East-West Relations

Mark sat in silence, contemplating. The past few hours had thrown up more for his mind to take in than he cared to think about, but knowing that his son's life depended on someone fitting together the fragments of information they had, he was more than willing to put his head to the task.

Lucinda Fortescue's knowledge, albeit sketchy, had proved invaluable. The sheer level of her husband's now apparent secrecy was cause for concern in itself, but the small amount of detail Lucinda had provided was startling. Not only had Michael Fortescue not approved of his daughter's intended marriage to Hugo, but he had also gone to great lengths to try and stop it.

"Michael . . . well he was always scornful of Hugo . . . second generation immigrant, you know? It didn't seem to matter that he was the son of his business partner . . . to be honest with you, he was always rather disdainful of Viktor too . . . I often got the impression that many of the business dealings were carried out without his knowledge . . . "

Mark mulled over these words. Michael Fortescue was at the root of the kidnapping, that much seemed to be clear. But why?

"Michael was furious that he could not dissuade Ellie, I . . . I've never seen him in such a temper . . . " Lucinda had flushed in abashment and averted her gaze from Mark's. "He left, I thought he was going to do something stupid, but when he returned . . . he seemed calm, accepting. He apologised to Ellie, paid for everything. He left for North Korea the week before the wedding, a business trip and perfect excuse not to be there to see her . . . well, make the biggest mistake of her life – as he saw it."

Had Michael resented Hugo enough to stage the entire kidnapping? To set him up with North Korean gangsters? To endanger his own daughter's life? Lucinda Fortesque had been aghast at the suggestion that her husband was involved in her daughter's abduction, but even so had looked more than slightly apprehensive to accept the sheer quantity of coincidences that now implicated him.

"Mark?" Ron's voice broke through his ruminations, and Mark turned his head to look at him.

"Ron," Mark jumped up form his seat, "Is there any news of Michael Fortesque – we know he's not in London, so . . . "

Ron raised a hand to silence him. "There's been an incident at the hospital – the would-be assassin is dead."

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Michael strode away from the stateroom, his mouth clenched into a tight-lipped grimace. The heavy clunk of the door as it was pulled shut behind him resounded in his ears, and a slight wave of bitterness washed over him. How could she?! After all I've done for her? Whilst he was loathe to admit it, even to himself, Eleanor's betrayal stung. How could she choose him over me?

There had been no wavering in her response - her answer had been decisive. She sealed her own fate . . .

"What?" Michael spoke curtly, his clipped English accent abrupt and forbidding. The presence of his personal aide was unexpected and unsolicited, and therefore could only spell trouble. And Michael was in no mood to be disturbed.

"There . . . " Marcus Gault hesitated in continuing. He could see from the tautness of his employer's face that trouble was brewing, and he had no desire to be on the receiving end, particularly given to the news he was about to impart. Seeing however, that his continued hesitation was merely adding to the mounting bad-temper on Fortescue's face, he desisted his hesitation and spoke.

"There's been a complication . . . "

Gault watched Fortescue's face, the momentary contraction of the muscles surrounding his eyes that hinted at his displeasure. A pause pregnant with stifled tension lingered for a moment before Michael responded. Stopping dead in his tracks he turned to face Gault, who immediately averted his gaze.

"Well? Do you expect me to guess, or will you do me the courtesy of telling me about this, 'complication'?" His voice dripping with contemptuous sarcasm, Michael awaited a response.

"I think . . . perhaps it would be better if we spoke in your office?" Gault risked a glance up, and for the briefest of moments felt the venom of the glare that was directed at his own face.

"I do not pay you to think, Gault, but if you insist?"

"I . . . " Gault hesitated once again. He knew he was being played, baited into angering his employer who was clearly looking for someone to take the brunt of his vicious temper.

Contemplating his response as carefully as the nanosecond he had to think would allow, he replied, "Not at all, the situation is a little . . . sensitive, but if you like . . . "

Gault found himself cut short as his employer interjected. "Hawkins, Price, keep watch on our guests. I trust there will be no mishaps?" The threat behind his words was overtly obvious, as was his dismissal of their presence.

"Come." Michael barked the command as he began the path to his office, Gault pacing a few steps behind him.

Approaching the office Michael flung open the door and entered. The room was dark and stately, decorated in dark mahogany and red leather. An illustriously carved desk took over a large proportion of the room, uncompromisingly magnificent and imposing; a metaphor for its owner in every sense.

Gault stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind himself. As he did so he could feel the intensity of the glare that bored into his back, and taking a silent, bracing breath, he turned to face it. The fading light of the day cast innumerable shadows haphazardly about the room, but neither man made any effort to turn the lights on.

Michael Fortescue's gaze was intense and cold. His slightly greying eyebrows arched expectantly, a slight sneer playing on his lips.

"It's about Hugo." Better to get it over and done with, Gault thought, the words spilling from his mouth in a rush.

Sure enough, a look of thunder instantly creased Michael's distinguished face, before again being replaced with a steely blankness.

"Hugo?" The word was delivered with an air of confusion, as though the name lacked all meaning. "I was under the impression that the situation had been dealt with."

"As I was saying, there's been somewhat of a . . . complication. The . . . "

"I don't want to hear about your complications!"

As he spoke Michael strode across the office, seizing Gault by the lapels of his suit jacket, and thrusting his face into his. "I have employed you long enough now that you should know only too well of my policy on those who fail me . . . Deal with the 'situation' and do it properly, or you will not have the opportunity of disappointing me again."

Gault flinched back from his foaming boss, the intense proximity such that he could feel the discharge of saliva against his skin. Determinedly averting his gaze from Fortescue's, Gault inclined his head in an assent of submission.

Fortescue held him for a moment longer, his breath heaving hot and ragged. He considered what he would truly like to do to the man he held in his clutches, trembling slightly at the power he felt surging through his veins. Realising however that for the moment Gault was more use to him alive than in a bloody pulp he released him, thrusting him away and watching him stagger slightly.

Gault did not wait for a verbal dismissal. He took his leave at once, opening the door and retreating as rapidly and with as much dignity as he could muster.

Michael Fortescue stood for a moment, breathing heavily. The surge of adrenaline that had swelled through his body unspent, he felt jittery, unsettled. Forcing the wave of anger to subside Michael began to straighten his clothes; smoothing out invisible creases in his sleeves and brushing down his hair. Readjusting his tie Michael turned to his desk, and froze mid-step.

Viktor Bordonov emerged from the shadowy confines of the dark office, his right arm outstretched, a gun clasped in one trembling hand.

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Jesse sat away from the others, his mind racing with ideas. He had to find a solution, was desperate to.

He knew that their time was running out, that at any moment Ellie's father might give the word to have them killed. He knew that it was up to him to get them out of the situation, Mark will never forgive me. The thought came out of nowhere, and did nothing to improve the sullen frustration that seemed to be swamping his thoughts. Damn it! Jesse cursed himself, picking bad-temperedly at a hole that had been scuffed in his jeans. I should be able to do this! A stifled cough brought Jesse from his musings. He looked up to see Steve trying to push himself up from the bed.

"Steve, no!" Jesse leapt up from his seat and hastened to his friend's side trying to force his shoulders back down onto the bed.

Considering Steve's physical state it was surprising how strongly he resisted Jesse's attempts.

"Steve, will you lie down!" Thoroughly irritated by his continued struggles Jesse pushed Steve more firmly than was necessary and received a strangled yelp of pain for his efforts. Wincing in sympathy Jesse held his palms resolutely to Steve's shoulders.

"What exactly do you think you're trying to do?" Jesse eyed Steve's ashen pallor, his face contorted in pain.

"We have to get out of here . . . " his voice was rasping, laboured.

Jesse hesitated for a moment, he knew of course that Steve was right, and yet he had no plan to offer, no means of escape.

"Jesse . . . "

"Steve, please. You need to conserve your breath . . . " And stop making me feel worse than I already do.

Steve glared at him, an intense stare that conveyed its message perfectly.

Do something.

Eliciting a moan of frustration Jesse sank down onto the bed beside Steve. Dropping his head into his hands he squeezed his eyes closed, what would Mark do? Without warning, Jesse jumped up. His eyes scouring the room he began to search.

"Jesse, what are you looking for?" Ellie watched his face creased in concentration, a pink flush creeping into his cheeks as he ferreted about the room.

"Something . . . anything. We have to get out of here, so I need to . . . " He allowed the sentence to trail off. In all honesty he had no plan. "We just need to think this through logically. We're in here, there are at least three men on the yacht, right?"

"Uh, I think so – my father, two guards. There are almost certainly more though, Daddy never goes anywhere without a full entourage." Ellie spoke the last words with contempt, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Mr. Fortescue is a well-protected man; you waste your time in trying to escape." Nicolayev spoke from the corner of the room, his voice heavy with resigned despondence.

"If you've got nothing constructive to say," Jesse intoned angrily, "then keep your mouth shut. We are going to get out of here, and you are going to help us, understand?"

Nicolayev looked up, his lips twitching in anger, but he did not argue.

"Jesse, we're on a yacht and probably in the middle of the ocean by now, how are we supposed to escape?" Ellie too found it hard to share Jesse's hopefulness. She knew her father had a temper and had long suspected his business dealings were not always above board, but their current situation had rocketed her perception of his dark side to a whole new level.

"We'll worry about that once we're out of here, ok?" Jesse spoke with false optimism, determined that if nothing else they wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Tell me, young doctor, how do you suggest we get out of this room? We will be guarded and the weapons you saw are not toys. Tell me how we will escape?" Nicolayev's voice was scornful.

Striding to the door Jesse pressed his face to the door, peering through the eyehole. Sure enough, two guards lingered in the hallway, weapons clutched in their hands.

"Uhhh . . . OK, two guards . . . We can . . . distract them . . . Yeah! We'll create a diversion, and while their distracted we can take them out!" Jesse spun round to face the room again, all eyes watching his progress.

If it hadn't been for the gravity of the situation Nicolayev might have laughed. The doctor's enthusiasm was admirable.

"And how do you suggest we will achieve this feat? The lieutenant can barely walk and the girl is injured. Do you think you and I alone will overpower them all?"

Steve shot Nicolayev as dirty a scowl as he could force his otherwise grimacing face into. He hated being referred to as lieutenant, and Nicolayev's constant attempts to undermine Jesse were not helping the situation.

"Nico . . . layev, will you . . . shut up . . ." The words exuded from Steve's mouth with a growl which, whilst unintentional, added a undeniably threatening quality to the command.

Jesse wondered for a moment if he should reprimand Steve again for speaking, but was so grateful to his friend that he let it pass.

"Well . . ." Jesse paused, thinking with renewed confidence, "Ellie – you can call to them, and say you've changed your mind, that you want to speak to your father, yeah that's it, you want to speak to your father and say you're sorry!"

"What? No! Jesse, there is no way I'm going to apologise to him!" Ellie's face reddened in anger.

"You won't have to – it's just to distract them while we…" Jesse stopped mid-sentence.

Nicolayev smiled.

"While we . . .?"

"Uh, we . . . we can subdue them, with . . ." Jesse searched around the room, looking for something that could be used as a weapon. His eyes landed on the small fire extinguisher hooked to the wall beside the door.

"We can use this," Jesse pointed towards the small red cylinder, smiling slightly to himself.

This really might work.

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"Dead?" Mark had not expected this.

"A single shot to the centre of the chest, killed him instantly." Ron ran a hand wearily over his face. Their most hopeful lead had just been snatched away from them.

"But how, surely he was guarded?" Mark was incredulous at the seeming ineptness of both the LAPD and the FBI.

"Of course he was guarded, Mark, there were two men on the door." The insinuation of blame in Mark's voice was modest, but Ron had picked up on it nonetheless.

"So what . . .?" Ron cut Mark off mid-sentence.

"Dead, both of them."

"What about witnesses?" Mark felt guilty at glossing over the fact that two innocent men had been dragged into the foray and had forfeited their lives, but the urgency he felt to find his son had only increased on hearing the news.

"No," Ron answered with a sigh, "No one saw anything."

"But how . . ."

"I don't know, Mark! I don't know how someone was able to walk into a hospital and shoot three people without being seen! " The inadequacy Ron felt at allowing their only suspect to die came spilling from his mouth in an angry torrent, and Mark physically recoiled, an expression of surprise on his face.

"Mark . . . I'm sorry, ok. I'm sorry I . . ." Ron let the apology hang in the air unfinished.

Mark merely shook his head, dismissing the outburst. His head was far too full of concern and questions to take issue with Ron's understandable frustration.

"There was something significant about the murders though." Ron felt he needed to offer something by way of advancement in the case, and knew that Mark's input could only help.

"Each victim's face was covered by a black handkerchief – a trademark of the North Korean mafia."

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"Predutyelly!" Viktor spat the word, his voice shaking. He pointed the gun determinedly at Michael Fortescue's head, his face flushing red with anger.

"I'm no traitor, Viktor . . ." Fortescue began, stepping towards his business partner.

"Predutyelly! Ya vus obievayoo!" Viktor raised his arm higher, aiming the gun directly to the centre of Michael's body.

Michael didn't move. He merely watched for a moment before slowly spreading his arms out to either side, opening himself up as a clear target in an unspoken challenge.

"I did not betray you, Viktor, but if you want to kill me, I won't try and stop you." Michael locked his eyes with Viktor's, holding his gaze, nodding slightly as if in encouragement.

Viktor stayed rooted to the spot, apparently thrown by the ease with which Michael had surrendered himself.

"How could you?" he spoke gruffly, his subtle Russian accent lilting his words; a sheen of perspiration shimmering on his swarthy skin.

"My son, Michael? Hugo was my son!" His voice broke slightly and he stepped backwards, dropping his arm to his side.

Michael fought hard to suppress a smile.

Was, Hugo was his son.

"Viktor . . ." Michael spoke softly and forced an air of bewilderment into his voice, "I don't understand . . ."

"Liar!" Viktor raised his arm again, the gun aimed fixedly on its target.

Wrong move, change tack

"I'm sorry, Viktor, I . . ." play it cool, "I tried to stop them, I tried to help him. Hugo came to me – he asked me for help. I'm sorry, Viktor, I've failed you . . . I failed Hugo. He was so ashamed . . . he didn't want to disappoint you . . ."

The hint of desperation that Michael had edged his voice with had the desired effect. Viktor's face fell, grasping the implication that Hugo hadn't felt able to approach him in a time of need.

Viktor lowered his arm once again. His head slumped forwards toward his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Michael allowed himself the briefest of smiles before plastering an expression of impassioned condolence on his face.

"Viktor," he spoke soothingly, approaching the seemingly broken man, "Hugo was a good man . . ."

"No!" Viktor turned again, his face flushed in renewed anger.

"Do not talk to me about my Hugo. It is your fault! You! You try to help him? You failed him. You!" Viktor Bordonov shook as he spoke, striding forwards and pressing the gun into Michael's chest.

"You think I am stupid, yes? You think I know nothing! I am your partner, Michael! I hear you talk . . . I know about the money!"

Michael had opened his mouth to interject, to protest his innocence in the most naïve voice he could muster, but the final remark caught him off guard.

His mouth half open in readiness for the lie he fumbled to catch himself. "Viktor . . ."

"Do not lie to me, Michael, I know . . ." Viktor left the proclamation hanging in the air, heaving slightly as if under great exertion.

Michael tried to decide how best to approach the situation.

"Okay, Viktor. You want the truth? I'll tell you the truth." Michael stepped around Viktor to his desk and picked up a crystal decanter.

"Scotch?"

With an air of a man without a care in the world Michael poured two glasses of scotch. He inclined his head to Viktor, before picking up his own and taking a sip.

"Hugo came to me and asked for help. That much is true. He was in debt, Viktor – deeply in debt. You know how he was with gambling. It was like a disease, eating away at him. He asked me for help and I gave it to him." Michael took another draft from his glass, relishing slightly at his references to Hugo in the past tense.

Everything is slotting into place . . .

"But it wasn't enough. He was spiralling out of control, and not even I could help him. He was in too deep. They were going to kill him, Viktor." Michael set down his glass and stood, turning to face his trembling partner.

"They were going to kill him; set him up. They were going to shame us; they were going to shame you. It would have destroyed us. An import business involved in smuggling counterfeit money? We would have been bankrupt in a week. Viktor," Michael gripped his arm, the sincerity in his voice overwhelming.

"Viktor, I was trying to protect you. To protect Hugo. They would have tortured him, Viktor, he would have suffered. These people? You can't image what they would have done to him."

Michael watched Viktor's face, he could see that he was relenting; drinking in the lies.

"I didn't kill him, Viktor, his gambling did."

"But the money?"

"The money is yours, Viktor. Hugo would have wanted you to have it. You can take it, a fresh start . . ."

Viktor Bordonov dropped his arm to his side.

"But where is it? These men you speak of . . ."

Michael laughed. "Don't worry about them, the money is safe. Our old friend Nicolayev has his uses!" Michael laughed again and clapped Viktor across the shoulder, apparently sharing the joke with him.

Viktor turned to face his friend, "Nicolayev?"

Michael enjoyed the moment of superiority Viktor's evident lack of understanding conferred him. "Yes, Viktor, Cheslav Nicolayev. The low-life and his warehouses certainly do come in useful." Michael grinned broadly, and was cheered when Viktor returned his smile.

"The money is in the warehouses?"

"It's being loaded into a boat off dock eleven as we speak. The joys of owning an import company!"

"Thank you, Michael." Viktor removed Michael's hand from his arm and held it tightly, his grip warm, "That is all I needed to know."

Michael eyed Viktor, a hint of confusion on his face.

"What do you mean?" Michael wasn't accustomed to having to ask questions. He made it his business to know all that transpired around him, so the smug expression of superiority that now leered from Viktor's face came as both a surprise and a cause for concern.

"You do not listen, Michael, that is your trouble!" Viktor guffawed loudly, the volt-face in his demeanour complete.

Michael didn't respond, merely looking on; a feeling of dismay sinking in the pit of his stomach. Viktor's grip on his hand increasing until it was more than unpleasantly tight.

"You are not the only one who can act, no?! Your false sorrow is not necessary, Michael. Hugo is alive, and he will not take the blame for your dealings! You think I am stupid, yes? You think I do not know what you think of me? 'Dirty immigrant'? 'Gullible fool'? You think my son is not worthy of your daughter? That we are not good enough for you?" Viktor thrust Michael's hand away from his own, causing him to stumble backwards.

He raised the gun again.

"You? Who would have his own daughter kidnapped? That we are beneath you?!" Viktor aimed the gun directly into Michael's chest.

"Wait . . ." Michael raised his hands, stunned by the rapid turn of events.

The intensity of Viktor's sneer increased. "Do not worry, Michael. I will not make you suffer, I will not put you through what you did to my Hugo."

Michael stepped back, away from Viktor; fierce rage intermingling with dread. The gun fired before he had a chance to move. As if in slow-motion he felt the bullet enter his body, ripping through his flesh and tearing deep into the centre of his chest.

Marcus Gault leant back against the heavy door that sealed his employer's office. He had just placed a cigarette into his mouth when the sound of gunfire resounded from within. He smiled to himself and flicked his lighter on, raising it to his mouth and igniting his cigarette. It was relief he felt rather than pleasure. He had worked for Fortescue for years; had been his loyal aide, trusted beyond all others. But Bordonov's offer had been too good to refuse. His betrayal of Fortescue had been going on for so long that he was surprised he hadn't been caught out. Surprised and thankful. He had initially been reluctant to agree, but the financial reward had persuaded him. With Fortescue dead, I'm free. Free, and very, very rich.

The force of the bullet propelled Michael Fortescue backwards causing him to stagger into his ornate desk, a carved corner digging painfully into his side before he fell to the floor. The pain was immense; a burning white heat that radiated through his chest and back and up into his throat, choking him. He couldn't breath, couldn't speak.

A shadow loomed over his face as he lay gasping for breath, asphyxiating on his own blood. Viktor Bordonov looked down into Michael's face with a countenance of cold, inimical distaste.

"Do not worry, Michael. Your wife and daughter will be cared for – most certainly better than you would have ever seen them . . . Hugo and I will see it is so. The police will find your body and the money will have vanished . . . They will blame the North Koreans of course, and your hostages will confirm the anonymous tip."

Bordonov smiled as Michael struggled to speak, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly but managing to emit no more than a strangled gasp. He removed a black handkerchief from his pocket and bent down.

"I am sorry, Michael." Viktor unfolded the handkerchief before draping across Michael's face, obscuring his vision almost entirely.

Viktor stood and stepped back from the form of his dying business partner. He watched as his chest heaved, blood spurting from the bullet wound with every beat of his failing heart. He watched as Michael raised his hand from his side, extending it blindly as if searching for solace; for comfort as he lay dying. Finding nothing, it dropped back to the floor and Michael moved no more.

"God forgive me," Viktor dropped his head and spoke a silent prayer, then reaching for Michael's phone he began to dial the number for the LAPD.