or when they ejaculate too soon or not at all, the longer you will live.

Exit signs for Montpellier flash past. Antun tells me we’ll be in Barcelona in three hours. My new home. I hold no illusions that this prison will be any better than the last. I also have no illusions that I will ever repay my debt. As before, my earnings will go towards meeting my daily needs, including drugs. And, as my habit grows, for that I am grateful.

Antun asks if I’ve ever been to Barcelona. I answer no, but have seen pictures in magazines. A sun-drenched city with expansive outdoor shopping malls, palm trees, beaches. I hope, with time, my new owner will allow me to explore the city. Perhaps work a street corner. I’ve yet to be trusted with that responsibility, mainly because the towns have been too small, too conspicuous, but also because I’d been trafficked against my will. Not a runaway, like many of the girls. They still worry that I will flee. A flight risk. Surely they know by now the short, sharp jab from a syringe delivers the only flight I crave.

I’ve all but given up hope that my family will find me. As the days turned into weeks, then months, now a third year, I view those bygone times as if watching a movie. One that brings back so many sad and painful memories that it is best to keep the film reel tucked away on a high shelf out of reach. Remembering the past creates only heartache and problems within this life. Of course, I can exit any time I choose. That is where I hold power over my owner. Why I can still hold my head high.

I control my life and when to end it.

The moon shrinks and fades as the sky brightens. A glowing yellow disc rises from the sea as we drive into the outskirts of the city. Tall apartment buildings appear ablaze as windows reflect the early morning rays. Antun rubs the sleep from his eyes as he guides the van carefully through light, early morning traffic. We pass exits for beaches, a zoo, the port of Barcelona, but I catch only the most fleeting of glimpses. At a large column, where the man high on top points out to sea, we turn in the opposite direction, and the broad, tree-lined avenues quickly disappear.

Antun makes one right turn after another as if circling his prey. All the while the streets shrink in size as the graffiti multiplies. Finally, he pulls into an alleyway that is barely wide enough for our vehicle and stops. A black man digging through a trash container stares at Antun as he jumps from the cab. He quickly averts his gaze and scampers away when Antun fixes him with a scowl and a cold stare. Antun knocks twice on a scratched metal door and it immediately swings open.

I lead the girls into the club’s darkened interior with Antun shepherding us from behind. Two burly men with crossed arms flank a small man leaning against the bar in the corner of the room. The small man steps forward and greets Antun with a handshake and a slap on the back.

Antun calls him Miguel, a strange little man with a lopsided grin. A ring of long, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail circles his bald head. Wary emerald-green eyes look in two different directions at once. I’ve experienced worse. He hands Antun a thick envelope, which Antun quickly thumbs through, before nodding his approval. I know it would take the slow giant all day to count that many bills, but anyone doing business with Josko knows not to get cute. There is no such thing as a second chance.

With this simple transfer of ownership complete, Antun retrieves our few pieces of baggage from the rear of the van. Miguel steps forward to inspect his merchandise. The other girls collapse into one another as they shy away from his touch. As the most experienced, I understand it is crucial to set a good example. I take him by the hand – it is cold and wet – and lead him to a leather armchair facing the muted television. He sits and places his hands on his thighs in anticipation as I kneel before him.

After the men’s needs have been sated, we are led upstairs. Crying from the room next to mine seeps through the thin walls. As I unpack my few belongings then fold and place them in the flimsy dresser, I realise that I never said goodbye to Antun.

Twenty-Two

Warren Zevon Comes Along for the Ride

London, England

Ryan had lost all patience with my persistent pleadings and his boiler blew.

‘They could have Cate Blanchett, Nicole Kidman and Margot fucking Robbie – bless her beautiful heart – where was I? Yeah, right, they could have them all tied up in the basement and I still couldn’t help you. Why can’t you get it through that fucking cracked skull of yours that I have no jurisdiction here?’

I trudged off towards the Serpentine to let his temperature drop a few degrees and to think of a new tack. It was a gloriously picturesque December day. A bright sun hung in the cobalt-blue sky, playing hide and seek with a handful of cotton-wool clouds, yet my mood was as dark and murky as the Thames. Sunglasses helped to hide that I’d had no sleep the night before, but did nothing for the millstone slowly circling inside my cranium.

‘I just want us to take a look at the place. What can that hurt? Maybe you, as a foreign diplomat, can talk your way into a tour of the club.’

‘You know who the members are, right?’

Unfortunately, all too well. The crème de la crème of British society. The Tyburn House kept a very select membership list. At my urgings, Kat had discovered anyone below the landed gentry class need not apply.

‘And foreign diplomat, my arse! I’m a glorified water boy that has the added indignity of having to babysit you. Look—’

Ryan stuffed his hands in his pockets, breathed deeply and used the toe of his shoe to play with the stones at his feet. If we’d been dating, I’d have thought he was about to break up with me.

‘Matt … I know you. I know how dogged you are when you get the scent of something. But the search for this girl is going nowhere. You’re not well. You’ve run out of leads. All you have left is this house, which is a long shot that no punter would ever put money on.’

He didn’t know about Daniela. I’d heard nothing from her since Belgrade. Was that just another long shot that would never pay off?

‘You were a great help in uncovering the mole. Can’t you be satisfied with that?’

The answer was no. Katya’s memory deserved more. But Ryan wouldn’t care – he’d made up his mind and nothing I could add would change that.

‘I’ll keep digging, no harm in that. Maybe something will come up with more research. But … I guess you’re right. I just hate the not knowing.’

‘I get it, Matt. I do. But look at it this way. Katya was a damn good spy, by all accounts, and even she couldn’t find her sister.’

For a split second it seemed all was silent, then London’s cacophony enveloped me again.

‘What did you say? How do you know she was a damn good spy?’

‘I don’t know. Overheard it, I guess. But the point is—’

‘Yeah, I get it. I should just let it go. Look, Ryan, I need to run. I’ll call you, okay?’

I brusquely turned and headed for the Tube. Not my smoothest exit, but if Ryan was miffed, he didn’t say anything. I needed time to think. Something about the conversation had put me on edge. Given me an itch I couldn’t scratch. A clue beyond my understanding.

Aziz was dressed all in black: jeans, sweatshirt, work boots and a beanie that almost covered his eyes. I’d asked if he was up for some surveillance work. He looked ready to join a SEAL Team exfiltration unit.

‘Did you get a car?’

‘No worries, Matt. I got wheels.’

‘And?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I get you pills.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate it. Just need a few of these to get me over the hump.’

I grabbed two pills from the green bottle and swallowed them dry. Aziz’s look of reproach, complete with arched eyebrows, was muted thanks to the beanie.

He led the way to an early model Ford Escort of indeterminate colour. Not due to darkness – there were just too many choices. It started on the second attempt with a belch but idled smoothly enough.

‘So, where we headed?’

‘Pimlico. A house on Aylesford Street.’

Aziz pulled away from the kerb without another word. We were back in Tunisia, running down a story. I hoped this chase ended better than the last. Rush hour had passed, which aided Aziz’s erratic driving. Under his breath, he whistled a Warren Zevon tune; ‘Poor Poor Pitiful Me’, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Thirty minutes later, he nosed the Escort into a parking space ten car lengths from the Tyburn House. Staid Regency apartments lined each side of the road, one luxury vehicle after another parked nose to tail. Along one side, a column of plane trees stretched the length of the street. A petite garden park separated the Tyburn House from the nearest apartment block.

Street lighting illuminated the three-storey building’s red-brick façade. The soft glow of interior lighting shone from the box frame windows facing the park and street. Two chimney turrets on the sharply pitched roof let loose a thin stream of smoke into the ink-black night sky.

‘You wait here. I’m going to get a closer look.’

I’d called earlier that afternoon to be informed membership was strictly by invitation only. A request for a guided tour had been met with indifference and an increased sense of wariness.

The entryway lay couched in shadows. A single wooden door, which could have used a coat of paint, looked sturdy enough to repel an invading horde of angry villagers. And if not, the tuxedoed oxen with a bullet-shaped head and no neck protecting the entrance could ably serve as reinforcement.

I sidled up and flashed him my most disarming smile.

‘Wot da fuck ya want?’

‘Just waiting.’

‘Waitin’ for wot?’

‘For who.’

‘Wot?’

The good boat Small Talk had swiftly run aground, not aided by his East End accent, which was almost impossible to decipher.

‘It’s “who” I’m waiting for. My uncle.’

‘Why?’

Well, that was progress … I guess. Kat prepped me with a couple of names from an old membership list she’d been able to winkle out of records. I’d hoped tossing out one or two who were still alive could get me inside.

‘He’s invited me to the club for the evening.’

‘No ’e ’asn’t.’

‘How would you know? I haven’t even mentioned his name.’

‘’Cos da club don’t allow no visitors, dat’s why.’

I hadn’t thought of that eventuality. Which made me wonder, what type of club didn’t allow visitors? Pushing the question aside, I tried one last approach.

‘Listen, I didn’t catch your name—’

‘Fuck orf.’

‘Surely that’s not your name.’

‘I said, fuck orf! So, get the fuck outta ’ere before I ’ave to explain furva.’

Fuck Off’s chest expanded a few sizes as he advanced. A balled-up fist, approximately the size of my head, convinced me our conversation was over.

Back at the Escort, Aziz bristled with indignation when I explained what had happened.

‘Bastard. Talking to you like that. I bury him and, and … build a stage with his bones.’

Good to see Aziz was able to work in more Zevon.

‘Easy there, excitable one. Let’s take a look around back. Maybe there’s another way to get inside.’

He slammed the Escort into drive and cruised slowly past Fuck Off the Doorman, who’d gone back to watching the hair grow on his knuckles. I mouthed the words to ‘Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner’ in time to Aziz’s melodic humming.

A cramped loading dock led to the rear entrance. Reversed in to the only space was a white Ford Transit van with no markings. If it belonged to a delivery service, they cared little for advertising. What caught my attention, though, were the two men on the dock at each side of the vehicle. Not loading or unloading, just standing guard.

My journalist’s intuition connected with every phone tower within a twenty-kilometre radius and beamed in at full strength. Though without being able to get inside to investigate, what it all meant was just pure supposition.

I settled on the next best thing.

‘Get comfortable, Aziz. We’ll wait here for the van to leave.’

A poke in the ribs from Aziz woke me from a much-needed nap. The Escort’s dashboard clock showed 11:17. Across the road, the two guards were opening the rear doors to the van. From our vantage point, we couldn’t see what they’d loaded, but barely two minutes later, the doors swung shut and the van pulled away from the loading dock.

‘You know what to do, Aziz.’

Aziz gave the van a decent head start then followed at a respectful distance. We drove north along Grosvenor Road along the banks of the Thames before crossing Lambeth Bridge. From Lambeth Road to Garden Row, left on London Road, then right onto Borough Road. The van was taking a circuitous route through Kennington but was now heading back towards the Thames and Southwark Bridge.

The two Oxy helped me get some rest and cleared my mind enough to start putting together some of the scraps of information accumulated over the past few days.

‘Give them plenty of space, Aziz. If my hunch is correct, we’ll cross Southwark Bridge and head east.’

It was Ryan’s comment about Katya being an excellent spy that first climbed out of the depths to help me see the light. That led to the connection between seemingly disparate London properties associated with Voronin and his hesitant tone regarding his relationship with Russian Intelligence.

‘You right, Matt. They head east. We going to the Tower of London? Place give me heaps of jeeps.’

‘No tourist traps on this trip, Aziz.’

I hoped no traps – period.

The van skirted the roundabout at Westferry Circus heading southward.

‘Is a dead end down here, Matt. We must be close.’

Aziz was correct. We’d entered the Isle of Dogs, London’s largely redeveloped dockland area. The van pulled to a stop beside one of the few remaining warehouses that backed onto the Millwall Inner Dock. A quick check of the address confirmed my hunch – it matched one on Katya’s list.

The passenger door opened and one of the two men jumped from the cabin and unlocked the chain-link gates. Once the truck was through, he swung them shut, reattached the lock and climbed back into the cabin. I waited until they’d disappeared behind the building before making a move.

‘Wait here, Aziz, and keep the engine running.’

All was quiet on the street, the gentle lapping of water against pylons the only noise. The smell of rotting marine life and diesel fumes filled the air. I could make out the city’s lights reflecting off the water’s smooth-as-glass surface from between the buildings.

Climbing the three-metre-high fence, thankfully not topped with razor wire, gave me no trouble. I crept along the side of the aluminium-clad structure to the back corner. A quick peek revealed the Transit van backed in at an angle to the rear doors of the warehouse. Both back doors were open. A light shone from inside the squat structure, but I saw no sign of movement.

I was within twenty metres of the vehicle, but, with only open ground between me and it, I couldn’t risk getting any closer. I ducked low against the side of the building, keeping to the shadows, and waited.

Moments later a muffled voice drifted towards me.

‘What is it, Rex?’

I hoped Rex was the voice’s human partner. A low growl told me I was wrong. I chanced one last look. The driver of the van was straining to hold back a black mass full of snarling teeth. A second before he dropped the leash, a small boy peered out from behind the doors of the van.

It was barely forty metres back to the chain-link fence, but even with arms and legs pumping at a furious pace, I knew the smart money was on Rex. If my life flashed before my eyes, I was moving too fast to see it. From two metres away, I took a running jump at the fence and landed with a clatter halfway up. My heart was pumping so hard I thought it might burst. Rex, attaching himself to my calf, quickly changed my priorities. Still a half-metre from the top, I continued to climb as best I could, Rex in tow. I felt the skin tear along my calf as I hooked one arm over the top of the fence, the weight of Rex like an anchor. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the crack of a pistol shot rang out.

‘The fuck! Stop shooting, you’ll hit Rex.’

The shooter swore in frustration. Then both men began running.

Aziz, having watched the commotion, pulled the Escort up to the gate, but from my side of the fence, it seemed a bridge – or Ford – too far.

Unable to shake loose from Rex, I felt my grip weakening. The clamping of the Rottweiler’s jaws tore my pants and calf in equal measure. I kicked furiously at his muzzle with my free leg, missing more times than I connected. The sound of pounding feet got closer. Arms cramped with the strain. I kicked again, this time catching Rex square on the nose.

With a sickening yelp, the dog dropped to the ground and I scrambled over the fence. Gunfire erupted, bullets thudding into the rear of the Ford as I launched myself into the front seat.

‘Holy shit, Matt! You okay?’

‘Drive, Aziz. Get us the hell out of here.’

Aziz all but stomped his foot through the firewall and the sound of gunfire faded into the distance. Relief turned to panic, however, as I watched the van crash through the locked gates, followed closely by Rex.

‘Stay on the gas. Here they come.’

‘No worries, Matt. Remember Tunisia.’

Not fondly.

‘And they not got machine guns this time.’

He whipped the wheel from left to right and back to the left, taking one corner after another, heading north and away from Millwall. The Escort wasn’t the nimblest of vehicles, but the Transit van was far worse. Rex quickly discovered he lacked the required top-end speed and lost interest. The distance between us was slowly beginning to increase when the back window shattered.

‘Fuckers! They shooting at us again! How am I going to return car to Mr Suluoglu like this?’

‘Don’t worry about that now. Just drive.’

Aziz mumbled something about lawyers, guns and money, but I was more concerned with the creeping pain in my calf. My pant leg was torn to shreds, sock soaked in blood. I could barely lift my foot from the floorboard. Applying weight brought on a sharp pain and an ominous squelching sound in my shoe. I looked up to see headlights approaching fast to my left before everything became a slow-motion blur.

A stop sign. Aziz punching the accelerator. A Renault sedan thrown into a spin. Aziz swerving right. The rear of the Renault clipping our passenger side. Side mirror torn away. Then Aziz calmly continuing straight ahead.

Behind us, the intersection lay strewn with stalled cars blocking the Transit van’s progress.

‘We lose him, Matt. Told you I take care of him.’

‘Great, Aziz. Now get me to a hospital.’

Three hours, a dozen stitches and a tetanus shot and rabies vaccine pumped into me, I was released into the wild.

Aziz sat on the hood of the Escort, arms crossed, crestfallen. The car’s back and side windows could be easily replaced, along with the side mirror. The bodywork on the passenger side would entail a slightly more substantial repair bill.

‘Mr Suluoglu kill me.’

‘I’ll explain to him what happened, Aziz. Don’t you worry. And I’ll pay for the damage.’

‘You will? You the greatest, Matt.’

Before the lovefest reached unsustainable levels, I threw a wet blanket over his reverie.

‘Take me home. My leg is fucking killing me and I’ve work to do.’

Aziz maintained total silence on the ride back to Shepherd’s Bush from the Royal London Hospital, not one Warren Zevon reference uttered, while I quietly seethed from the passenger seat. The aching pain of my leg mingled with the realisation of what I’d seen and of who it implicated.

I had a day to recuperate. The day after was Thursday – club night.

And I’d be waiting.

Twenty-Three

A Clumsy Unmasking but a Strong Left Foot

I spent the next twenty-four hours, as Roger Waters might say, comfortably numb. Royal London’s addition to my Oxycodone stockpile was generous, if nothing else. The collection of pills at my disposal was an embarrassment of riches tinged with a heaping dose of guilt. My lacerated calf was stiff, but nothing that would unduly slow me down. A bonus was that I had no pain associated with my head injury. A medicated mind and twenty hours spent staring at the ceiling solving life’s mysteries had worked wonders.

Although there was one image I couldn’t erase, the vision of the little boy peeking out from behind the Transit van. He reminded me of Maxim. In some ways, of my Trevor. He was every innocent child that deserved more from life. The boy being at the warehouse explained Voronin’s reluctance in appeasing his masters, but that Russian bastard’s complicity could not, and would not, go unpunished. All that remained was to expose these evil pricks to the world.

Though I now realised, much to my chagrin, that Katya’s London leads had nothing to do with Nadiya’s whereabouts. This was something even more sinister, the trafficking of children.

And could it be this discovery is what led to her death?

Only one way to find out.

Twenty minutes under a blistering shower, followed by a takeaway dinner of Cornish pastie and chips from the main street’s pie shop, primed me for action. I strode down Uxbridge Road, albeit with a slight limp, full of piss and vinegar. I popped one last Oxy while waiting for the Circle Line train at Shepherds Bush Market Station. A busker on the platform sang a Passenger song not half badly. Some cosmic symmetry there, a busker singing a former busker’s hits. I tossed him a coin before climbing aboard.

After transferring platforms at Victoria Station, I arrived at Pimlico before I’d a chance to decipher the graffiti on the carriage’s windows. From Pimlico, it was barely a two-minute stroll to the park adjacent to the Tyburn House. The lights on Aylesbury Road illuminated the footpath but failed to penetrate the park’s deep shadows. With a clear view of the club’s front entrance, I wrapped my pea coat tighter around me and nestled against the trunk of a tall elm. As I stared up into the cloudless night sky, the words of the Passenger song ran through my mind. Were the little lights shining above twinkling brighter? Or were they slowly dying out as the opportunities to find Nadiya slipped away? And what of my efforts to find Katya’s killer? Would tonight’s confrontation bring closure? I mused on those thoughts until I wasn’t sure if I’d understood the lyrics correctly or if I’d popped one too many pills.

The sharp retort of a car horn woke me from a hazy slumber. I rubbed my palms over my face and checked the time – 10:08. I’d lost over an hour and silently cursed my stupidity. I’d no idea if the person I sought was safely inside the club or not.

Berating myself brought my senses back to life, but didn’t help my dilemma. Out front, Fuck Off the Doorman bounced sporadically from one foot to the other to ward off the night’s chill. I was pacing, debating what to do, when Lady Luck appeared like a vision in the night and planted a big wet kiss squarely on my mouth.

Emerging from a cab at the club’s entrance was a well-dressed man in his mid-forties with wavy brown hair. He passed the burly doorman without acknowledgement and entered the club. I’d give the lying, treacherous bastard thirty minutes to get comfortable, then I’d make my move.

The story of the hastily discovered mole never had sat right. My ‘I smell a coverup’ senses had reached overload with the death of Branton Farnsworth, but I’d ignored them, too focused on my hunt for Nadiya. The all too convenient disappearance of his brother only compounded my doubts. And, in hindsight, explained Katya’s failed rogue operation targeting a nightclub in Kharkiv.

Ten thirty. I’d waited long enough. I pushed the nagging doubt that I had no exit strategy out of mind and strode purposefully towards the doorman.

‘Hey. Good to see you again. How are you doing tonight?’

The bull guarding the entrance turned at the sound of my voice, his face alternating between a scowl and puzzlement.

I wasn’t particularly good at sports as a child but enjoyed kicking a football around embassy grounds. I’d also learned from numerous television cop shows how critical the element of surprise is.

I closed the distance with a loping stride. Recognition still hadn’t registered with Fuck Off, his synapses struggling to connect the dots. And before he’d put two alongside another two, I’d reared back with my left leg and delivered the best punt of my life squarely between his legs. The key to distance is the follow through, and I gave it my all. The stitches in my right calf threatened to tear as I extended onto tiptoes.

It was like watching the demolition of a fifteen-storey building, a perfectly timed detonation that dropped the doorman to his knees before crumpling in a heap to one side.

Assuming he didn’t have balls of steel, I had five minutes maximum to discover the truth of the Tyburn House.

I rushed through the front door and into a cavernous bar and lounge area. Floor-to-ceiling drapes blocked outside views. Thick carpeting muffled all sound except for the tinkling of dishes from the kitchen area behind the bar. Scattered about the room were a half-dozen over-stuffed leather armchairs. Lost in their cushions were the same number of stuffed shirts topped with white hair, sucking on cigars and cradling whiskeys before an open fire. The bartender barely had time to acknowledge my appearance before I’d bounded up the stairs to the second floor. Lining the walls were bookshelves forming an expansive library. Leather chairs and sofas comprised a cosy reading area. In the centre of the room, a glass case displayed antique coins. In the far corner, a table of four men played cards, none of them my quarry. I raced up the next flight of stairs to the third floor. Time was running out.

A doorway on the landing blocked my progress. I tested the handle. Locked. Once again, I put my left leg to use. The lock gave way with barely a whimper.

A corridor lay before me with five doors to each side. The bastard had to occupy one of them. Three minutes had elapsed. Fuck Off, with crushed testicles in tow, would soon be hobbling up the stairs in hot pursuit.

The first room was empty, a double bed and dresser the only furniture in the compact space. In the second, a grey-haired man wearing only saggy white boxer-shorts gasped as I flung open the door. The young naked girl whose hair he was brushing flashed me a coquettish smile. The man looked vaguely familiar, but putting a name to the face could wait.

I struck gold – or better put, filth – inside the third room. Marcus Ferguson lay spread-eagled – and naked – across a four-poster bed. A young boy, no more than ten years of age, straddled him as he rubbed oil into his back. I grabbed the boy by the arm and flung him towards the door with more force than he deserved.

‘Get out!’

The boy scampered from the room and I slammed the door shut behind him.

‘Hey, steady on! What the—’

Marcus raised up on his elbows and turned. When our eyes met, he knew that his death knell had just sounded. I drove a fist into his jaw just to make sure he got the message.

Giving him no time to compose himself, I dove right in with my questions. I knew the answers but wanted to hear them coming from his mouth.

‘It was you all along, wasn’t it? You’re the fucking mole. And why? Blackmail? Voronin caught you in his kiddie- sized honeypot, didn’t he?’

‘Please, Matt. I … I …’

Another left to the jaw cured his stammer. I felt several teeth give way. A ribbon of blood mixed with saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth.

‘You first tried to silence Voronin in Kharkiv to get out from under his thumb. When that failed and you knew I was closing in, poor Farnsworth was set up to take the fall.’

Marcus spat two teeth onto the carpet and wearily shook his head in the negative, though it may just have been to clear away the cobwebs.

‘Matt … you don’t understand.’

Then a look of confusion.

‘Kharkiv?’

Pounding footsteps on the stairs grabbed my attention. I had time to escape, but nowhere to run.

Marcus lay on the bed, his head hanging over the edge, neck exposed to the executioner. There was a note of resignation in his voice.

‘Once I realised the club was a set-up I … I tried reasoning with him. What was I to do? What of my family? It would ruin my legacy. But it wasn’t—’

‘Your legacy? What about the poor kids you’re buggering?’

‘No! Listen! It’s not like that. We don’t have sex. It’s … it’s just companionship. What kind of monster do you think I am?’

I heard shouting in the hallway. A young girl’s scream. Footsteps getting closer.

‘Spare me the righteousness, Marcus. You’ve committed treason. People are dead. For all I care, you can shove that indignation right up your pompous—’

‘You’re right, you’re right! But I swear to you, I had nothing to do with what happened in Kharkiv!’

The door burst open with a loud crack and multiple arms grabbed me from behind. Before I could turn, a bag was thrown over my head. They rushed me from the room with not a word spoken. I flew down two flights of stairs, feet barely touching carpet, then a rush of cold air greeted me.

‘For fuck’s sake, get rid of him would you.’

The voice was English, one I didn’t recognise. The stinging blow to my head was swift, loss of consciousness assured.

Twenty-Four

Something Sour & Vile

The distant tolling of a bell dragged me back to the land of the living. I was being held captive, but where? As my vision cleared, I noticed my cell contained walnut bookshelves and a large teak desk. And my prison cot was a somewhat comfortable leather couch. Where in hell was I? Sunlight streamed through a four-paned window. I couldn’t be sure if it was morning or afternoon. I just hoped it was Friday. I’d already lost enough time over the past week.

Attempting a sitting position wasn’t on the cards. I stifled a weak moan as my head reconnected with the armrest.

‘Ah, our antagonist awakes. You want to read him the fucking Riot Act, or shall I?’

‘I’d like to take care of this, sir. If I may have a few moments alone?’

‘Make it quick. I’ve got a right cock-up on my hands, thanks to this … this …’

Whatever descriptor the mystery voice was going to anoint me with went unspoken. For now, alive would have to suffice. However, the second voice settled my anxiety.

‘Ryan?’

‘Have a nice nap?’

‘Where am I? What happened?’

My head was still pounding from the blow I’d sustained. I took it as a good sign that the pain radiated from a different location than my fracture.

‘You’re at MI5 headquarters. Office of the Assistant to the Director-General. And he wants your guts for garters.’

‘Tell him I found his mole. It’s Marcus Ferguson. And I uncovered a Russian honey-pot operation working out of—’

‘You don’t think we already knew that, you dumbarse? For fuck’s sake. I told you to stay away, didn’t I? Now I’m stuck explaining how a journalist managed to bust into the place before MI5 could mount a raid.’

‘So they knew Marcus was lying?’

‘Not exactly. Not until you came up with the link to the Tyburn House. And just as they’re ready to bust the door down, guess who waltzes up to the front entrance? By the way, nice left-footer to the nuts. Even I felt squeamish, watching on CCTV.’

I let the backhanded compliment slide.

‘So, I uncover a Russian agent and the Russians’ den for subverting others, and I’m the bad guy?’

‘You forget, Matt. You’re a journalist. You uncovered a major Russian plot to spy on the British Government right under Scotland Yard’s and MI5’s noses. Have you any idea how many judges, MPs, MI5 and Six agents, and fuck knows who else, are members of that club? You think they want that getting into the press?’

‘What, they going to make me disappear? The rendition days are over, Ryan.’

‘Yeah, you keep thinking that pleasant thought, Pollyanna.’

Ryan’s words had the desired effect. I shrank in on myself, knowing the dark capabilities of today’s governments.

I adopted a more conciliatory tone.

‘Where do we go from here?’

‘I’m not done. First, how did you know he’d show last night?’

‘I wasn’t sure he would. I just knew someone would. Thursday night is club night, right?’

Now I had Ryan on the back foot.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Regency Café, remember? You both mentioned Thursday as your club night. Plus, your insistence that I drop my investigation—’

‘And you thought I … You think I’d be seen dead in one of those places? Do I look the type to drink sherry, read The Times and spout on about the good old colonial days?’

‘But club night?’

‘Firstly, fuck you for even doubting me for a second. Secondly, I go dancing.’

Ryan turned from me to hide his embarrassment, staring out the window. Over his shoulder, the clock face of Big Ben loomed in the distance.

‘To a Portuguese club in Clapham. I … I took a liking to it when stationed in Lisbon.’

Only two things stopped me from busting a gut laughing: knowing I’d seriously considered my best friend could’ve been the mole, and the return of the ADG. I had some serious fence-mending ahead of me. Though not with the ADG; whether he realised it or not, I’d served him up a Russian honey-pot operation and a double agent on a silver platter.

I got my first good look at the Assistant Director-General as he strode back into the room: mid-fifties; my height; weather-beaten face; nose that had been broken at some point and not reset correctly; slightly overweight but he carried it well; and a laser-like glare that could bore holes through masonry. He looked like he’d played some rugby in his day and wasn’t afraid to get in a scrap. I had a feeling my theory was about to be put to the test.

‘I trust you two have had a nice chat. Now, down to business.’

‘Hold it there just a minute. The way I see it, you’ve got a double agent in custody. You’ve shut down a house run by Russian Intelligence. Plus, you’ve put paid to a paedophile ring. Not to mention a number of “club members” to interrogate to see if they’ve been compromised. And all of it thanks to me.’

I paced unsteadily across the room but felt quite pleased with my speech. The ADG had stocked his bookcase to the brim with heavy tomes and I leafed through a leather-bound volume as I waited for his heartfelt word of thanks.

‘Is that right? What I see is an MI5 agent taking early retirement and a dozen young children found in a warehouse in Millwall placed under the Crown’s care. A house in Pimlico that will be quietly shutdown. And an Australian journalist caught in a seedy club chock full of naked, underaged children.’

The disillusioned sigh that emanated from Ryan was one I’d heard all too often.

‘Of course, thanks to Ryan’s intervention, we now know of your pedigree. Please say hello to your father for me. Our paths have crossed once or twice in the past.’

As I attempted to squeeze the words from a volume of Jules Verne’s collected works, I wondered if the sound of my grinding teeth was audible.

‘Don’t get me wrong, we do appreciate your help in this matter, Mr Latham. A matter which, for all intents and purposes, we now consider closed.’

He let out a harrumph that I presumed was a laugh.

‘You understand that no reporting of this affair shall take place in any form. And assuming you agree, which you will, I’ll make sure the charges against you never see the light of day.’

‘That’s it? You sweep the whole thing under the rug and pretend it never happened?’

‘Matt, let it go.’

Ryan stepped between myself and the ADG.

I wasn’t going to screw up my deal. I knew he had me over a barrel, but I also wanted to get in one or two parting shots. I also would’ve liked to take a shot at straightening his nose but my fist was still sore from the dental work I’d performed on Marcus.

‘Don’t be so naive, Mr Latham. There is no upside for us in making this affair public. The embarrassment it will cause merely to shame one Russian national? No, I think not. But don’t get me wrong; what is noted by the public will be a mere fraction of the actions we, as an intelligence agency, shall take. Marcus Ferguson will never see the title he feels is his due. Nor will he set foot beyond his family’s grounds. A severe nervous breakdown, I suspect. Any other persons compromised by the Russians will be weeded out in due course. And, of course, the Russians will know that we know.’

‘And if they then decide to publicise the affair?’

‘I doubt they will. In fact, I’m willing to bet on it. Why expose the shame of a failed mission? Plus, we’ll then pursue sanctions against the owner of the Tyburn House and the warehouse in Millwall – Arkady Voronin, whom, I believe, they value greatly.’

Something sour and vile had settled in the pit of my stomach. Any hope I had of applying pressure to Voronin using this affair had floated out to sea on an ebbing Thames tide. If I tried to implicate Voronin by bringing the Tyburn House affair to light, it would only serve to dredge up the charges MI5 held over my head.

‘Good day, gentlemen. I have a lord of the realm with whom I need to have a chat.’

An aide to the ADG escorted Ryan and me from the building.

We walked a block towards the Thames and into Victoria Tower Gardens before either of us uttered a word. Ryan was the first to break the silence.

‘So, what now?’

We leaned against the concrete barrier and watched a barge slowly motor by. A flock of seagulls followed closely in its wake, hoping the engines churned up something of interest.

‘See those gulls? That’s how I feel. Just turning in circles, hoping for something to float to the surface.’

‘Go home. Rest.’

I sighed. There was a hint of resignation in my voice when I replied.

‘Yeah, I’ve not much else to do. And Ryan …’

Finding the words to explain myself, how I could’ve possibly thought Ryan was involved, were proving elusive. Probably because I’d so little practice.

‘You don’t need to say it. We’re mates. Always will be. And as for you?’

He turned, one elbow resting on the balustrade, and gave me an appraising stare.

‘You either do something spectacular or you spectacularly fuck up. Funny thing is, either way, you always leave me a huge bloody mess to clean up.’

We shared a laugh.

Then he punched me on the shoulder with a force that set my fingers to tingling.

‘Later, mate.’

With eyes downcast, he strode purposefully towards Westminster Bridge.

I stared at his back until he was swallowed up in the midday crowd, then withdrew the pill bottle from my pants pocket. I’d every intention of throwing it into the river, but the gravitational pull of taking just one more for the road – then weighing the need for more than one – was intense. Blaming the pills for my lack of judgement in regards to Ryan was a convenient excuse, and that was something in which I’d plenty of practice. Over the years, I’d perfected finding handy scapegoats for my actions. The Oxy was just the latest in a long line.

The ringing of my phone saved me from having to make a decision. I slipped the bottle back into my pocket, checked the screen for caller ID, and felt my hopes soar.

‘Daniela! Talk to me. What have you discovered?’

The desperation in my voice was palpable. I was a drowning man clutching for the only remaining life vest.

‘Mr Latham. Strange that we should be speaking again so soon, don’t you think?’

Voronin.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. A stream of ice water burst from my heart.

‘What have you done with Daniela? Let me speak with her.’

‘In a moment, Mr Latham. But first, we talk. Was I not clear about what would happen if you continued to meddle? First, I discover Daniela prying into my affairs where she knows she is not welcome. Then, just as we are about to have a little talk, I’m given the news of a raid by British Secret Service on two of my properties. Quite the coincidence. Would you care to elaborate?’

I was seething, speechless, feeling completely powerless. My mind wasn’t reacting fast enough to counteract Voronin’s insinuations.

‘No, I didn’t think so. I warned you what would happen, Mr Latham.’

‘London had nothing to do with Daniela. It was me, I found the connection to you and your Russian mole.’

The words spewed out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to weigh the implications.

‘That is very noble. But, alas, now you too have become more of a problem. Working in your favour is that I didn’t care how my partners operated their clandestine venture on British soil – I merely supplied the assets. So, here’s what we shall do. As long as my name remains buried, you will continue to breathe.’

‘Your generosity is awe inspiring.’

His shrill, girlish laugh made me see red with rage.

‘You Australians have made sarcasm an art form. Now, say goodbye to Daniela. As I said, Mr Latham, I am a man of my word and Daniela knew the penalty for betrayal.’

This wasn’t happening. I spun around, looking for … for what? A pigeon stared at me from the balustrade. A young girl sitting on a park bench typed away on her phone, oblivious to my situation. Two joggers passed by, enjoying their lunchtime run.

‘Matt? I’m sorry I could not help you find Yulia.’

Her voice sounded strained, weak.

‘Daniela! Daniela, I … I’m so sorry.’

The sound of a struggle. The phone ripped from her grasp.

‘How sweet that you are sorry. Take this as a final warning, Mr Latham.’

Voronin placed the phone on speaker. I could hear Daniela screaming in the near distance. Begging for mercy. The dull thump of blows landing.

‘No, stop, that is no longer necessary.’

Then Voronin speaking into the phone.

‘For Daniela, I promised to make this quick. A bullet to the back of the head, in the finest Russian tradition, I think. Shall I give you a blow by blow of the action? It is a shame you couldn’t be here.’

I wanted to throw the phone as far as I could into the river, but couldn’t pull it away from my ear.

‘She is on her knees, Mr Latham. We’ve had to tape her mouth as her screams were beginning to bring on one of my micro headaches. She is now pleading with my gunman. Such a shame that he’s a psychopath who enjoys his work.’

‘Stop it, please. Please, don’t kill her. I beg you.’

Tears streamed down my face. I pulled at my hair in a vain attempt at making this nightmare stop.

‘Too late, Mr Latham. Oh … oh, dear. She has lost control of her bladder. Such a mess.’

Daniela’s muffled screams died away and heart-wrenching sobs took their place.

‘Now, Mikel, please. I can’t bear to hear her cry.’

‘Don’t do it, Voronin!’

The sound of a gunshot echoed off the walls, through the airwaves and into my ear. I fell to my knees, screaming into the void. Pigeons scattered. The young girl on the bench stopped typing and looked up in dismay.

‘You’ve been warned for the last time, Mr Latham. Goodbye.’

‘I’ll fucking kill you! You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you, you bastard!’

The line had long since gone dead.

I slumped against the concrete balustrade and stared down into the Thames. Plastic bottles, driftwood, a block of foam floated past on the incoming tide. Daniela’s final words drifted by too. The last she would speak. I’d killed her.

And I was no closer to finding Nadiya. No closer to fulfilling Katya’s quest.

Then it came to me—

Daniela’s final words: ‘I’m sorry I could not help you find Yulia.’

Not, Nadiya. Yulia. The safe word we’d established if she was in danger. My mind flashed back to the limousine in Belgrade. After we’d exchanged numbers, I added an extra means of communicating if she felt unable to speak freely.

I flicked through applications on my phone to the email service established by Katya. My fingers shook as I typed in the address, fumbling over the password. Incorrect. I took a deep breath and tried again. The screen changed from white to blue, and a menu appeared. The number one showed in the draft folder. The unsent message contained instructions along with a name and phone number.

‘Can I borrow a pen, please?’

The young girl on the bench blanched at my approach, then shuffled along the bench to add some distance before handing me a pen from her purse.

I scribbled down Daniela’s message on my forearm before deleting the email then held out the pen to the young girl and smiled meekly, my demeanour transformed from psychotic to merely manic.

‘Thank you.’

‘You can keep it.’

She leaned away as if I had leprosy.

With hair in disarray, pallid skin, dark circles under my eyes, pea coat ragged and torn, and pants stained with blood from a seeping calf wound, leprosy may have been overselling my appearance.

Twenty-Five

The Castle Upon the Hill

During summertime, our building’s rooftop transformed into a tropical oasis far removed from our hellish lives on the floors below. The bar’s owner, Miguel, provided deckchairs for us to lounge under the piercing Spanish sun. And when our pale skin began to turn pink, the shade from two palm trees encased in large wooden planters provided a welcome respite.

Rough concrete-block walls two metres high shielded us from the surrounding buildings and their prying eyes. Only the castle on the hill of Montjuïc cut into the infinite azure sky. The walls were our prison, but the castle our escape. Nika – a blonde-haired runaway from Minsk – told stories of a prince who lived there. A most handsome prince who would one day ride down from the hilltop into the city, scale the dun-coloured walls of our captors and become our saviour. We would be free to live out our lives in luxury in that castle upon the hill.

Each of us knew it was a fantasy, an improbable dream, but so much more desirable than our reality.

On those summer days, for our few hours in the sun, Esteban, our protector, served us drinks when we wished and pills depending on our moods. It was easy to think of him as an attentive cabana boy complying with our every whim. Much better that than our prison guard. Scaling the walls and jumping meant instant death on the cramped alleyways below. Except for the side which led to an adjoining rooftop and, if not for Esteban, freedom.

This evening, as I hold tightly to the blanket wrapped around my shoulders to ward off the chill, summer seems a distant memory. Whether due to the stark contrast in seasons or my body’s diminished state, the Barcelona winter tears through me worse than any storm raging across the Ukrainian steppe. And in the wintry gloom, the rooftop reverts to the unwelcome enclosed compound it has always been, all pretence of an oasis stripped away. Even the palm fronds, buffeted by the wind, dip low as if seeking shelter, wishing they too could be elsewhere.

I pace, sucking greedily on a French cigarette that has lost its bite. My taste buds, like all of my senses, respond only to one stimulus of late. Esteban shelters in the doorway watching my every move. He nods to let me know I may smoke one more Gitanes before returning to work. The tips glow red as I connect new to old, then crush the life from the spent cigarette into the soft earth of the planter. One inhalation filling my lungs with smoke, three steps towards the edge of my world, one more exhalation to set it free.

Lights from the castle twinkle in the clear night, but I know no prince will be making a gallant trip on horseback to save me. Fairy tales do not come true for girls such as I.

Miguel informed me and three others this afternoon that, for one of us, our time here in Barcelona may be coming to an end. A suitor, of sorts, is looking to purchase a girl matching our description. I hold out little illusion that it will lead to a better life. From southern Macedonia to the Croatian coast, to Barcelona, to wherever the next stop may be, it doesn’t matter. My life will continue to drain away faster than my debt.

Twenty-Six

A Modern-Day Pied Piper

Barcelona, Spain

A brisk northerly hurtled down La Rambla, sweeping clean the pedestrian thoroughfare. The day’s accumulated debris swirled past plane trees, danced around advertising kiosks and darted between the legs of the few tourists braving the biting wind. The soft glow of lighting from the many tapas bars dotted the route. Inside, late on this winter’s evening, their warmth beckoned.

Turning west off La Rambla onto Carrer de l’Hospital led into the Raval district. Street lights dimmed the further west I ventured, fashionable bars disappearing in an instant. The cheerful north Africans selling their wares from makeshift stalls on La Rambla replaced by wary north Africans in darkened doorways selling themselves. Only a tourist hopelessly lost, or looking for something more exotic, plied these streets after dark.

I skirted around the edges of Plaza Chula. During the day, an eclectic locale for al fresco dining under towering palms. At night, it loomed menacingly. Somewhere in the shadows, an animalistic groan rose above the slapping sound of flesh on flesh. Keeping my head down, I quickened my pace. Carrer de Sant Llàtzer branched off to the right, the laneway almost pitch-black under the moonless night. The buildings lining the alley leaned forward as if in deep conversation. Clotheslines sprouted from second-storey windows, bereft of washing in the cold and dark. Something large, dark and furry scampered across my path and I talked myself into believing it was a cat.

An illuminated sign, El Gato Whiskería, hung above number 32. The Cat. A good omen; perhaps the furry creature had been a cat after all. A scarred metal door protected an entrance flanked by graffiti-covered garage doors. I pressed the intercom button next to the door. It unlocked with an electronic buzz.

I was to meet a man named Miguel; we’d talked earlier in the day. He’d acted skittish at first and asked how I’d come across his name. Following Daniela’s instructions, I told him he came highly recommended by a mutual acquaintance of my employer, a reclusive businessman in Valencia. A man Miguel had worked with previously. I hoped the backstory and the stack of euros in my suit coat would be sufficient to quash any further questions. But if Daniela had cracked under Voronin’s interrogation … I pushed that image out of mind like the four-legged creature in the alley.

The interior was not much larger than a decent-sized hotel suite. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, which didn’t bode well for the quality of girls. To my right, a large screen television hung on the wall, replaying the day’s La Liga highlights. Two men in red and blue stripes kicked a ball back and forth, another wearing a white shirt with red stripes chased them like an excitable puppy. Providing the only other light was an antique table lamp atop a small circular bar to my left. Two leather armchairs in need of repair filled the space between television and bar. Against the far wall, a girl with dark hair and wearing a silk robe lay spread-eagled across a velvet couch. She was the only person in the bar other than myself and the bartender.

I stepped up to the bar and ordered an Estrella. The muscled shoulders of the bartender were almost the width of the bar, his neck as wide as his shaved head, the steroid-induced acne on his cheeks red and oozing. I decided against asking if he worked out, thinking he’d probably not appreciate my humour.

Without taking his eyes from mine, he produced a bottle in one mitt and a glass in the other. I thought it a neat trick when he wrestled the cap off the bottle – mere mortals would’ve needed an opener. The smudged glass appeared to have been recently dusted for prints, so I took a long pull straight from the bottle.

‘I’m here to see Miguel.’

If he understood English, he wasn’t letting on. With hands splayed on the counter and barely moving a muscle, of which he had plenty to keep under control, he glanced to his left. My eyes followed to see red-velvet curtains part and a slight man slink through.

‘Mr Purcell, I presume. Welcome. You are early. Anxious to meet the girls, yes?’

He stuck out a limp hand. Miguel had set the meeting time for midnight. Tired of twiddling my thumbs at the hotel, I’d arrived thirty minutes early.

The man’s hand was cold and clammy to the touch. Resisting the urge to wipe away the residue, I forced a smile.

‘Though not as anxious as my client. We appreciate you agreeing to see me on such short notice. And please, call me Ryan.’

I’d left all identification back at the hotel. Just on the off chance my name set off alarm bells. Ryan’s name was simply the first that came to mind when I’d realised I’d need an alias.

‘Come through to my office, Ryan. I have the girls waiting there that meet your client’s particular needs.’

Miguel shot me a smile in which only half his mouth participated. One glassy eye focused on my face and the other roamed the far wall by the television. A ponytail, slick with what I hoped was hair product, hung down past his shoulder blades, the hair in back compensating for what little he retained on top. To say it was receding would be too kind – it was in full-on retreat. Miguel was far from an imposing figure, but between the man-mountain behind the bar and the bulge at belt level beneath his shirt, he had my full attention.

We passed through the curtains into a dark hallway. Miguel opened the first door on the right and I followed. His cramped office appeared to have been ground zero for a recent earthquake. Food containers littered the desk, chairs and file cabinets. Shelves overflowed with magazines and DVD cases. On a credenza behind his desk, CCTV monitors displayed black and white images of the laneway and the bar room. In the bar, the Spanish version of the Incredible Hulk was drinking the remains of my beer. On the second screen, three well-dressed men sauntered down the lane towards the doorway.

Slumped together on the office’s leather couch, showing little signs of life, much less enthusiasm, were three girls of indeterminate age.

‘These are the girls I have that fit your client’s particular needs. Eastern European, blonde hair, blue eyes and early twenties.’

Asking if he had a girl named Nadiya would’ve been far too obvious so I’d opted for the next best thing and hoped Nadiya still resembled the fourteen-year-old girl in the photo burning a hole in my pocket.

‘I thank you for your attention to detail. Of course, I will need to speak with and inspect each girl in private. Is there a room I can use? It shouldn’t take too long to make my choice.’

The lascivious smile that spread across half his face made my skin crawl. I was way out my depth – having never bought another human before – so returned the smile and hoped he was believing my act.

‘Of course, my friend, take your time. There is no hurry. Would you like all three at once, or one at time?’

Like Pavlov’s dog answering the bell, at the suggestion of sex all three girls rose from the couch.

‘I prefer one at a time. Call me old-fashioned.’

I turned to face the girls so I wouldn’t have to see his reaction. Three exuberant, but unfamiliar, faces stared back. Either Nadiya was no longer at this club or had changed dramatically in the past seven years. I grabbed the one closest to the door by the hand and left the room.

She told me her name was Zafiro as she led me upstairs. At the top of the wooden stairs, I counted four doorways before the hallway turned to the right. Zafiro chose the second door on the left. I’d barely crossed the threshold and closed the door before she’d removed her robe and laid seductively on the bed.

‘How you like sex? I much like to please you.’

Staring down at her naked body nearly brought tears to my eyes – not my typical reaction to seeing a naked woman, mind you. Bruises dotted her body like battle scars. Each one, I feared, telling a tragic tale of woe. I wondered how long since she’d have thought herself beautiful? Or how many years to turn a young girl into a punching bag offering sexual favours?

I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair.

‘Where are you from, Zafiro?’

‘You want sex, yes?’

‘No. I want to talk for a moment. Where is your home?’

She rolled towards me and began stroking my leg.

‘I’m from Belarus. Why you want to know? What does it matter? Why you not want me?’

Her pleading eyes bored into mine and tore at my heartstrings, as if, by turning down her offer of sex, I had somehow invalidated her purpose in life.

‘What is your real name?’

She turned away, stared at the chipped mirror hanging above the dresser and sighed.

‘Nika. Why do you ask these questions?’

‘I’m looking for a girl named Nadiya. From Ukraine. Is she here?’

‘Nadiya?’

Her answer came with a note of trepidation.

I drew the picture of Nadiya and Katya from my pocket.

‘Is this her?’

Nika studied the photo intently. Tears clouded her eyes before rolling slowly down heavily made-up cheeks.

‘Is hard to tell. But the eyes … yes, it is her. She is so beautiful in this picture. I guess we were all beautiful once.’

My heart skipped a beat.

‘Is she still here? Is she downstairs in the room with Miguel?’

‘No.’

‘No? No, not here? Or not downstairs?’

‘Why do you ask about Nadiya? Are you family?’

‘Yes, of sorts. Her family sent me. Is she here?’

‘Yes, she is here. But Miguel keep her in her room.’

Nadiya was alive and within reach. But before my heart could skip a few more beats in celebration, the realisation dawned that Miguel knew who I was looking for and had kept her hidden. Daniela must have been forced to talk.

Then I recalled seeing the three men on the CCTV monitor – I’d upset Miguel’s plan by arriving early.

I’d walked into a trap and needed to get out and fast.

‘Nika. Can you take me to her?’

‘Yes, but only if I go with you.’

My plan had gone to hell quicker than Hitler on a greased slide. I made a snap decision, hoping it didn’t lead to half of the brothel following behind like I was a modern-day Pied Piper.

‘Okay. Come on. We have to hurry. Is there another way out of here?’

Nika threw on her robe and sprang from the bed.

‘Yes. I show you.’

All was silent, although the sound of muted voices drifted up the stairway. We crept around the corner of the L-shaped hallway and Nika pointed to a closed door on the right.

‘This is her room.’

‘Wait here.’

The door was unlocked. I pushed cautiously into the room. A red scarf draped over a lampshade diffused the light, making it difficult to see. From the bed came the sound of a low moan. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I made out a slab of hairy, white flesh rising and falling. I assumed Nadiya was somewhere beneath that gelatinous mass.

‘Nadiya. Is that you?’

The mass stopped moving at the sound of my voice, then rolled off the bed. Beneath was a small, fragile body that appeared barely alive.

‘Nadiya. I’ve come for you. Katya sent me.’

‘Katya?’

Her sister’s name seemed to revive a memory buried deep. She repeated the name with more certainty. Then it was drowned out by the bellowing of a naked Spaniard hurling insults.

I took two steps forward and launched a forceful left foot directly between the Spaniard’s legs. With no space to work, I didn’t have the leverage I’d had when dropping the doorman outside the Tyburn House, however, I still managed to lift the Spaniard onto his toes for a second before something crunched against my foot. He dropped to the floor with a resounding thud.

Nadiya sat calmly on the edge of the bed and listlessly slipped on a robe while watching the Spaniard squirm. I handed her the photograph and helped her to her feet. She seemed spellbound, clutching the photo in both hands as if it were a talisman.

Nika rushed into the room.

‘Quick, they come.’

The sound of boots tramping up the stairs reverberated. We each took an arm and bundled Nadiya out of the room and down the hallway in the opposite direction.

‘Doorway at end leads to roof.’

‘And from there?’

‘We climb wall to other building and run across rooftop.’

Not the best plan – I’d developed an aversion to rooftops since dangling from one in Skopje – but I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue. And my original plan of simply buying Nadiya’s freedom for five thousand euros had failed miserably.

Nika tested the door to find it locked. It appeared flimsy, fitting loosely in the frame, so I had her support Nadiya as I wound up my left boot one more time. One good kick almost splintered the frame. But before I could launch another, a bullet exploded into the wall centimetres from my head. I turned to see Miguel waving a gun in our direction and grinning that lopsided smile. Behind him, three men in designer suits began to draw their weapons.

‘Stop there, Mr Latham. These men would like a word.’

Why did the people wishing to do me harm always assume I’d believe they only wanted to talk?

As they moved closer, a mighty roar erupted from Nadiya’s room. The naked Spaniard, one hand holding his crushed testicles, charged into the hallway and, unfortunately for him, towards the sound of Miguel’s voice.

Using the hapless fool as a distraction, I kicked the door again and this time broke through. The girls and I ran up another flight of stairs to the rooftop as gunfire erupted from the hallway below. Luckily, the door leading to the roof was unlocked. Amid the whine of bullets was the dull thud of an obese Spaniard hitting the carpet.

‘This way, quick.’

Nika led Nadiya to a wall made of concrete blocks a couple of metres high that bordered the flat rooftop on all four sides. I wedged a chair I’d found under the door handle then followed. It wouldn’t stop them for long, but I hoped long enough.

‘I’ll go first. Then you pass Nadiya up to me.’

I dragged over an abandoned crate, leaned it against the concrete and effortlessly straddled the wall. On the other side ran a long rooftop. It sloped steeply away from a narrow centre ridge about twenty centimetres wide to dark alleyways below. Our pursuers beat frantically against the door. Nika helped Nadiya onto the crate. A boot punched through the door, but the chair held firm. I grasped Nadiya under the shoulders and levered her over the wall. She was like a rag doll in my arms. Barely conscious. I lowered her gently onto the tiles then turned back to help Nika.

Shots rang out. Instinctively, I ducked below the parapet and covered Nadiya. One of the Russians fired blindly through the hole smashed in the door, then Miguel screamed something in Spanish. I picked out the words ‘no’ and ‘chicas’ – not the girls. The firing stopped. Then more raised voices from the stairway. I peered over the wall and saw Nika on the ground curled into a ball.

‘Nika! Get up! Hurry!’

Nika looked up, eyes wide with fear. It took screaming her name a second time to rouse her into action. She clawed her way onto the crate, her bare feet clambering for purchase. I leaned over the wall and desperately grabbed for her hands. Behind her, an arm reached through the hole and removed the chair. Nika laced her fingers around my neck as I wrapped my arms around her body.

Then more gunshots. I felt the impact of three bullets burying deep into her back. A short gasp, then her head collapsed onto my shoulder.

Katya, then Daniela, now Nika.

Thoughts of whether I’d given her a glimmer of hope or caused her death crashed down on me as I gently lowered her body. That conversation with my muddled conscience would need to wait. I snatched up a prone Nadiya and ran for our lives.

With one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, we stumbled along the spine of the rooftop. Behind us, raised voices again. An argument. A single shot. Argument settled. I pictured Miguel the loser, the Russians dismissive of his concern about protecting assets.

It was twenty metres to the next parapet and another sloping rooftop of slate tiles slick with dew. The sound of footsteps behind us once more. Gunshots. Bullets pinged off slate tiles; the distance too great to aim accurately, I hoped.

Nadiya turned back in fright only for a foot to slip from beneath her. I grabbed her hand just in time, only to lose my own footing. We began a slow slide towards the roof’s edge. I scrambled for a handhold to no avail. Above, the first of our pursuers straddled the wall and began to pick his way along the tiles.

Our slide picked up speed. Shots from two rooftops away sliced through the air above our heads and ricocheted off surrounding tiles. Our closest pursuer was on all fours struggling for purchase and unable to get off a shot. The edge of the rooftop loomed. Nadiya failed to grab hold of the metal gutter and disappeared over the side. I dug my heels in to catch a toehold in the guttering and held on tight with one hand as she dangled precariously in mid-air.

Chancing a dizzying glance over the edge, I noticed a dumpster directly below, half-filled with boxes and black garbage bags. Nadiya looked down to the ground then back up at me with eyes resembling those of a startled deer. My grip was weakening and the pounding in my head increased with every heartbeat.

‘Hold tight, Nadiya. I’ve got you.’

I’d no sooner spoken when I felt a searing pain in my arm. It’s true – you never hear the bullet that hits you. Then an anxious cry for help, though not mine. Our pursuer had lost his balance and was rolling down the tiles. He made a frantic grab for the gutter before disappearing over the edge. The firing stopped as our pursuers watched their associate slip from sight.

My knees cried out from the exertion of holding Nadiya. Skin tore free from the stitches in my calf. My left shoulder, bearing her weight, was wracked with pain and the right burned white-hot where the bullet had torn through. The gutter supporting my weight decided to join in, groaning in protest. We were sitting ducks, with only one means of escape.

Without giving Nadiya time to object, I let go.

Another volley of shots followed. The two remaining Russians’ grieving period was over. A spray of tile chips sliced into my face.

Nothing to do but jump.

If alive was the aim, we’d succeeded, though not without a few cuts, bumps and a heavy dousing of rotting waste. Fighting through soggy cardboard cases of decomposing fruit and vegetables, we waded towards the dumpster’s sideloading panel and dropped to the ground.

Nadiya cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground, clutching her leg. She’d sprained an ankle in the fall, but the Russian lying nearby had fared much worse. Lifeless eyes stared skyward from his misshapen head.

‘Here. Let me help you.’

‘You bleeding.’

She touched the wet blotch of dark blood on the sleeve of my suit. With the rush of adrenaline coursing through my body, I’d pushed aside the pain in my bicep. My first bullet wound, though I’d ducked plenty over the years. The pain was manageable; most likely only a minor flesh wound. And I wasn’t that brave.

‘I’m fine. Come on, we have to hurry.’

We kept under the eaves of the building, invisible to the men above. The muffled shouts of frustration from the rooftop were an encouraging sign.

The alleyways in the Raval twisted and turned on themselves and I quickly lost any sense of direction. Fortunately, the lights from the Castell de Montjuïc helped to guide us. By keeping the castle at our back, we headed north out of the Raval, to where I hoped we’d eventually cross the Gran Via.

After fifteen minutes of cautiously slinking from one darkened storefront to the next, we reached the main thoroughfare. While Nadiya rested in the stairwell of a yoga studio, I watched impatiently for a passing taxi. Channelling the yoga studio as inspiration, I stretched and tested the limits of my shoulder and calf and quickly wished I hadn’t. The stabbing pains from both met mid-torso to compare notes.

Our luck, if you could call our escape lucky, was holding. An available taxi stopped just metres away for a red light. I tore open the back door and bundled a near comatose Nadiya onto the bench seat.

‘Where you want to go?’

The driver’s face changed from a look of apathy to exhilaration to fear within seconds as he took in the scene in the back of his cab. Nadiya wore nothing beneath her flimsy robe, now putrid from dumpster waste. And although fully clothed, I wasn’t faring, or smelling, much better.

‘Hotel Catalonia on Carrer de Muntaner.’

A large wad of euros tossed over the front seat convinced the wide-eyed driver – named Jacinto – we were worth the trouble.

Nadiya slumped against the door and fell fast asleep. To the disappointment of Jacinto, casting furtive glances into the rear-view mirror, I rearranged her robe to cover an over-abundance of exposed flesh. A light rain began to fall, deepening the shadows and casting the street lights in a hazy glow. The avenue behind us lay silent, our hotel just minutes away. There, we’d be safe. Five hotels around the city held reservations in my name; Hotel Catalonia was not one of them – I’d used an alias when checking in and paid cash for the room. Tipping the clerk generously bypassed the need for identification and, I trusted, would be sufficient to induce amnesia if anyone came sniffing around, asking questions. I hoped these small deceptions would buy enough time to spirit Nadiya out of town.

Jacinto pulled to the kerb. Muted lighting illuminated the hotel foyer and the front entrance was dark, hidden from the streetlight’s glow. I dropped another two hundred euros onto the front seat and told Jacinto he’d never seen us.

Nadiya stirred as I scooped her up in my arms, then drifted away. Her head nestled against my chest as I carried her into the lobby, her left hand still clinging tightly to the photo of her and Katya.

Twenty-Seven

A Broken Child Needs Mending

Dust motes swirled through the sunlight winkling between thick hotel curtains. Aching muscles at first refused to obey commands to propel me from the loveseat where I’d collapsed the night before, the simple act of walking to the bathroom more like a long, torturous trek over broken glass. Every step caused a muscle or joint somewhere in my body to relive the abuses of the previous evening.

I cupped my hands under the flow of cold water, buried my face in the shallow pool, then washed down an Oxycodone. Dwelling on my reflection was a mistake I quickly corrected. My face showed no damage from the night’s travails, which wasn’t saying much. Bandage strips torn from my shirt and caked in dried blood covered the wound to my arm. It could stay that way until I’d time to see a doctor. The bullet had left no lasting damage, just a six-centimetre-long furrow of scorched skin. My leg ached from ankle to knee, but most of the stitches in my calf appeared to have held. Another strip of cloth staunched the bleeding that had seeped from between the few torn sutures.

All in all, I considered, a small price to pay for having gotten Nadiya out of her Spanish prison alive.

She lay on the bed entangled in a thin sheet. A musky aroma of body odour mixed with garbage refuse enveloped her. Whereas I’d merely slept fitfully, she’d fought a night-long battle with unseen foes. Her tattered robe lay discarded in the corner under my torn and bloody suit coat. Neither would be joining us on our next journey.

For the moment, she lay peacefully. One leg, bent at the knee, had wriggled free from the covers and her back was exposed. A ribbon of sunlight sliced diagonally across her thighs. Long blonde hair fanned out, covering the side of her face and shoulders. Her skin was the colour of ivory, but not in a healthy way. She appeared … desiccated, as if drained of life: hair dull and brittle, her body lacking muscle tone and suppleness.

Not wanting to wake her, I grabbed my phone and slipped soundlessly from the room. I wandered down the silent hallway, passing the discarded remains of late-night meals on plastic trays. A baroque armchair stood next to a hall table facing the elevators. On the table stood an enormous ceramic vase filled with fake lilacs. I slumped into the chair, hiked a leg gingerly over one arm and dialled a number I knew well.

‘You’ve reached Ryan Purcell. How may I—’

‘Ryan. It’s Matt.’

‘G’day. Haven’t heard from you in a few days. Hopefully, you took my advice and have been in the land of nod for a good long time.’

The few hours I’d snatched on the loveseat surely didn’t qualify, so instead I broke the news gently.

‘Not exactly. Look, Ryan, I’m in Barcelona and I have Nadiya.’

‘You what?’

Ryan’s voice hit a high note of which I’d not thought him capable.

Obviously I’d not been gentle enough.

‘Listen, it’s a long story, and I don’t have time to explain. We’re safe, for now, but I need your help getting her out of the country.’

He bitched and moaned for a minute, calling me a few colourful terms I’d not heard in ages but which detailed his comprehensive grasp of the human anatomy. I waited for the storm to pass with the phone away from my ear. An elderly couple waiting for the elevator exchanged worried glances.

I smiled, pointed to the phone, and said, ‘My wife.’

Only one of the two appeared understanding.

Eventually, Nadiya’s plight overrode Ryan’s desire to chew me a new arsehole and his operational expertise kicked into gear.

‘Okay, okay. Let me think. Right. First up, does she have any identification?’

‘None. She literally has nothing.’

I would need to buy Nadiya clothes just so that she could leave the hotel.

‘So air travel is out. We have a consulate in Barcelona, but they don’t have the capacity to help with travel documents. That leaves the embassy in Madrid.’

The line went silent. I listened to Ryan tapping a pen on his desk to aid his thought process.

‘Yeah, Madrid might work. I have a mate there who can help. Best to travel by train. I’ll work on having temporary travel docs ready when you arrive.’

I gave him the information on Nadiya I could recall, which amounted to nothing more than a name, a brief description and an approximate place and date of birth. Embassy folks could add a photo, if needed, once we arrived.

‘That should do it then. And Matt?’

‘Yeah, I know, you’re pissed off at me. But—’

‘Matt. I was going to say I’m bloody proud of you. Just don’t fuck it up from here.’

Even with his final rejoinder, my steps felt lighter walking back to the room.

Opening the door quietly, I found Nadiya sitting up in bed, scratching at an elbow and surveying her surroundings. Faded blue eyes noted my entry, but words seemed to take an eternity to form on her lips.

‘Who are you?’

I leaned against a cheap wooden desk, crossed my arms and smiled.

‘My name’s Matt Latham. I’m a journalist who knew your sister.’

‘You know Katya? Where is my sister?’

Nadiya hadn’t picked up on my slip in using the past tense. I wasn’t sure if either one of us was ready to have that conversation. She appeared drugged or at least unwell and slow of movement.

‘Are you okay? Hungry? Do you need medicine? How can I help?’

My barrage of questions only elicited a weak laugh.

‘Yes, I need my medicine.’

She extended both arms, palm up, towards me. A trail of needle marks covered with peeling scabs and weeping sores ran down her arms from the crook of each elbow. The sheet had fallen away, exposing two sagging breasts and prominent ribs. She was just twenty-one years old, yet resembled an emaciated woman in her sixties.

I stated the obvious but formed it as a question.

‘Heroin?’

‘Yes. I need fix shortly. It is how they keep me alive. How you say … willing to work.’

Another sad, childlike laugh.

‘A fix in the morning. Some pills during the day. Another fix before I go to work. Is easier to lay on back and forget that way. Customers not seem to mind. Then some more pills to help sleep. That is my life.’

She waved a hand nonchalantly through the air as if floating on an imaginary breeze.

‘No longer, Nadiya. That life is over.’

Her face had broken out in a sheen of sweat but remained the colour of porcelain. An acrid smell rose from the sheets as she shifted position. Her eyes, pupils dilated, roamed the room. I’d no experience with heroin addiction, but being an opioid, I suspected the Oxycodone in the bathroom might help, at least until I could get her medical attention in Madrid.

The bottle of Oxy sat next to the bathroom sink and I shook two free and filled a plastic cup with water.

‘These are all I can help you with for now.’

She held out a shaking hand and swallowed the two pills then drained the cup in one long gulp.

‘We need to get out of Barcelona as soon as possible. It’s not safe for you here. We’ll catch a train to Madrid. From there I can get you home.’

‘Home? I have no home. It has been so long. So long, and nobody ever come for me. Nobody care. What is there at home for someone like me?’

I rushed across the room and sat on the bed beside her. The need to take this broken child into my arms, to hug her until some semblance of faith in humanity was restored, felt overwhelming.

‘Nadiya, I know it is hard to understand, but your sister never gave up searching for you.’

She buried her face into my chest and began to sob gently.

‘I’ve talked to your parents, Viktoriya and Yuri. They want you to come home very badly. They’ve missed you greatly and have never stopped searching for you, never stopped loving you.’

‘Where is my sister? Why isn’t Katya with you?’

The time for the conversation I was ill-equipped to deliver had arrived.

I began by explaining the work assignment in Ukraine. Of meeting Katya for the first time at the airport in Kyiv. Her beauty, intelligence. How she’d inspired even a jaded hack like me with her thirst for life. My recollection of her sister brought a pallid, but endearing, smile to Nadiya’s face.

Then I told her of the aborted late-night rendezvous in Kharkiv.

When I spoke of the explosion, Nadiya rolled away, hugging her knees to her chest like a child hiding from imaginary monsters, eyes shut tight to block out unbidden images, wishing for it not to be true. I spared her further details – knowing that Katya had died was heartbreaking enough. Nadiya’s tiny body convulsed with deep, wracking sobs. I wanted badly to console her but struggled mightily with consoling myself.

Nadiya’s body tensed when I spoke of meeting Voronin, of confirming her sister’s suspicions. Of the evil he’d unleashed on so many girls just like herself. Then I talked about meeting her parents in Bratslav. Their home – her home, still – filled with photos and mementos of two beautiful young girls.

I lay beside her and stroked her arm until I could feel her body relax, her sobs ebbing as her breathing slowed. She began to snore ever so gently into the pillow she hugged tightly against her chest.

To her sleeping form, I quietly mouthed the rest of the story. Of the silent promise, made on a dark, lonely drive back to Kyiv. A promise I hadn’t the balls to proclaim to her parents. Not through fear of failure, but because I was a flawed person. One found wanting in matters of the heart, unwilling to commit to another person something tangible that would matter in this life. But for once, stepping out on a ledge and making an attempt.

Sliding carefully from the bed, I crept from the room. I had a laundry list of items to take care of if we were to catch the afternoon train to Madrid. And truthfully, a generous helping of fresh Spanish air would help air out the corners of my mind where a legion of demons dwelled.

Twenty-Eight

To See Katya’s Smile

I wake in a strange room. Sunlight peeps through thick curtains, shedding just enough light to reveal a loveseat, desk, television and above the desk, a mirror. The feel of soft, clean sheets against my face, body, is tantalising; their fresh laundry smell intoxicating. In the darkest corner of the room lays a crumpled pile of clothes. A faint smell of rotting garbage, human sweat, and something coppery circulates through the room. It takes a moment for me to understand the same odours rise from my body, and with it the memory of last night.

Carlos, the kindly tobacconist that visits every Monday, ripped from me before he climaxed. Attacked by the man with fair hair who then pulls me to my feet. Nika, screaming from the doorway that we must hurry. The three of us rushing up the stairs to the rooftop. Gunshots. Screaming. Running, then sliding over slick tiles. Dangling in mid-air, wanting to float away on the breeze. If the man wishes to hurt me, why does he hold on so tightly? This man spoke of Katya. How does he know my sister’s name?

From the window, I see people rushing past on the street below, stores alive with activity. A section of Barcelona I’ve never been allowed to visit. No Algerian hookers ply their trade here. No Sudanese beggars search through the trash. The entire scene is alien to me, not where I belong.

Noticing my naked body reflected in the window, I turn away in disgust and stumble back to bed.

I’m still groggy from the pills given to me last evening by Miguel. I thought of them as a special treat. Now I am unsure. And as the cobwebs clear, the pain begins. I lean against the headboard and scratch at my arms. Miguel has what I need, the necessary instruments to make the pain go away. The all-too-familiar rubber band, stretched tighter each day to induce a vein to appear. Soon, he said, he’d need to search elsewhere. Needle. Cigarette lighter. Tarnished spoon. And within the spoon, a heaping of brown powder begins to liquefy. I know the sweet, alluring aroma won’t bring me closer to heaven, but it will, for a time, drive away hell. Will this man have what I need? The thought that he won’t, that he’s unprepared to care for me, causes nerve endings to fire in my legs. I kick out helplessly in response. Anxiety envelopes me.

The door opens and the man with fair hair enters. He speaks with a strange English accent. He appears kind, but I’ve been fooled by his type before. He tells me his name is Matt and that he’s come to my rescue. That he knows Katya. Could it be true? That she sent this man? Could I finally be free? But can he be believed? Or is he merely playing a cruel trick? It is difficult to separate truth from fiction, the harsh reality of my life from the dream world I’ve carefully sculpted. It is easy to push aside life’s torments while in a drug-induced cocoon, to block out memories of my past life that only lead to pain. For far too long I’ve measured the passage of time from one hit to the next, doing whatever is necessary to ensure it arrives on time.

However, this man tears through that barrier by mentioning her name. Katya. I allow a wisp of hope to enter and ask about my sister. Where is she? Why is she not here with him? He painstakingly tells a story of her quest to find me. Her work at the newspaper in Kyiv. Of her research into traffickers. Of how it ended in tragedy. He continues with this tale, but I can no longer listen. He hands me two pills as if they will cure my ills. I crawl into a ball and wish I were invisible. My only thought that I caused the death of my beautiful sister. I’d long since given up hope of ever seeing her or my family again. But to know that she is dead …

I wish to rip my diseased heart from my soiled body.

This man speaks of taking me home to my parents. How could I possibly face them? I’m a piece of human wreckage. Something vile dredged up from the deep and washed up on a distant shore. Something beachcombers go out of their way to avoid. Why would they want that in their lives? The Nadiya they loved is gone, irreparably broken, and can never return.

The pills help me to relax. I feel myself drifting away, but memories of Katya refuse to allow it. The pain of losing her is too immense; each tumultuous beat of my heart feels like a rock dropping to the bottom of the ocean. The man said he had details to take care of, to enable our escape, to leave Barcelona. I too wanted him to leave, to be left alone with my memories of Katya.

And my pain.

I close my eyes and wait for the shadows to claim me.

After the man left, I tossed and turned for a short while in a fruitless search for peace. In time the need to relieve myself beckoned. The bathroom was dark, but even still I cast my eyes downward to avoid my reflection in the mirror. I watched bare feet with cracked nails cross off-white ceramic tile towards a white porcelain toilet. To the right, a shower door made of glass, and on the left, a grey vanity, bare but for a cup and a green pill bottle. I relieved myself, wiped dutifully and flushed. All accomplished without taking my eyes from the bottle. The hands filling the cup with water were no longer mine. The same hands scooped up the near-full bottle and returned to the bed. There is a colour photo on the nightstand.

We were both so young and beautiful in the photograph: Katya a few centimetres taller, my hair slightly longer. We’d just returned home from church and wore our most elegant summer dresses. Holding hands, we smiled at Mother as she took our picture. Remembering those long-ago days brought tears to my eyes.

I wiped them away with the back of my hand as I swallowed pill after pill. I placed the plastic cup, photograph and empty bottle on the nightstand beside the bed. Then I laid my head down on a pillow soft as clouds. When I closed my eyes, I could see Katya swinging from the old tractor tyre strung from a sturdy bough in our backyard. The afternoon sun slowly sank into the fields behind her and shadows crept across the grass to meet me. I shielded my eyes and waved.

Katya smiled, waved back, then jumped from the tyre. With her long braids swinging, she began walking slowly towards me.

Twenty-Nine

A Dream Shattered

I’d been gone longer than expected, close to two hours.

‘Nadiya, time to wake up. See what I’ve brought you.’

Buying a few items of clothing for Nadiya proved more onerous than I’d imagined. How to explain to the sales girl at Zara that I needed a simple outfit to get a naked girl out of my hotel room and onto a Madrid bound train?

‘Nadiya, wake up please. We need to get moving. Want me to run the shower for you?’

I’d reserved the train tickets online using the hotel’s computer. Two first-class seats on the Spanish AVE cost a pretty penny, but not needing to buy Nadiya’s freedom had left me flush with cash.

‘Nadiya. Let’s eat. I’ve brought tapas from the restaurant downstairs.’

Shaking her gently by the shoulder elicited no response. The sheet was wrapped tightly around her legs. I spoke her name louder and shook less gently. Her body felt cold. Too cold. I tugged on her shoulder and her arm flopped over onto the mattress. Her face was the colour of the white sheets. Faded, lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling.

On the bedside table sat a cup and a green bottle that an hour earlier had contained over thirty Oxycodone.

Both were empty.

I checked her wrist, then her neck for a pulse. Nothing. I lowered my face to her mouth, hoping. No breath warmed my cheek. In a panic, I rang the front desk and screamed at the clerk to call for an ambulance. Then I dragged her body to the floor and began CPR, but I knew deep in my heart it was too late.

As the sound of a siren filtered into the room from the streets below, I slumped to the floor beside her body and wiped tears from my eyes. It was then I noticed the colour photo on the bedside table beside the pill bottle’s plastic cap.

I held the photo Viktoriya had given me of two beautiful young girls standing before a field of golden wheat, the cloudless sky a pale blue. Katya had graduated high school the month prior, and would soon leave home to study in Kyiv. The girls smiled broadly at the camera, the photographer’s shadow stretching towards them. Both had blonde braids that gently caressed their bare shoulders and enquiring eyes of the deepest blue. The photograph captured a time when dreams could still come true, a world full of hope and where there was nothing to fear.

Thirty

Rabbit Hole Diving

London, England

The driving rat-a-tat of a pneumatic drill churning up the pavement rattled my bedroom’s window pane. It could well have been a woodpecker driving its beak into my eardrum. My first instinct was to grab a pill. The image of an empty bottle in a Barcelona hotel room brusquely stamped out the desire. The pounding in my head continued unabated, but I’d wear the pain for the days and weeks it remained. My badge of dishonour. A bitter reminder of my failure to save Nadiya.

It took the intervention of the ambassador at the Australian Embassy to secure my release from police custody and their relentless questioning; another debt added to my ledger. Attempting to point the police in the direction of the Whiskería in the Raval was met with an indifferent shrug, the police lieutenant being more concerned with the dead body at the Hotel Catalonia than the scene at El Gato I'd described. With a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he’d explained that, even if my accusations were true, in his experience, the bar would be deserted by the time they could mount a raid. I’d thought of ripping the cigarette from his mouth and setting fire to his nose hairs but doubted it would help my cause.

I pulled the covers over my head and kept my eyes tightly sealed. The world above the covers, outside this room, beyond my tiny abode, was not where I wished to belong, for only in the darkness were Katya, Nadiya, Daniela and Nika still alive.

Before leaving Barcelona, I arranged for the return of Nadiya’s body to Ukraine. It took most of the cash I had on hand – the money remaining from which to buy her freedom – to secure transport through Kyiv then on to Bratslav. The euros felt soiled and I wanted no part of them. But if I could’ve used a few of those sullied notes to pay someone to call Nadiya’s parents, I would’ve gladly done so. That it was left to me to break the news … well. They deserved better.

The pneumatic drill fell silent, replaced by a fist pounding on my front door. If it was the workman offering to plough his ten-centimetre chisel through my skull, I’d have gladly obliged. Instead, I was met by the distorted face of Aziz peering through the entryway’s bevelled glass. I opened the door.

‘Matt. Here, I bring coffee. I not see you for few days. You need me for surveillance? Mr Suluoglu car not fixed, but I steal one, yes?’

‘No. No need, Aziz.’

I took a sip from the styrofoam cup filled to the brim with Turkish coffee and pure adrenaline, then explained what had happened at the Tyburn House with little enthusiasm. After the events in Barcelona, it seemed a lifetime ago, rather than a mere five days.

‘You sure we don’t need to go hiding on the back streets?’

‘I’m sure. And we won’t be cruising down “Thunder Road”, getting “Blinded By the Light” or any other Springsteen song with car and road metaphors.’

Aziz ran a finger through the layer of dust on my coffee table.

‘I think you lose sense of humour in Spain.’

‘Among other things.’

‘You need more pills?’

‘No. No more pills.’

A brief retelling of the events in Barcelona left Aziz staring at me with mouth agape.

‘Shit, man. I sorry. And I glad. I quit with pills too. Arzu told me I need to stop dealing if I want to hook up with her.’

‘Wait, back up. Arzu?’

‘You know, cute Iranian chick you see in café.’

‘Good for you, Aziz. But remember what I said about her father.’

‘Yeah, he not too happy. Mother upset too. She was one of my best customers. Now where she gonna get her pills?’

Aziz managed to keep a straight face as he rearranged my six novels from a scattered heap to a neat pile.

‘Yeah, getting too dangerous out on the streets. I find out who trying to bust into Iranian’s territory. Got them all scared to shit and they not scare easy.’

The gang of kids that attempted to rearrange Aziz’s face, but not as symmetrically as he’d stacked my books, came to mind.

‘Who is it?’

‘Word is they professionals from Eastern Europe, military types. Use street kids to push product. Plenty of pills, heroin, you name it. And plenty of weapons to back them up. Well, I go now. I meet Arzu after class. You take care, Matt.’

‘You too, Aziz.’

He let himself out, skipped down the front steps and was bounding down the street before I’d had a chance to rise from my chair. I was missing my friend with the effervescent smile before I’d even closed the door.

I surveyed my barren living room. My mantra of living a minimalist lifestyle, slinking around the fringes of society, reporting but not imbibing, now seemed bereft and doleful. A soulless, empty existence. Which described my living arrangements and my heart in equal measure. But waiting for the winds of change to fill my sails with new found feelings was like peering along an abandoned track searching for a non-existent train. So I would retreat to my safe space and the only fallback mechanism I knew: I’d write.

I’d let an accumulation of carefully chosen words flood others with emotion until my stream ran dry. I’d write of Katya and her quest to find her sister. Of Nadiya and what I knew of her sad life and tragic end. Of Daniela, another lost soul that briefly shone brightly in a fractured world. A tragic human-interest piece that would, most likely, only cater to an audience of one.

My mind drifted back to Katya, the identity of her killer still beyond my grasp. I felt sure Marcus was responsible; he had both the motive – to escape from Voronin’s clutches – and, with his intelligence contacts, the means to do so. Thinking of that duplicitous prick whimpering his confession through smashed jaw and broken teeth provided me a moment of joy. Though why deny having anything to do with the bombing in Kharkiv? Who else would’ve had a motive? Katya’s death remained a knot I was unable to unravel.

And what of Arkady Voronin?

Exposing his involvement in a British espionage scandal that took down Marcus would have me running afoul of MI5. Even writing under an alias, they’d quickly realise only I would have such detailed information. I wanted nothing more than to destroy him, but I also had a healthy respect for the English penal system. My Australian ancestors knew only too well how efficiently that operated.

Though, if I were careful, could I detail Voronin’s involvement in human trafficking? My only weapon was the written word, and I was well primed to give him both barrels. Sure, my story would be woefully light on second sources and supporting documentation, but I had truth on my side and there’d be any number of disreputable media outlets only too happy to publish such a juicy article.

I scribbled down a rough outline, then highlighted a few areas where additional research would be required. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and set my iTunes library to shuffle. It took a few fits and starts, but soon the words began to flow and with them all connection to time and place.

As the early rays of a morning sun crept through my kitchen window, I dragged my inert body off to bed. The finished product totalled forty-eight hundred words. Not my best piece of writing by a long shot, but one packed with emotion, innuendo and a path out of the shadows into truth’s harsh glare. Sometime during the evening I’d abandoned all thought of submitting the piece. Not that I was afraid of the consequences, but I’d decided that a far greater need could now be quenched.

The pounding in my head had lessened from a scream to a dull roar. I took that as a positive sign. I’d not taken a pill in two days. I took that with a grain of salt. Behind me, strewn across the room, lay the detritus of hastily scribbled research notes. Page upon page adding statistical and historical detail. I’d written the piece as both a memorial to the women who’d lost their lives and as an indictment of the man responsible. However, the one crime that failed to sit squarely on Arkady Voronin’s shoulders – the Kharkiv bombing – had remained a constant irritant, like a splinter under a nail, until, with eyes begging to close, I happened upon an item that made everything fall into place.

My old friend and editor, Jack Temple, once explained that when researching a story, the final destination is not always the one anticipated. Many writers search only for the facts to bolster their case. Jack seared it into my brain to follow leads wherever they may take you and only then draw your conclusions. Somewhere between eating the last of a mouldy English cheddar and washing it down with the dregs from a bottle of port – the beer had given out much earlier – I found myself burrowing down an internet rabbit hole into the career of Voronin’s father: General Igor Vladimirich Voronin (retired).

Born in Moscow in 1936, he was the only child of Vladimir Mikhailovich Voronin, NKVD officer – intelligence was a family tradition, apparently. Schooled at Moscow State University then recruited by the KGB’s First Chief Directorate on graduation, Igor enjoyed numerous overseas postings and promotions. Two postings, in particular, stood out. Bangkok, Thailand from 1972 to 1974. My father also served in Bangkok during that time. It was presumably where they’d crossed paths. Though a later posting also caught my eye: Afghanistan 1986 to 1989. The final tumultuous years of the Soviet–Afghan War.

The Soviet empire collapsed two years later and Voronin senior served a handful of years in obscurity with the newly constituted FSB before retiring, then moved into the private sector to run his fledgling import-export business.

However, sifting through a trove of KGB-related material, I came across the Mitrokhin Archive. Vasili Mitrokhin had spent his career as an archivist for the KGB’s First Chief Directorate. He defected to the United Kingdom in 1992, before the post-Soviet spring cleaning began, and brought his handwritten notes with him. Deep within those papers, I found a photo of a middle-aged Igor Voronin taken in a dusty, remote village in the mountains of Afghanistan. In it stood a stoic Igor surrounded by a group of young, equally impassive, KGB field operatives. Written along the bottom margin of the photo was the name of each agent. The name beneath the agent second from the left, shielding his eyes from the sun, leapt from the screen and the answers to so many questions became crystal clear.

As did a vision: Katya’s serene face hovering above mine in a Kharkiv hotel.

And a message: Voronin’s cryptic words in Belgrade.

‘We believe ourselves to be our own men, to chart our own course, but that is often easier said than done.’

I had found Katya’s killer.

Exhausted, I fell into bed fully clothed and buried myself beneath the covers to block out the morning light. My head sank into the pillow as if weighed down by the ramifications of my discovery. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I wished sleep to come, hoping it would speed up the passage of time and the clearing of my head, as my next move required intricate planning and a generous degree of luck.

Thirty-One

Taking a Shot at Redemption

Kyiv, Ukraine

It had been less than three weeks since I’d first set foot in Kyiv, but it felt like a lifetime. Nadiya’s casket had arrived the day before, Thursday. Her funeral, in Bratslav, was scheduled for Saturday. Viktoriya, Nadiya’s mother, had graciously offered up a bed in her home but I’d begged off; I’d still not shaken the feeling of helplessness, and to some extent complicity, in both of her daughters’ deaths, and sleeping under the same roof as their ghosts surely wouldn’t help. Besides, one more errand needed my immediate attention.

The taxi sprayed a dirty grey sludge from deep furrows as we crossed over the icy Pivdennyi Bridge. Kyiv’s modest skyline loomed in the distance. Below, the Dnieper River was a thin, black line fighting through frozen banks. I’d spent the morning holed up in the Kyiv Airport making phone calls. After two hours, and copious amounts of coffee that could strip paint from walls, I’d confirmed my suspicions and hardened my heart for the day ahead. The thick black coffee merely served to harden my arteries.

‘Here you go, mister. Hotel Ukraine.’

Yevgeny, my driver, sheepishly peeked into the rear-view mirror to catch my eye as he announced the fare. I smiled and added a nice tip, the total amount still less than half I’d paid the last trip. He must have been new to the game.

The young desk clerk smiled, handed me my room key and asked if I needed any help. I needed plenty, but not of the kind he was offering. Two minutes later, I lay sprawled on the bed’s quilt, staring at the ceiling. The beating in my chest picked up steam and seemed to be communicating with the pounding in my head, like two tribes on the warpath, girding themselves for battle. I’d not have been surprised if a group of Māoris appeared on my balcony performing a haka.

I rushed to the bathroom and threw up the remains of the coffee. Splashing cold water over my face washed the acrid taste from my mouth but failed to quell my anxiety. The trilling of my phone stopped my panic attack dead in its tracks. Caller ID confirmed it was time for the goat to be tethered in the clearing to draw out the predator. While waiting for the elevator, I cursed my faux bravado for agreeing to be the goat. Too late to back out now.

My first call that morning had been to Vera Luchenko at Kyiv Post. She’d been more than helpful, listening to my theory with the well-trained ear of an experienced editor, then pushing back where she felt my theory weak. When she called back an hour later confirming the missing link, my elation quickly turned to melancholy.

That Katya had been seeing someone here in Kyiv shouldn’t have come as a shock; that her roommate and parents hadn’t mentioned his name was unsurprising. I was the outsider, a business acquaintance; never part of her inner circle. I was the one living my life on the periphery of others. And I couldn’t blame her for using me to get to Voronin. It was no different than I would’ve done – had done – numerous times. That we’d slept together, well … That one night would remain indelibly chiselled into my memory. A vision of Katya’s smiling face lingered as I crossed the lobby and pushed through the swinging glass doors into a gloomy Kyiv afternoon.

If nothing else, Khotkov was predictable. His familiar silver Audi sat idling in the hotel’s forecourt, a plume of smoke from the exhaust drifting skyward. Lining the street, attached to light poles, pairs of Ukrainian flags hung limply. The scent of impending snowfall hung heavy in the still air. I snapped up the collar of my coat, gazed at the gun-metal grey sky, then sauntered over.

The back window lowered as I drew close.

‘Mr Latham. How surprising we meet again.’

‘Not so surprising, Olek. I’m sure not too much escapes your attention here in Kyiv.’

‘This is true. But what brings you back to our lovely city? I thought I made myself clear the last time we talked.’

‘If I recall, you mentioned steering clear of Voronin, which I’ve done.’

I doubted word had filtered back to Khotkov regarding the Tyburn House imbroglio, British Intelligence being studiously intent on keeping their dirty laundry under wraps.

‘I trust you have given up that foolish endeavour?’

‘I have, which is why I’m here. You may remember me mentioning Katya’s missing sister.’

‘Hmm. Care to refresh my memory?’

Stooping over to peer through the window caused my back to stiffen. I straightened and stretched. The first flakes of snow began floating gently to the ground like miniature parachutes. Advance troops before an impending invasion.

‘Care to go for a walk? It’s a lovely afternoon and I was about to do a little sightseeing.’

‘I think it best you get in the car. Ukrainian weather can be very fickle.’

As I climbed in the back seat, I smiled wryly thinking the weather mirrored the country’s politics.

While Olek’s well-trained bear pointed the Audi south towards Mariinsky Park, driving assuredly over the slick cobblestones, I gazed out the window at the snow-lined roadway until I felt my breathing was under control.

‘I found Katya’s sister, Nadiya, in Barcelona.’

Other than the muffled noise of wheels bouncing over cobbles, all was silent as I told Nadiya’s story. Lured to Kyiv with the dream of stardom twinkling in her eyes, trafficked across Europe as a sex slave. Uncovering the link through Voronin’s offshore entities. Rescuing her from a brothel in Barcelona. Her death. I left out the part where I failed to recognise the extent of her drug dependency, her frailty. I carried enough guilt and I wasn’t about to allow Khotkov the pleasure of watching me wallow in it.

‘Nadiya’s funeral is tomorrow.’

Khotkov continued to clean his fingernails, impassive to my story. The bear skirted the perimeter of the park, the road following a ridgeline that looked over the river. Tall chestnut trees lined the road and trailheads appeared in the failing light.

‘It was a lead from Katya, of course, that found the link. But I’m guessing you already knew that.’

The mention of her name brought about a change in Khotkov’s demeanour, an almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders. His head turned and coal-black eyes met mine.

‘Link? I believe you give me too much credit, Mr Latham.’

A wry smile, lacking any sign of humour, spread across his face, accentuating his deep crow’s feet. A sharp intake of breath through his angled beak preceded his next comment.

‘But such a shame for both to die, and still so young.’

‘And especially before Katya was able to talk with Voronin.’

His gaze never left mine, but his speech reverted to Ukrainian. The bear pulled to the side of the narrow roadway and parked with two wheels on the footpath.

‘I think it is time for that walk, Mr Latham.’

‘Really? I was just getting comfortable.’

‘Get out, now.’

Khotkov only had to show me the butt of the gun concealed in his coat pocket to have me scrambling for the handle. I could barely distinguish a Makarov from a water pistol, but this one was matte black and looked menacing – I doubted it squirted water. Which, after Barcelona, provided all the impetus needed.

‘Walk. That way.’

Khotkov signalled with a tilt of his chin which direction to take.

I crunched through the top layer of snow covering the trail and Khotkov followed two paces behind. I’d soon lost sight of the roadway as the trail zig-zagged downhill and the forest closed in around us.

‘I’m not sure, Mr Latham, what you think you know. But until I find out, it is best kept for my ears only. And while Vitali knows very little English, it’s safer we talk out here.’

So the bear has a name.

‘Now … what do you know?’

‘That you’ve been working with Arkady Voronin all along.’

Khotkov threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the trees. A bird took flight, sending a shower of snow cascading to the ground.

‘Really? And why would you think that?’

‘Because you served under his father in Afghanistan.’

His smile disappeared the same instant the gun reappeared. Khotkov stepped closer, keeping the gun pointed at my chest. From a metre away, the nozzle looked the size of a German Howitzer. Without a word, he patted me down with one hand. A brave man would have made a grab for his gun. Pity there wasn’t one present.

‘I’m not carrying a weapon. Or wearing a wire.’

Khotkov, who apparently wasn’t born yesterday, continued his search. When he drew my phone from my coat and noticed the open line, ice water replaced the warm blood pumping through my veins. He disconnected the call and threw my phone to the ground.

‘I commend you for discovering that link. You are quite the investigative journalist, Mr Latham. It is a shame this will be a story you’ll never write.’

I was about to make a crack about being accredited posthumously but didn’t want to give him any ideas.

‘Who was listening to our conversation? Ach, don’t waste your breath. They have heard nothing, just your ramblings. And you forget this is Ukraine. As head of SBU Counter-Intelligence, my word is sacrosanct.’

‘Even though you’re working with the Russians? Helping Arkady Voronin traffic women, children, drugs? Even arms to the rebels killing your people?’

He cocked his head to the side like a dog confused by a complex command.

‘Mr Latham, you have it all wrong. I am no traitor. I’d expect you to know the SBU was purged of all Russian agents and influence after the people forced that bastard Yanukovych from office.’

Victor Yanukovych, former Ukrainian President, now permanent house guest of Vladimir Putin, had been overthrown in February 2014. And, following closely behind, a whole slew of SBU agents and officials scurrying back to their Russian masters. If Khotkov worked with Voronin senior in those days, he’d have never survived the purge. But if I was off the mark, why was the gun still pointing in my direction? I’d taken the wrong track, but Khotkov’s reaction told me I was still headed in the right direction.

‘You were correct in one regard, Mr Latham. I did meet Igor Voronin in Afghanistan. Astute, assured, yet a vile prick of a man. Having to raise that faggot son of his was surely divine retribution. Which is why I was surprised when he contacted me with a business proposition. He’d tired of fighting with his son regarding his bohemian lifestyle and the direction of their business. He’d become marginalised, so was looking to forge a merger of sorts.’

I was lost, and not just deep in these snow-shrouded woods.

‘I see you struggle with putting this story together. Let me explain, then you’ll have comfort in knowing why you died.’

We stood face to face. Khotkov’s eyes roamed the forest but mine stayed focused on the barrel of the gun pointed at my midsection.

‘In 1987 I was a young KGB agent shipped off to Afghanistan. My assignment, given to me by General Voronin, was to travel to the villages north of Kandahar and garner support among the local warlords. Hearts and minds, as the Americans say. Surprisingly, it didn’t take much cajoling, as the Mujahideen’s stated goal – after expelling Russian forces – was to burn the poppy fields and shut down all opium production. I knew the war was a lost cause and was thankfully shipped out in eighty-nine, but I was able to make some lasting friendships.’

Clouds passed before a wan moon as the temperature continued to plummet. It was near dark and visibility was fading as quickly as my chances of getting out of this alive. Khotkov took his time retelling his tale and I wished he’d hurry until I grasped the end would indeed be the end.

‘Two decades later, enter the Americans, followed by free elections in 2004, and the reenergisation of the opium trade. My friends from the Arghandab River Valley now needed a buyer for their goods. And with the connections I’d maintained across the region, I was only too happy to oblige. My aspirations, Mr Latham, have always been far grander than what a mere department head could afford.’

This part I’d deduced with help from Aziz. It explained the influx of heroin and opioids into London from a new Eastern European source; as Khotkov’s business expanded, so did his reach.

‘Then why set the bomb to kill Voronin?’

‘That was part of my arrangement with the general. The Voronin family squabbles were well known and Arkady had built a substantial following within the Kremlin. His death had to appear a random act of violence to protect his father. So I agreed to take care of the matter, if Igor agreed to stop shipping arms to the rebels. The general is not the only supplier of weapons, of course, but I do what I can. As I said, Mr Latham, I’m not a traitor, just a shrewd businessman. The risk of escalating tensions in the east was but a small price to pay. A pity Arkady was tipped off. His survival has temporarily halted my expansion plans.’

Another temperature shift within me, ice water evaporating as my blood boiled, listening to this madman casually tell his tale, as though it were a short putt missed on the eighteenth green.

‘What about Katya? Did you know she’d be there?’

‘Oh, yes. I knew. And if I’d discovered you knew about her plans, you’d never have left the hospital in Kharkiv.’

For once my ignorance had come in handy. The knowledge gave me little solace.

‘You killed one of your agents because of her plans? Do you even know why she was there to meet Voronin?’

His nostrils flared in anger and steam billowed forth like a rampaging Brahman bull.

‘That nosy bitch was digging into my affairs. I’ve worked for too long to build up my empire to have her ruin everything. Then learning she was to meet with Voronin! Behind my back! That confirmed my thoughts and could not be allowed.’

‘She didn’t know about the drugs or your connection to Voronin’s father! She was only looking for clues to find her sister!’

I screamed at him, spittle flying from my mouth, furious at the futility of it all. I dropped to my knees, a spent force. Katya had died for no reason, merely because of this bastard’s overactive imagination.

‘Really? Then why her sudden interest in London just as my operations were expanding into the city?’

He pressed the barrel of the gun hard against the top of my head, his anger not yet spent.

‘If you are so smart, Mr Latham, explain that.’

The will to fight had deserted me. My head hung low and I stared at my hands buried in the snow. A creeping coldness took hold. When I spoke, my voice was that of an automaton.

‘She discovered Voronin secretly owned property there, thought it might lead to Nadiya. Going through official channels would have cut her out of the loop. Her discovery didn’t lead to her sister but it did uncover a Russian mole. Most likely more than one. You killed one of your best agents, you stupid fuck!’

It took a moment for Khotkov to digest the information, then the pressure of the barrel eased. I looked up at him. The expression that crossed his face, as if noticing he’d stepped in dog shit, was quickly replaced by a mask of inscrutability mixed with a dash of apathy.

‘I assumed her undercover investigating, her interest in London, using the SBU cover operation to hire you, all led back to my … side interests. Such a shame.’

His shoulders hunched slightly, palms upturned, as a look of pained disregard softened his eyes. I assumed it was the closest he’d ever come to admitting a mistake.

A stream of vitriol aching to spew forth stuck in my throat, leaving me speechless. Only the bitter taste of despair remained.

‘I admit the bomb was overkill but it would have been perfect to solve all of—’

The snap of a fallen branch followed quickly by the tap-tap of a silenced weapon silenced Khotkov. One bullet tore through his cashmere coat near the left shoulder, spinning him as the other struck his thigh and dropped him to a knee. He fired two shots in return at the figure charging through the undergrowth – the noise from his weapon deafening as it echoed through the silent forest – before collapsing onto his side.

With bullets flying all around me, I dropped flat to the ground and, not for the first time, prayed for the power of invisibility. Not the bravest move, but one I hoped wouldn’t be my last.

The smell of gunpowder quickly dissipated on the evening breeze and silence descended. I risked raising my head and found Khotkov lying motionless. The man who’d come to my rescue lay on his back groaning and clutching his stomach.

‘Artem, are you okay?’

I rushed to the young man’s side and helped him into a sitting position against the nearest tree trunk. He’d taken a bullet to the stomach and thick black blood oozed from between his fingers.

‘I hear what the bastard said. He kill my Katya.’

Earlier in the day, Vera Luchenko had put me in touch with the man bleeding out before me: Artem Sergeyev, Ukrainian INTERPOL agent – and Katya’s boyfriend.

‘Artem, where’s your back-up?’

‘Is only me. I afraid you wouldn’t agree to plan if you knew I come alone.’

After we’d talked, Artem had staked out my hotel, knowing Khotkov would show sooner or later – my arrival at Kyiv Airport wouldn’t go unnoticed. After Artem called to let me know Khotkov had pulled up outside the hotel, I left the line connected so that he and his colleagues could overhear our conversation.

‘But why come alone? Surely it would have been safer—’

His wry laugh brought on a coughing fit. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth down a chin so smooth I doubted it had ever seen a razor. His boyish face, featuring a slim nose and soft blue eyes, was as pale as the moon visible through the forest’s canopy.

‘At INTERPOL we have no powers to arrest, only to coordinate with local police. I too junior to get anyone to believe story. Especially when up against someone as powerful as—’

Artem gulped for air, his internal organs slipping into shutdown mode from the cold and loss of blood.

‘Save your energy. And you need to keep pressure on that wound.’

I took the gun from his hand and laid it on the ground, unwrapped the scarf from his neck, balled it up and helped him to apply pressure. It quickly became saturated. I needed to call for an ambulance but couldn’t locate his phone.

‘Mr Latham? Am I going to die?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘I shoot driver in Audi. Is safe for you to leave.’

The news of the bear’s death barely registered. I dug in Artem’s coat pockets, breast pocket, nothing.

‘You need to leave, Mr Latham. Someone will have heard shots.’

‘Artem, I’m trying to save your fucking life. Where’s your phone?’

‘Back pocket.’

I dug behind him and retrieved his phone from the pocket of his jeans. ‘What’s the emergency number here?’

‘Did I kill Khotkov?’

‘I think so. What’s the number, Artem? I need to get you help.’

‘Then I have redeemed the honour of Katya. Tell me, Mr Latham. Do you think this sin can be forgiven?’

‘Artem, please, the number.’

‘Can my sin be forgiven?’

‘Artem, you’re asking the wrong—’

The right side of Artem’s face disappeared in a bloody mist at the same moment as I felt the searing heat of the bullet graze my cheek. I turned. Khotkov had risen to one elbow, fired the shot, then collapsed back to the ground. I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my cheek but was numb to the pain. Artem lay slumped sideways on the ground, the shattered side of his face buried in the snow now flecked with blood and gore. I grabbed his gun and, pointing it unsteadily in Khotkov’s direction, approached cautiously.

Khotkov’s breathing was shallow but steady. He lay in a pool of blood from his shoulder wound. His right hand, still gripping his pistol, feebly tried to staunch the flow of blood from his thigh. Glazed eyes stared along the trail towards the roadway, in the hope of salvation from the bear named Vitaly.

‘Vitaly won’t be coming. He’s dead.’

A sigh of resignation.

‘Help me, Mr Latham. I will make it worth your while.’

‘After everything you’ve done, you think you can buy me?’

‘Every man has a price.’

‘There are only two things I want, Olek.’

‘Name them and they are yours.’

The sound of distant sirens drifted through the air. Someone had heard shots fired or discovered Vitaly’s body. Clouds heavy with moisture chased away the moon and it began to snow. Fat, heavy flakes fell with some speed to obliterate the gruesome scene below.

‘You can’t help with the first.’

Visions of Katya, Nadiya, Artem, Daniela and even Nika flickered across my mind. I wondered if the other four would still be alive if Katya – a victim of Khotkov’s paranoia – had lived?

A pained smile broke out across his face, revealing pristine teeth the same colour as the snow.

‘Ah … I see. Katya, yes? I thought you more a pragmatist, not someone prone to sentimentality. But what of the second request?’

‘To see you dead.’

From two metres away, I raised the gun and pointed it in the general direction of his face. It felt heavy in my hand, the long suppressor making it difficult to aim.

‘Oh, please, Mr Latham, be reasonable. You are not a killer. You are a journalist. You report the news, not make it. Surely we can come to some agreement.’

He made a convincing argument. What the hell was I doing?

But when I noticed the hand holding the pistol jerk in my direction, I squeezed the trigger three times in succession without batting an eyelid. The gun’s powerful kick stung my damaged shoulder but the discharge barely made a sound. I aimed at the long, ski-slope shaped beak in the centre of his face, missing each time.

However, the hole in the middle of his forehead, turning him into an unseeing Cyclops, stopped me from firing a fourth time.

The piercing wails of multiple sirens drew closer, approaching from the north, along the roadway on the ridge, where Vitaly the bear sat in a silver Audi in permanent hibernation.

Before leaving the scene, I retrieved my half-buried phone from the trail. Artem’s gun, I placed back in his hand after wiping it clean. Then with leaden steps, I followed the trail downhill towards the river. Falling snow cooled my fevered brow but did nothing to wash away the images of the scene I’d left behind.

The trail opened out to a six-lane motorway running alongside the Dnieper.

Artem’s phone – a burner with my number in its memory – I dropped into a stormwater drain and the SIM card into a trash can on the walk back to the hotel. I trusted the night’s heavy snowfall to cover all trace of my footsteps on the trail.

Shielding my eyes from the glare of onrushing headlights, I noticed my hands were covered in blood. I’d never killed a man before, had rarely held a gun. The import of what I’d done should’ve been a crushing weight on my conscience, but I felt oddly at peace. I’d succeeded in avenging Katya’s murder. Part of me justifying it as an act of self-defence. Another part was convinced I’d done what was necessary, administering justice to a man in a country where none was on offer. Though, another thought, buried deep in the undercurrents of my mind, wondered what the hell I’d become.

Staring impassively at my outstretched hands, I watched snowflakes settle upon them then turn pink before dissolving.

Thirty-Two

Plodding Down an Emotional Path

Bratslav, Ukraine

At an OKKO service station on the outskirts of Vinnytsia, an hour from Bratslav, I stopped to stretch my legs and grab a coffee. Only one of the kiosk’s sliding glass doors slid open, the sensors conflicted over whether I should be welcomed inside with open arms. Ugly dark smudges circled my eyes. The five-centimetre gouge in my cheek was red and raw and the swelling made it appear I was storing nuts. My coat featured fresh blood spatters, from both Artem and Khotkov, which blended in with the other indignities it’d suffered over the past five weeks. The attendant handed me my coffee with averted eyes and a meek smile.

On a newspaper rack, Khotkov’s picture stared back from the cover of the Kyiv Post. Images of Artem’s face the moment before the bullet ripped through his skull, the hole in Khotkov’s forehead and the blood on my hands flashed before my eyes. Bile rose from an empty stomach and burned my oesophagus. The reality that I was his killer, albeit in self-defence, hit home. Last night’s numbed indifference had turned to panic. I threw away the cup of coffee after the first sip, rushed back to my rental car and reached for my phone.

‘Vera, tell me what your paper’s reporting.’

‘And a good morning to you, also.’

‘Sorry. I’m … I’m in a rush.’

‘Relax, Mr Latham. Police are unsure of the motive for the killings but feel confident only the three bodies found at the scene were involved. Artem Sergeyev killing Khotkov and his driver. And Khotkov shooting Artem. Two simultaneous headshots, if the reports are to be believed. Quite … extraordinary.’

Vera spoke the words carefully, letting each pause hang in the air.

The silence spoke volumes. Raising concerns with the authorities to suggest a different scenario would only lead to awkward questions and unpleasant consequences.

‘What about the story?’

I had no interest in exposing Khotkov and his drug-running operation. I’d left those details in Vera’s capable hands.

‘Give it some time, Mr Latham. It would appear far too suspicious to print such an exposé so close to his death. And even then—’

Her heavy sigh was barely audible above the crunching of gears as I wrestled the stick shift into reverse.

‘This is Ukraine. Not like your press in the United Kingdom.’

I pictured her staring out from her office window over the treetops to the National Circus and Oleksiy Pinko, and the thought of voluntarily placing one’s head in a lion’s jaw flitting across her mind.

‘Reprisals can be harsh regarding stories not favourable to our government. I’ll have to weigh the risk.’

With MI5 suppressing the Tyburn House story and holding the fiasco over my head like the sword of Damocles, I thought it best not to correct her idealised version of Western democracies.

‘I’ll leave it up to your judgement, Vera.’

‘Good luck, Mr Latham. Oh, and one more thing. How do you feel about coincidence? Moscow is today reporting the death of retired General Igor Voronin from a sudden heart attack.’

I rang off without answering. Vera didn’t need my help in understanding how the deaths of his father and Khotkov helped solidify Arkady Voronin’s power. That I’d removed one of those obstacles dulled the satisfaction I’d taken in avenging Katya’s death.

The rental Fiat chugged and spluttered back onto the motorway. Depressing the accelerator caused the engine to buck and whine as if in immense pain. Three of the four cylinders reached a happy equilibrium at eighty kilometres per hour. The fourth continued to hit discordant notes. Eighteen-wheelers blew past, trailing a wake of slush and road grit. Icy granules peppered the windshield like buck shot.

Attending Nadiya’s funeral was the least I could do for the family. And that from a man who could always be relied upon to do the very least. However, I couldn’t help thinking that the past five weeks had changed me. The search for Nadiya and uncovering the truth behind Katya’s death had led me along an emotional path littered with too few peaks and many deep, dark valleys. Paths I’d studiously avoided my entire adult life; my comfort zone normally involved sticking to the wide open road of least resistance. That I’d made it out the other side intact I’d chalk up as beginner’s luck.

I knew these events would fade from memory with time. Too much contemplation may make me someone I wasn’t prepared to become. Wasn’t capable of becoming. Although there was one memory I couldn’t escape, couldn’t easily compartmentalise, that struck too close to home: the pleading, sorrowful eyes of Maxim. Like a pebble in my shoe that refused to budge, his abject situation felt a constant irritant.

I pulled to the shoulder of the motorway and searched through my phone’s contacts.

‘Hello?’

‘Trevor? It’s your dad. How are you doing, mate?’

‘Good. I’m tired. Mummy says it’s bedtime. Where are you?’

‘I’m in Ukraine, and was thinking of you.’

‘Ukraine? Where’s that?’

His stumbling over the pronunciation brought a smile to my face.

‘Way, way north of you. And it’s freezing here, with lots of snow.’

‘Yeah? That’s weird. I’m going to the beach tomorrow. Do you want to talk to Mummy?’

‘No. I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing.’

‘I played soccer today and scored a goal!’

‘Good on ya, mate! Trevor, I just wanted to say I—’

‘When are you coming home? Mummy said you got blown up. Did you fly through the air?’

‘No. No flying.’

‘That woulda been cool. I want to fly. Then I could fly and come see you in … where did you say you were?’

‘Trev, I’ll come home soon, alright?’

‘Yeah. Can we go to the beach?’

‘Sure. Trev, I just called to say I miss you and that I—’

‘Mummy says I have to go to bed now.’

‘I know. I lov—’

‘Daddy? You okay?’

‘Yeah, I just have something stuck in my throat.’

‘Oh.’

‘I lov— I … I’ll call again soon, okay?’

‘Okay. Bye, Dad.’

I gripped the steering wheel in frustration at my ineptitude as a passing eighteen-wheeler buffeted the Fiat. The violent shaking of the vehicle brought the satellite radio to life but had no effect in bringing to the surface the feelings required within a normal human.

To the tinny strains of a Rolling Stones classic from the 1980s, I pulled back onto the motorway. When Mick started whining about an emotional rescue, I stabbed the power button. My dark thoughts didn’t need a soundtrack. As the road dipped downwards and curved to the south, a ragged copse of birch and willow trees appeared on the horizon. They meandered along the banks of the Southern Bug, breaking up the endless vista of snow-clad fields. Beyond lay the town of Bratslav.

The Fiat crawled along the town’s main street, gasping for breath. I avoided the curious glances of the townspeople and parked across from the church. A single onion-domed spire adorned the nave. Patches of rusted tin peeked out from under a thin covering of snow. I followed a family of four past the royal blue door of the vestry to the cemetery beyond.

A rail-thin Orthodox priest with arms spread wide greeted the gathering at the gravesite. His black cassock was shiny with wear. An ornate silver cross hanging low around his neck caught the afternoon sun and shone brightly. With his flat cylindrical cap and flowing cuffs, he looked like a giant Celtic cross with a long grey beard.

The scene was eerily reminiscent of four weeks earlier. A row of birch trees. Freshly turned black earth. A layer of powdery white snow. However, this time, the dirt lay in a neat pile next to an open grave, the mound of snow on the neighbouring plot higher than the surrounding ground. It would be summer before the earth covering Katya’s grave settled.

I stood alone at the back of the congregation, separated from the group of grieving family members and friends by two rows of grave markers. The distance did nothing to curb the impact of the moment. Nor keep the passion of the Orthodox priest’s sermon from cutting through the frigid air and stabbing into the heart of my inadequacy.

While Viktoriya and Yuri clung to each other and drew strength from the close-knit group, I drew strength from my solitude.

No, that was a lie. I had no strength. Not even solitude – that implied a situation of my choosing. I was merely alone and bereft.

The sermon over, four attendants gently lowered Nadiya’s coffin into the ground. Viktoriya, head bowed, quietly sobbed. Yuri stood tall. One arm around his wife, he thanked those offering their condolences. I reluctantly joined the end of the procession, hoping to formulate the right words along the way.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Latham. And we thank you for all you have done to bring our Nadiya home.’

Viktoriya spoke softly as Yuri’s intense gaze tunnelled into my soul.

‘I just wish I could have done more, gotten to her sooner.’

I’d kept many of the details of where and in what condition I’d found Nadiya to myself. It was bad enough they’d lost a second child without also dumping the lurid details of her existence into their bag of woe.

‘We held out little hope we’d ever see our Nadiya again. It is enough that you have brought us some closure. And reunited our two girls again.’

Viktoriya turned to face the gravediggers tossing shovel loads of dirt into the open plot. The elder of the group paused to relight his cigarette and, noticing Viktoriya’s stare, doffed his cap in silent tribute.

Yuri filled the silence with a low growl. His wife translated.

‘Yuri asks if you found the man that kidnapped our daughter.’

The question I was dreading.

‘I know who he is. A rich, powerful man. Russian.’

Viktoriya translated and Yuri winced as if in pain at the mention of ‘Russian’ then spat a glob of phlegm into the snow.

‘Tell your husband I will do what I can to bring about his downfall. It may take time, but I won’t quit.’

The idea of continuing a vendetta against Voronin was a surprise even to my ears. I could attempt to justify the outpouring of reckless words on two gunshot wounds and a cracked skull, but it went much deeper than that. I may only be a mere gnat buzzing around his periphery, but I was one that I hoped could do great harm if I was able to remain unseen. Perhaps Voronin was trying to clean up his act, as Khotkov had intimated. But, in my mind, the die was cast.

‘Yuri also asks of the explosion that killed Katya.’

Moving closer, I looked up and spoke directly to Yuri.

‘The man that killed Katya is dead. I watched him die.’

I stopped short of admitting to murder. Why muddle the current version of events? Arguing self-defence in a Ukrainian courtroom wasn’t high on my bucket list.

Yuri wrapped his arms around me, whispered a few words and squeezed so tightly I began to worry about the implosion of several vital organs. His rough stubble scratched at the raw furrow on my face. My arm, still recovering from the bullet wound in Barcelona, went numb. However, all the built-up tension trapped within my body ebbed away. I found myself clinging tightly to this mountain of a man for fear of letting go and becoming unhinged from this world.

‘My husband says you have redeemed the honour of his family. And he will forever be in your debt.’

We broke free and I nodded a solemn thank you.

‘And that you need a new coat. He says it looks to have barely survived the battle of Kyiv during Great Patriotic War.’

Yuri’s heavily lined face wrinkled like a fishing net drawing closed, as it broke out into a huge grin.

I brushed down the sleeves of my well-worn pea coat and inspected the damage.

‘You know, I think I’ll hold on to this one for a while.’

Viktoriya slipped her arm through mine as we followed the path alongside the church to the main road.

‘Do you have children, Mr Latham?’

‘Yes, a young son back in Australia.’

She sensed my discomfort like only a mother could.

‘Do not lose touch, Mr Latham. No matter what pain it causes, they will always be family.’

Viktoriya turned, placed both hands on my shoulders and kissed me softly on both cheeks.

‘Goodbye, Mr Latham.’

Yuri draped an arm around his diminutive wife and moved away for a final word with the priest.

My mood was far from light-hearted, but I strolled back to the Fiat with a renewed sense of purpose. I had a week of medical leave remaining and no new assignment on the horizon. I’d call Jack and let him know I needed another week, then book a flight to Melbourne and surprise Trevor. And who knows? If Serbia and Croatia could manage to patch up their differences and find some common ground, perhaps Sam and I could too. A small symbolic act, a scratching of the surface that may one day lead to my redemption in Trevor’s innocent eyes.

The Fiat turned over on the first attempt and fired a cloud of black diesel smoke into the Bratslav sky in self-congratulation. I coaxed the stick shift into first and began a three-point turn for the return trip to Kyiv. Somewhere between first and reverse, my phone came alive.

‘Yeah, this is Matt.’

‘Matt, good to hear your voice. How are things in Ukraine? Have you finished playing the role of the chivalrous knight?’

Gerald fucking Adkins.

‘Yeah, just wrestling my trusty steed back onto the highway. I could always take on one more dragon, though, or an annoying arsehole. Speaking of … what do you want?’

‘Slow down there, hotshot. After that fuck-up in London. I’d go easy if I were you.’

‘Fuck-up? I brought down a Russian mole and shut down an entire Russian operation on British soil.’

‘The way I hear it, MI5 has you by the balls for fuckin’ up their stake out.’

I wasn’t about to debate the finer points of the situation with Gerald, specifically as those finer points could land me in a lot of hot water.

‘Why the call, Gerald? Lonely back there in Berlin? Run out of locals to insult?’

‘Not at all, just taking care of some interagency paperwork. Care to know what it involves?

In no mood to play games, I remained silent.

‘Olek Khotkov. He was murdered yesterday. Someone was kind enough to give him a third eye.’

The RPMs in my brain quickly out-spun those of the struggling Fiat.

‘Yeah. So?’

‘SBU seems to think it was a personal issue between him and the shooter. Young kid within their INTERPOL agency. They’re short on motive, but they’ll put it together eventually.’

‘And why would I care?’

‘Well, that’s what I’d like to know. Think of any reason why someone would want Khotkov dead?’

‘What are you getting at Gerald? I’ve no inclination to be playing your childish mind—’

‘They found a fingerprint, Matt!’

I pulled to the side of the road. Pins and needles spread down from my shoulders, freezing my fingers. My legs developed a creeping numbness.

‘The door handle in the back of Khotkov’s Audi. Of course, nothing came up on their criminal databases. So they took a punt and shared – seeing as Khotkov was SBU – with the other friendlies in the intelligence community. Care to guess what I discovered? But I’m pretty sure you know already.’

My throat became drier than the Western Desert.

‘I can explain.’

‘Or I can keep this under my hat.’

‘What do you want?’

The question clawed its way out as a scratchy rasp.

‘You’ve sat back for far too long, taking our money and giving us fuck all in return. Time to start earning that stipend. And don’t even try pulling that “Frank’s boy” bullshit.’

Sir Frank was the last person I’d look to for help. Particularly as it involved me, once again, sullying the Latham name.

‘You still there?’

‘Go on.’

‘Now, you do as I ask and there’s no need for me to share your fingerprints with our Ukrainian friends. Of course, you may have a good reason for being in the back seat of Khotkov’s car. But it does make two perfectly timed headshots seem something other than an incredible fucking coincidence. I’d hate for you to have to go back and explain yourself to Khotkov’s SBU mates in Kyiv.’

I rested my head on the steering wheel, trying to buy some time, find some inspiration. All that came out was a desperate plea and an imprint of the Fiat symbol on my forehead.

‘He set the bomb in Kharkiv that killed Katya, that almost killed me. He was using his position to run drugs throughout Europe.’

‘Hmm … Well, aren’t you the avenging angel? Nice work on digging up that scoop. Pity all it does is give another group of bad guys in Ukraine reason to want you dead. Taking out their boss may put a crimp in their retirement plans.’

Succinctly put. I wasn’t just barking up the wrong tree if I thought Gerald would lend a sympathetic ear, I was in the wrong bloody forest.

‘Again. What do you need?’

The stores along Bratslav’s main street had already closed for the day. The streets deserted. A virtual ghost town.

‘Nothing that won’t take up too much of your time.’

‘I still have a week of medical leave—’

‘Fuck that. I think you’ve proven you’re more than capable of operating at full speed. Am I wrong?’

Gerald, still the master at asking questions that required no answer.

The tiny Bratslav bus terminal stood between two birch trees and leaned precariously towards the road. A bench seat fronted the building. If a bus happened to appear, I’d consider throwing myself under its wheels. Better there than under Gerald’s thumb.

‘Cancel whatever plans you’ve made or even thought of making. I need you in Warsaw. Monday. Nationalist groups are kicking up a fuss, and we need someone there, someone deniable to Western intelligence, to give us a read on their intentions. Got it?’

‘Yeah. And after that?’

‘Maybe another assignment. Who knows? Do a serviceable job in Poland, and that may be enough to redeem your sorry arse. But until then, I fucking own you. Unless you’d like to take your chances with the Ukrainians?’

Polish Neo-Nazis or Ukrainians baying for blood?

‘What’s behind door number three?’

‘Now’s not the fucking time to get cute. Like it or not, I’m the best friend you’ve got.’

Visions of a trip to Melbourne quickly vanished, a reconciliation with Trevor postponed. I tried to picture my son’s cherubic face, but it melded with Maxim’s. How much longer did I have until Trevor was lost to me forever?

Time to take my medicine.

‘Send me the details. I’ll be there Monday.’

I disconnected the call without giving him a chance at one final smartarse comment – the best I could muster under the circumstances. It’s hard to stop someone from squeezing your balls when your hands are tied behind your back. Punching the dashboard did little to ease my frustration and caused the radio to cut out. Silence would reign on the long, lonely drive back to Kyiv. An eternity to question why I put myself through the wringer for others, when all that awaited was a slow-motion plunge into a tub of heartache.

Weak afternoon sunlight shone through the birch trees lining the main street. A column of white smoke spiralled into the air from the power plant on the outskirts of town. No. No more grand gestures. Time to put me, Matt Latham, back in the forefront of my world and stuff the rest.

To hell with empathy.

A young girl had taken a seat on the bench at the bus terminal, her feet bouncing up and down on the packed snow. Whether from nerves or the cold, it was impossible to tell. She had a hard-sided suitcase and hugged a long, woollen overcoat tightly around her against the chill.

I cruised past slowly and she flashed an innocent smile full of hope, for a life far removed from this provincial town. Her long hair was the colour of straw bleached by the summer sun and her eyes the deepest blue. Just like …

To hell with empathy? Or did I just need more practice?

Ah, damn it. Only one way to find out.

Tyres slid through icy slush as I stamped on the brakes.

The gearbox groaned as I searched for reverse.

Acknowledgements

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Juliet Rogers and Diana Hill of Echo Publishing for digging deep into their slush pile, dusting off Matt, and believing that his adventures were worth sharing. And I do not say these words lightly. If only you knew how many years it took to (finally) be in the right place at the right time.

Thanks are due to my editor, the wonderful Kylie Mason – who was an absolute dream to work with – for whipping Matt into better shape from whence he started. Also to Debra Billson, for the magnificent cover layout. And to the entire team at Echo, for making me feel so welcome and valued as a writer.

I’ve dedicated this book to Mark Smith and Jock Serong, without whom the Songs Reimagined anthologies would still just be an idea of mine collecting dust. But also for introducing me to so many talented writers, who have been so gracious and supportive towards a veritable unknown. To the Kelly Gang and Cave Divers, Cheers!

It would be remiss of me not to thank my wife, Anna. Year after year she puts up with this fool, as I fumble towards completion of another project – and with nary a complaint (eye rolls don’t count).

And finally, to you the reader. I thank you for taking the plunge and giving Shadow Lives and Matt Latham a chance. I hope you’ve enjoyed the experience.

COMING IN 2025

Matt Latham returns in another fast-paced political thriller.

In Best Left Buried, Latham – foreign correspondent, part-time spy and anti-hero with a heart of gold – sets out on another mission to set the world to rights. And once again, chaos soon follows. His search for the truth on behalf of a desperate woman will take him from America to Cuba, and bring to light the devastating repercussions of a decades-old war crime.

About the Author

Neil A White was born in Melbourne and educated in his native Australia and the United States. He is the author of the novels Closure, Turn a Blind Eye and Something for Bebe, and the occasional short story. He is also the creator of the ‘Songs Reimagined’ series – Minds Went Walking: Paul Kelly’s Songs Reimagined and Into Your Arms: Nick Cave’s Songs Reimagined. He and his wife currently reside in Dallas, Texas.

Echo Publishing

An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

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Summer Hill NSW 2130

www.echopublishing.com.au

Bonnier Books UK

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London WC1B 4DA

www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Neil A White 2024

Cover design copyright © Debra Billson 2024

All rights reserved. Echo thanks you for buying an authorised edition of this book. In doing so, you are supporting writers and enabling Echo to publish more books and foster new talent. Thank you for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing or transmitting any part of this book by any means, electronic or mechanical – including storing in a retrieval system, photocopying, recording, scanning or distributing – without our prior written permission.

Echo Publishing acknowledges the traditional custodians of Country throughout Australia. We recognise their continuing connection to land, sea and waters. We pay our respects to Elders past and present.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First published 2024

Edited by Kylie Mason

Page design, typesetting and ebook creation by Shaun Jury

Cover design by Debra Billson 

Cover image: Red branches in snow-covered forest by Westend6 / Getty Images

A catalogue entry for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

ISBN: 9781760689292 (paperback)

ISBN: 9781760689308 (ebook)

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