4. Build me up Buttercup
She stood in what had obviously once been an office, though the destruction that had been inflicted resembled the work of a very intense and systematic tornado. There were no windows, and somehow she knew they were deep underground.
And that this place was very, very familiar.
Across the room from her was a man, dressed in kevlar body armour and tactical assault gear. As she watched he pulled the balaclava he was wearing off and ran a hand through his short brown hair.
Their eyes met. Locked. The world stopped. She almost forgot to breathe.
They were walking towards each other across the wreckage, skirting overturned desks and shattered monitors, ducking under a light fitting that had half-fallen from the ceiling and was still sparking. At no point was there any conscious decision involved.
Then they were embracing. Falling into each others arms.
Physically it was awkward and lumpy and uncomfortable due to all the armour and gear they were both wearing. On a more important and fundamental level though, it was utterly, utterly wonderful. A vindication of everything. Their lips met. It was like she was drowning and this kiss was oxygen. It was not something that she wanted or needed. It was something she required. For so long she had been submerged, having to hold her breath or die, but now she had reached the surface. Finally she could breathe again.
Somewhere someone was talking to them. Miles away. Aeons away. Entire universes away.
"Hey, guys . . .? I just talked to base. We did it. We kicked their asses."
The voice was speaking English. American accented. The voice was a buzzing irrelevance.
"Hey . . . guys? Did you hear what I said?"
The kiss went on and on. An end. A beginning.
"Asses. Kicked."
* * *
Svetlana woke in darkness, gasping. As consciousness returned the details of the dream started to bleed away, and the harder she tried to cling onto them the more diffuse and elusive they became. She concentrated on one detail. Held it tight.
Groaning, she swung her legs out of bed and sat up. Her hand came up to rub at her eyes, then swept the tangle of her hair back from where it fell across her face. The clock on the bedside table said 4:57 in luminous red digits.
Reaching across the table she turned a lamp on, squinting momentarily against the harsh electric glare. Then she stood up, stifling a yawn. She grabbed a robe from the back of a nearby chair and pulled it on against the slight chill that permeated the room.
Then she moved across to her desk and the row of shelves packed with box files that took up most of one wall. She started to look intently through the row of photocopied files.
The face of the man in her dream still lingered.
* * *
"Hey, Svet. Good morning."
"Hey." She looked up as Tchéky pulled up a seat and sat down across the desk from her. After a moment she pursed her lips. "Tchéky, these files. Just how comprehensive are they? How much do they bear up to the reality?"
He looked at her curiously. "On cold hard facts they're reasonably comprehensive. On everything else . . ." He shrugged. "The nuance; the on the ground experience . . .. To be honest they're pretty much useless. Try reading what we put together on the Chebakov op. That should give you some idea of what I'm getting at."
She nodded – tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear.
"Why?" he asked.
A long pause. "I had a dream last night. I thought . . . I thought it might be a memory. Or at least . . . derived from a memory. I was in America a think. People spoke with American accents. I spoke with an American accent." She shook her head, frustrated. "I've been going over the files on all the American ops I've been involved in, seeing if I can make some memory spark – some detail tie up to the dream. Some tiny connection or correlation."
"And have you been able to?" He sounded like he already knew the answer to that.
"No."
"Svet, perhaps you'd be better off trying psych ops?" Tchéky's voice was hesitant. "I know you've had it up to the eyeballs with all their tests and therapies and crap, and their attempts at regression have been a washout. But if you have a detail from your dream – something they might be able to work with differently this time . . ." He trailed off.
"I'll . . . I'll think about it." The idea of going to psych ops with this filled her with an unaccountable dread though. She suddenly wanted desperately to change the subject – wished she had never even mentioned it.
Thankfully Tchéky changed the subject for her. "And the . . . other matter. Have you had any more thoughts on that?"
"I'm not going to put in for transfer." She spoke quietly and emphatically.
"Good."
"Good?"
He smiled. "Yeah, good."
"I thought maybe you were trying to guide me the other way. But . . . this feels like what I'm meant to do. It feels – I don't know – right somehow."
"Svet, I just want to see you happy again. I'll support you whatever you decide."
There was a somewhat uncomfortable pause.
Tchéky forced a broad smile, placing down a file on the desk between them. "Right. Now that that's been decided, I was wondering if you wanted to come out with me tonight? I though we might, you know, hit the town. Pick up a bite of intel. Intimidate a contact or two. That sort of thing."
* * *
It was a karaoke bar, and to all appearances absolutely the definition of a seedy dive. At some point someone had tried to inject some glamour, but now the layer of tarnished gloss just went to emphasise the seediness.
Despite all this it was relatively crowded, and the clientele appeared rather more upscale than might have been expected. Mainly middle-aged business types accompanied by much younger – and scantily clad – mistresses.
Svetlana and Tchéky wove through the jostling crowds, heading towards a private table at the back of the main floor. Up on stage a ridiculously butch looking drag queen – stuffed into a silver lamé cocktail dress, fishnets and a towering red wig that resembled an elaborate topiary shrub – serenaded his audience in a warbling falsetto. Thick false eyelashes fluttered coyly behind a bright red fan.
When a man loves a woman
Can't keep his mind on nothing else
He'll trade the world
For the good thing he's found
As they neared the back table a tall, hulking individual with a shaven head and a heavy black moustache moved to block their path. Svetlana noted instantly the slightly odd way his suit hung on his heavily muscled frame – body-armour and a shoulder holster beneath his left armpit. Bodyguard and enforcer.
If she's bad he can't see it
She can do no wrong
Turn his back on his best friend
If he put her down
"I believe Gregor will see me." Tchéky's smile would probably have seemed amiable to someone who didn't know him. Svetlana prepared herself to take the man down.
When a man loves a woman . . .
"Gregor does not wish to be disturbed." Flat; emphatic.
He'd give up all his comfort
Sleep out in the rain
If she said that's the way it ought to be
"Tsk, it's his old friend. Mr. Romatsev. And I've travelled such a long way. Let him know that a mutual acquaintance was enquiring after his health. The two of us have so much to catch up on." Tchéky's smile just broadened. He seemed entirely oblivious to the stare the bodyguard was trying to wither him with.
Well, this man loves a woman
I gave you everything I had
Tryin' to hold on to your precious love
Baby, please don't treat me bad
"I told you. He doesn't want to be disturbed." Dark eyes were as hard as nails. "I think you want to find yourself another bar." The man lifted a hand . . .
When a man loves a woman . . .
Just before the hand clamped down on Tchéky's shoulder Svetlana caught his wrist tight. Her eyes locked with his as he turned on her in surprise, having apparently dismissed her as no threat. For a moment she thought he would try to hit her. Something he saw seemed to give him pause though.
"Just let your boss know what my friend has just said. It will save trouble for all concerned," she told him.
If she plays him for a fool
He's the last one to know
Lovin' eyes can't ever see
The bodyguard pulled his wrist free of her grasp, holding her gaze for a couple seconds more. "For you lady . . ." He suddenly sounded surprisingly soft spoken and urbane. Touching his earpiece he spoke rapidly – nodded once as an answer came back. "Follow me."
When a man loves a woman
He can do no wrong
He can never own some other girl
"What did you do?" Tchéky mouthed to her as soon as the bodyguard's back was turned.
"Some people just have it, Tchéky. Others don't." Inwardly though she was puzzled too.
* * *
"The lab report on the manuscript has come back," Tchéky was saying.
Svetlana looked up from flicking through the file. She regarded him questioningly
"They think there are some pages missing from it."
"Oh? I took everything in Chebakov's safe, but I didn't really have chance to go over the rest of the office."
He smiled. "We don't think you missed anything Svet. We think it's more likely that Chebakov was double crossing – or at least short-changing – his buyers."
"The man we saw. The one who went into his office with him."
Tchéky nodded. "That's our best bet."
"So do we have any idea who he is yet? I know the facial recognition databases came up blank."
He reached across the desk and turned over a couple more pages in the file Svetlana was looking at.
"Tentatively – and I mean tentatively – we've identified him as Vitor Barbets. He's rumoured to act as a go between for certain parties of a . . . shall we say dubious nature. A broker and facilitator. Likes to keep a low profile. Which he does a pretty good job of it seems, given the minuscule amount we've managed to uncover about him."
"Who's this he's talking to?" She indicated a second man in the surveillance photograph. "Is he significant?"
"Ah yes. That's Gerard Cuveé."
Svetlana looked up at him. "I know that name, don't I?"
"Yeah." He grimaced. "The Kashmir op."
She nodded, recollecting what she'd read now.
"Originally a French national. Recruited by the KGB in the sixties. He's rumoured to have achieved a high level of seniority. Unfortunately his files rather conveniently disappeared from KGB headquarters in the chaos surrounding the collapse of communism, so we know rather less than we'd like." Tchéky stroked his chin, fingers rasping through the stubble on his jaw. "Currently leader of an organisation widely known as the People's Revolutionary Front. Sounds like your typical bunch of fanatic revolutionary terrorist nut jobs, right? And their low level operatives probably do think that's what they are. Cuveé operates on an altogether different level of subtlety and sophistication though. Still playing at being KGB spymaster, though strictly for his own benefit now. Some people just don't know when to let go."
"And he's still able to walk around freely, doing what he likes, even after Kashmir?" Svetlana's question was primarily rhetorical.
"You should have put a bullet in the back of his head when you had the chance. Sometimes it's the only way."
She looked at him sharply. "I'm not a murderer." That did contain a hidden question.
Tchéky just shrugged. "After any length of time in this business you learn to be a pragmatist. You never liked it, but I think you accepted it. Justice is nice concept, but it never happens. Not against the big guys. Not against those that really matter."
She made a noncommittal noise, not really liking the implications of his answer. Her gaze dropped back to the photo. "So, is this recent? We think Cuveé has the missing pages?"
"That was our thought. The photo was taken yesterday, and Cuveé has a history of going after Rambaldi artefacts."
"Excuse me? Rambaldi?"
He snorted. "I forgot. We don't tend to put that in the files. For good reasons too if you ask me. Rambaldi was Pope Alexander VI's chief architect, ex-communicated for heresy, and executed in 1496. A bit of a Nostrodamus cum Da Vinci character supposedly. Some are convinced he's the genuine article. A real prophet, who drew designs for transistors, cellphones, advanced weapons systems and so on back in the 15th century. Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't look at me like that Svet. It's bollocks. I know that. But he's the big thing at the moment. Everyone seems to be on a Rambaldi hunt, trying to put together his master plan, or whatever. The high ups are rather firmly of the view that people like Cuveé should not be the ones to do that. Just in case, like. So right now, Rambaldi is a priority."
"I'm glad I asked," she said dryly.
"Anyway, yeah. We thought Cuveé had the pages. We've had him under close surveillance since Kashmir. That did do his organisation serious harm, by the way Svet. You should know that. When we twigged that he'd met with Barbets, we had a commando team raid his St. Petersburg facilities in the early hours of this morning. Took him unawares, though the bastard still managed to get away."
"And?"
"No pages. We now think Barbets was using him as a decoy to cover the real transaction. He guessed he might have been compromised at Chabakov's party and he knew we were watching Cuveé – that we would jump on him at the first opportunity. Played us for idiots." He reached across to the file again, and turned another couple pages forward. "Thankfully we got lucky. Barbets made a phone call to this man. Gregor Todorov. What he didn't know is that Gregor is an erstwhile contact of mine."
"That is fortunate."
"Note I said erstwhile – so not quite as fortunate as all that. Tonight I thought I'd pay a visit to er . . . extract the relevant information from him. We're no longer on the best of terms, so I'd appreciate someone along as backup."
"Me?" She smiled, for some reason absurdly touched.
"No one I trust more." He returned the smile. "I'll be bad cop,"
"So that means I'm good cop, right?" She feigned a pout. "Smile prettily and flutter my eyelashes?"
He smiled. "No Svet. You get to be worse cop."
* * *
The drag queen reached the end of his performance. There was a smattering of desultory applause across the floor, though one large group clustered around three tables on the far side of the stage broke into exaggeratedly rapturous cheering, shouting 'encore!', 'encore!'
"Interesting performer," Tchéky commented. On stage the drag queen swept his vocal admirers an exaggerated curtsy.
"You think so? You should see some of the types we get in here." Gregor smiled, outwardly full of charm and bonhomie. He was a large teddy bear of a man with a round, unthreatening, almost baby face and thinning blonde hair. He embraced Tchéky, apparently warmly. "My friend, it is good to see you. It has been a long time, no? Please, sit down. Have a drink. We can catch up on old times."
To Svetlana the reek of his insincerity was almost as powerful as his aftershave.
"And who is this gorgeous creature?" Gregor oozed, looking past Tchéky, his gaze travelling lingeringly up and down her body in a manner that made her grit her teeth. "Your manners are amiss, my old friend."
"May I introduce Svetlana? She's an old friend."
"Hah! Not so old I think, unless my eyes are lying to me." As Gregor bent over to kiss her hand, she noted – slightly startled – that he was missing two fingers on his left hand, along with a sizeable portion of his left ear. "A sincere pleasure."
"All yours, I assure you," she purred. She was wearing a short platinum blonde wig, make-up emphasising the harder angles of her face, lips dark red.
Tchéky made a small choking sound, quickly smoothed over. "Svetlana graduated from the same school as Anna. You remember Anna, I'm sure, Gregor."
Suddenly Gregor complexion was almost as white as his shirt. He caught himself in the middle of taking an involuntary step backwards and glanced briefly at Svetlana's face – coolly impassive – before looking away quickly.
The drag queen had returned to centre stage, apparently having been persuaded into performing a second number. He was drinking from a bottle of mineral water, adjusting the microphone in preparation.
They sat down. "When you mentioned a mutual acquaintance sending their regards you meant Anna then?" Gregor's genial façade had all but collapsed into nervous tension.
Tchéky gave a wolfish looking grin. "No. I don't think Anna has any regards for anyone at all. As well you know." He glanced pointedly at the hand with the missing fingers. "I was talking about Derevko."
He laughed, looking relieved. "Derevko's gone. Disappeared. Fell off a tall building, or so I heard. You'll have to do better than that Tchéky."
"Derevko has disappeared before so many times. Yet always – when you least expect it; least want it – she turns up again. Just like that and nastier than ever. I think she would have reason to question some of your activities of late, Gregor. Should she come to hear of them."
Gregor's genial, insincere smile had taken hold again. "Tchéky, Tchéky. Is this really how it has to be? Has our relationship degenerated to the point where we can only talk to each other in oblique threats? Now please, what is it you want? I'll do my best to help you, but let us try to be polite."
Tchéky glanced pointedly at the two attractive young women Gregor had been dining with, seated on either side of him. "Perhaps you might prefer to discuss this in private? You have an office round the back right? It might be more peaceful . . .."
Gregor glanced briefly again at Sventlana. She met his gaze with a small, enigmatic smile that had him blanching and looking away again swiftly. "Come now, Tchéky. I have shut up shop for the night. We are all friends here, and my companions are discreet. Say what you came to say, why don't you?"
"Vitor Barbets," Svetlana interjected, voice purring – seductive. "We have been lead to believe you can facilitate a meeting."
Gregor looked startled, though that was quickly smoothed away. Up on stage the drag queen cleared his throat. Music started to play and he began to sing.
Why do you build me up Buttercup, baby . . .?
"I think someone has misled you, my friends. This . . . Vitor Barbets? I'm afraid I know no one of that name."
Just to let me down and mess me around
And then worst of all you never call, baby . . .
"Gregor, Gregor," Tchéky was saying. He seemed suddenly to be talking from some distance away though. Svetlana felt like she'd been plunged into a bath of ice water. The music . . . the words . . .. She could scarcely draw breath.
When you say you will but I love you still
I need you more than anyone, darlin'
Tchéky and Gregor were still talking, though she couldn't hear a word of what they were saying. All there was was the song, lyrics pounding through her skull like nails being driven into a coffin lid. Scarcely aware of her own actions, she stood up abruptly, jostling the table and almost managing to spill all the drinks on it.
You know that I have from the start
So build me up Buttercup, don't break my heart
Conversation had stopped around the table and everyone was staring at her. Tchéky asked her something – if she was all right perhaps. She made a curtly dismissive chopping gesture with one hand and started walking. Get away. She was hyperventilating, gripped by panic. Have to get away. Have to get away . . ..
"I'll be over at ten", you told me time and again
But you're late, I wait around and then (bah-dah-dah)
I run to the door, I can't take any more
It's not you, you let me down again
She reached a wall – by now entirely oblivious to her surroundings – and collapsed against it. Her shoulders were wracked by shudders. The song was the only thing in the world. Tears streamed down her face as if a floodgate had burst open, beyond her ability to stem. No. No. Don't make me remember. I won't. I won't!
Then the singing stopped. Somebody screamed. There was a gunshot.
* * *
Through a blurred veil of tears, the grim tableau in front of her was something strange and surreal. Time seemed to have frozen solid.
Gregor lolled back carelessly in his chair, seemingly about to fall out of it. At first glance it looked like he was wearing a bright red bib. A second look showed the drag queen's fan embedded deeply in his throat, blood staining the front of his shirt in a vast slick. The bodyguard sprawled on his back on the floor, caught in the act of rising. A bullet hole in the centre of his forehead made it look almost like he'd grown a third eye.
Tchéky had ducked down behind the table in an effort to find cover, and was in the process of drawing his handgun from an ankle holster. Gregor's two female companions appeared to be frozen into immobility in shock. The drag queen, having produced a pair of pistols from garters around his muscular thighs, was moving round the table to take the cover between him and Tchéky out of play . . .
Time resumed normal service. Mind still half-paralysed – operating solely on instinct and drilled in training – Svetlana went for her own Vector SR-1 service pistol in her handbag.
The drag queen opened fire, hitting Tchéky in the arm and knocking his gun from his grasp, spinning away from him across the dance floor. Tchéky grunted raggedly, falling over onto his side. The drag queen moved in for the kill.
Svetlana fired off a snap shot without consciously aiming. There was a brilliant spark and a strangled yelp from the drag queen. One of the pistols flew from his hand.
He whirled on her, firing indiscriminently with his remaining gun as she dove full length, sliding into cover behind a hastily vacated table. People were screaming now, stampeding towards the way out. Abruptly the drag queen turned tail and ran, sprinting on three-inch heels for the stage left exit.
Svetlana returned fire at his back but her aim was awry and she only managed to blast a couple of large holes in his towering red wig. She glanced towards Tchéky as she got to her feet. He was still on the floor, clutching at his wounded arm in an effort to stem the blood flow, his face twisted in a grimace. As their eyes briefly met he made a gesture to indicate he was okay – that she should get after the drag queen.
She moved to pursue.
Behind the stage there was a maze of dimly lit and dusty corridors that might have been difficult to navigate if it wasn't for the incessant clacking of the drag queen's heels ahead of her – a beacon to guide her path. Rounding a corner she was forced to duck back quickly as two bullets showered her with splinters of plaster, only inches from her face.
Gritting her teeth, she leaned out of cover and returned fire, but her quarry was already gone. A door swung slowly closed behind him.
Beyond the door was a flight of stairs leading upwards, lit in ugly, flickering yellow-green. The drag queen's footfalls were still clearly audible, clicking loudly on the steps so Svetlana didn't have to pause to wonder if this was just a decoy. Looking up showed a flash of sliver lamé and beefy fishnet clad legs, pumping rapidly. She fired off a shot, but it ricocheted wide off a metal banister railing.
The drag queen fired back wildly into the stairwell, momentarily making Svetlana flinch back. Then she started to run after him.
On the floor above a door was just swinging shut, as if someone had passed through it a second or so earlier. The drag queen still hadn't cottoned to the fact that the heels he was wearing made his footsteps too loud for such a ruse to have a hope of working though. Svetlana ignored the door and carried on running up the stairs.
There were more gunshots from above. This time they weren't aimed down at her, clanging loudly off metal.
Rounding a corner onto the next landing Svetlana was just in time to see a flash of red and silver and the door leading out onto the karaoke bar's roof slam shut. She paused briefly, taking a deep breath. Then she kicked the door hard, firing a couple of covering shots and flattening herself against the wall in an effort to evade any incoming fire.
Nothing.
She scanned the night-lit roof quickly, her breath coming fast and leaving a very faint vapour trail on the cool air.
Out the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of something bright red and whirled.
A distraction. The bullet riddled wig sitting on top of an air-conditioning unit.
Even as she was registering this she threw herself flat, bullets perforating the air were she'd been standing a fraction of a second earlier. Frantically she crawled back behind the door in an effort to find cover, asphalt chips stinging her legs from half a dozen near misses in quick succession.
Then there was a click – the drag queen's gun coming up empty.
Swiftly she sprang out of cover, pistol trained and ready. There was a flash of silver, the drag queen diving behind another air-conditioning unit.
She circled steadily, staying out wide so that she couldn't be taken by surprise and the angle of her vision would allow her to spot any sudden moves from him. "Throw away the gun. Come out with you hands above your head." She didn't honestly expect to be obeyed. She was also very conscious that police might be arriving any time now to investigate the commotion. That was a complication she could well do without.
The drag queen suddenly broke and ran, knowing that he was running rapidly out of cover. If anything, without the wig, he looked even more ridiculous then before – face obscured beneath a heavy pancake of make-up; short, fine blonde hair held back by a hairnet.
"Freeze!"
He ignored her. She aimed carefully and fired off a shot, hitting him in the shoulder. With Gregor dead she needed his assassin alive.
Blood flowered, spreading across the silver lamé and he staggered. He managed to keep on running though.
"Freeze! The next bullet will kill you!"
The drag queen threw a wild-eyed glance back over his shoulder at her but still didn't slow. He was rapidly running out of rooftop, and Svetlana realised suddenly that he intended to jump – across an alleyway onto an adjacent building. She aimed again and fired.
This time the bullet took him directly in the meat of the thigh.
She heard him gasp loudly in pain, but still he didn't go down. His gait became ragged and stumblingly uneven and his pace slowed dramatically, droplets of blood leaving a garish trail behind him. He kept going forward with a desperate single-minded determination though.
"Stop!"
He tried to jump. Despite the bullet in his leg he still tried to jump. All she could do was stare.
He didn't even come close to making it across the gap. There was a despairing wail and he plunged from view. A fraction of a second later there was a horrible crunching impact.
Numbly Svetlana lowered her pistol to her side. The adrenaline rush was fading and suddenly she started shaking. Slowly she walked over to the spot where the drag queen had fallen, staring queasily down at his broken body.