Chapter Sixteen: "We learn by going where we have to go." ~ Theodore Roethke

Wandering the green-shaded pavements of the park, I find a vacant, mostly-dry bench between the playground and the rose garden to flop down on. I feel scattered, overwhelmed, and a little too warm; the sun isn't just peeping out anymore, it's starting to feel tropical. I pull open a few more buttons at the neck of my dark shirt, and fan out the collar a little for some ventilation.

Listening to the squeals and laughter of the small children playing nearby, I try to make some sense out of all the pieces of information whirling around my head. Renegade chemists, Russian middlemen, a chemical synthesis that could kill millions? Steen somehow got landed with that book, and even if he didn't know exactly what was in it, he knew something bad could happen if it fell into the wrong hands - but why did he also say that it wasn't going to matter after a few months? And, why didn't he just destroy the bloody book and be done with it? And who would want to shoot him, if he was the key to finding it?

Oh. Someone who didn't want the book found. Like, say, 'Mad' Sacha Doreshchenko, aka the Pigman...

My brain is starting to fry. I rub my forehead and pull out my cigarette case. I have definitely been smoking too much lately, but I need something to ease the tension I feel gathering behind my eyes right now.

Lighting up reminds me of Mycroft, this morning. That was the last thing I expected, for him to show up like that. I still don't know if he was sincerely showing respect for Steen or not, but I guess in the end, it doesn't really matter. He was there because he knew it would make a difference to me, and that's what counts; he was showing me that he really did regret how he handled things Sunday. At least, that's what he wants me to think ... ? He might also have been trying to appease my anger at him for not allowing an investigation. Or, all of the above - and, damn him, it seems to have worked.

I hate it when I can tell I'm being manipulated and it works anyway. It feels like giving in - but I'm not giving up on helping to bring in Steen's killers if I can. I'm a little disappointed in Lestrade; he seems to think that Sherlock is the only hope of solving the case. I don't deny that Mycroft's brother is good, but I don't think he's magic. Truth be told, I don't want him on this case, or anywhere near me.

He acted like I had done something wrong, just by looking a bit like someone else! Like it's my fault. It's someone that both brothers know well, obviously... she wasn't anyone famous, I think I would know if I looked like anyone famous ... so she's probably a relative. She looked about my age, in her twenties at any rate, and from her style I'd say that the photo was definitely taken sometime in the very late 1960's. That's about when Mycroft was born, or a little before ... weird to think that he could have been a tiny baby when that photo was taken ...

Oh, my god. Eeeeewwww! No. I cannot possibly look like their mother, I refuse to. That is just too creepy for words. It's got to be somebody else. I sure as hell don't want Mycroft to have chosen me because I happen to look a little like his mum, for goodness sake! That's ... humiliating.

I take deep drag on my cigarette and give myself a very attractive coughing fit. Well, I've asked Mycroft outright, and he won't tell me who is in that photo, and I sure as hell am not going to go and talk to Sherlock about it, so the only thing to do is to forget about it for now.

So, what do I do with myself the rest of the day? Stretching my legs out in the dappled sunshine, I knock the ash off my cigarette and consider; I'll finish this smoke, walk to the flat and change. Then I really should hit the gym for a few hours; I've been slacking off lately. Maybe some karate sparring practice if there's anybody there who wants to go a few rounds with me, or I can at least practice my kata. I need to come up with some creative ways to get more information about this Doreshchenko and his connection to Steen, and I get some of my best ideas during a workout. Later I can pick up some takeaway on the ride home for tea ... and I desperately need to do some laundry tonight...

I find a bin to toss my finished cig into, and head for Ennismore Mews. It's a pleasant walk to the flat, there are so many leafy trees and tiny gardens along the pavements here that it almost feels like you haven't left the park. It's a very quiet neighborhood, too, for being in the city. I'm going to miss this place when I move on ... and I need to start looking in earnest for another flat to share or that I can afford on my own, unless things don't work out for Sara and her Richard. Although, living on the posh side of the street might have spoiled me for good...

As I round the corner at one end of Ennismore, lost in my thoughts, I'm confronted by a handsome young bloke leaning against the building like he's been waiting for me. He's about my age, tallish, with gorgeous, thick ginger hair in a coppery halo around his head. Broad and athletic, he's dressed in neat, black motorcycle leathers, although I don't see evidence of a bike or helmet. He doesn't smile, but looks at me coolly, and steps out from the building as I pass.

I keep striding on, and the ginger bloke falls in step with me, following four or five paces behind. My stomach knots up a little, tensing in anticipation. If he's a predator looking for an easy victim, he's got quite a rude awakening on tap. If he's just a tosser looking for a date, I might consider taking his number and meeting him for a drink; I'm partial to ginger men, and from the glimpse I had this one is very, very toothsome.

However, I'm not going to lead him to my doorstep, so I circle around Ennismore and make for the corner where my minders are usually sitting in the black saloon. If Ginger and I are going to have a chat, I want it to be right beside that car. Just in case.

They're not there! Damn them, why do those goons have to be underfoot when I don't want them around, and scarce when I do?

Oh! I almost smack my forehead and say "duh!" Of course, they are off following a cab driver all over London, because I arranged it that way, and I've forgotten to call the driver and have him bring back my phone that has the tracking lock on it... Bloody hell. Okay, plan B -

I swiftly turn around and take a step toward the ginger; he stops in his tracks, eyebrows elegantly raised, big blue eyes unblinking.

"Excuse me, why are you following me? What do you want?" I don't give him a smile or any friendly signals at all; predators look for victims who are nice to strangers, they are less likely to fight back.

He moves toward me slowly, hands loosely in the pockets of his black jacket, and stops close enough for me to catch a whiff of the leather he's wearing; close enough for me to break his nose with a hard right jab, if I have to.

"I was looking for a good place for us to stop and talk." His voice is mild but kind of growly, and his English has a trace of a foreign accent; I can't tell exactly what just yet.

"This is as good a place as any. What do you want? And I should warn you," I point upwards at the roof-line across the street, "We are in full view of several security cameras that are constantly monitored."

Ginger looks at me and shakes his head with a sardonic smile. He pulls his left hand out of his jacket pocket and shows me a pair of compact wire-cutters, clacking the jaws of the tool for emphasis. "Not monitored at the moment, I think."

My stomach sinks and clenches at the same time. Okay, I'm on my own, and this bloke is not just after my phone number. "What do you want?"

He turns his chiseled face to look around us, standing as we are on the pavement right outside the windows of one of the other flats, and shrugs, fixing me with a cool stare. "You have been asking about the Pigman, so he has been asking about you."

McCutcheon! Damn that pasty-faced lump of lard! He must have run straight to the pakhan after I talked to him.

I affect nonchalance. "Why should he bother? I'm nobody. I just heard that McCutcheon knew someone called the Pigman and was curious about it."

"You may be nobody, Miss Talbot, but you know somebody. Several somebodies. Pakhan would like a word with you, is all."

I sigh, and look around the deserted, quiet cobblestone street. I could do with a black Jaguar cruising by just now ...

Looking back at the ginger, I notice that he has a fine, white scar running from his chin up along one cheek, disappearing into the russet halo at his temple. I reach out a finger to touch it lightly, and he instinctively flinches back from the intrusion. "That scar looks like it hurt. Must've bled a lot, facial wounds do. Was it a knife?" I run my fingertip over it, just brushing the skin. His pupils react, and a pink flush creeps into his lightly freckled cheeks. So he likes girls. That's good.

I have no idea at all why I'm doing this, counter-intimidating him, because I am running on pure instinct at the moment. Instinct and adrenaline. He blinks those cornflower-blue eyes at me, and swallows. "Yes," he says thickly. "Was knife."

Stress has made his accent surface, and it's definitely Russian. "It healed up quite well, didn't it? Just enough of a scar to be interesting, not enough to make you at all ugly." Now I smile, and it's just very slightly predatory. "So, did your Pigman send you to take me to him, or to entertain me, or both?"

Ginger swallows again. "He would like a word with you."

I make a show of considering. "Tomorrow would be convenient, about one o'clock?"

He shakes his head. "Now."

I shake my head. "Now isn't terribly convenient for me, I'm afraid. I have an appointment."

"Then you will be missing it." Ginger slightly shifts the hand that he is holding in his right pocket, to draw attention to it. I'm not surprised to see that it looks like he has a gun in there, or something that is supposed to look like a gun. It's hard to tell, but I really have no desire to find out if that thing shoots bullets or water - and I wanted to find out more about this Pigman anyway, didn't I?

It strikes me that I am feeling weirdly calm for someone who is being abducted at gunpoint. I'm nervous, but not afraid. If anything, I'm annoyed; I really didn't want to spend all day in this outfit, it's not all that flattering, and the vinyl go-go boots are starting to pinch my feet. Oh, well.

I look pointedly at Ginger's pocket. "Well, I guess I can't argue with that, can I? Are we walking or driving or-?"

"I have a car. This way, please," and he motions for me to walk beside him.

With one last look around at the empty street, and up at the motionless security cameras, I comply. I really wish that I had my old phone on me right now. It would be nice peace of mind to know that whatever happened, Mycroft could at least track me. As it is, my phone is happily riding around in a cab somewhere in London.

Ginger takes me down one street and up several more, to a shiny black coupe tucked away in a crowded car park. He opens the door for me, and gestures with his right pocket that I should get in.

This is the moment of truth. I can try to overpower Ginger, and hope that he is bluffing about having a weapon. Or, I can get into the car, go and see this Pigman, and maybe find out another piece of this mad puzzle I've gotten myself tangled up with. There's no doubt in my mind that I'm willing to risk a ride with this bloke to maybe get a little closer to what's going on. But I am also aware of the flutter of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach as I get in.

Once we have pulled out of the car park, I decide to distract myself by chatting up Ginger. "What's your name?" I ask him as we drive. "You were so busy being tough and intimidating back there that you didn't introduce yourself properly, you know. Bad manners."

He glances at me sidelong. "Dimitri," he says, shortly.

"Dimitri," I repeat. "That's a nice, normal Russian name, isn't it? My name is Angelica, it's a little unusual for an English girl these days. I was the only one at school. It's a family name, I was named after my mother's mother. Nice, huh?" Dimitri just nods.

I keep chatting at him despite his brusque answers because the more I look at Dimitri, the more I wouldn't mind finding out firsthand how Russian men are in bed; unfortunately, as a group they don't have a good reputation. Rumor has it that they are clueless about female anatomy, and prefer to remain that way. On the other hand, the male escorts I know say that the gay men, at least, are fantastic lovers. Steen always said that his dream job would be a lifetime contract with a Russian sugar-daddy.

It dawns on me that, for all I know, this bit of handsome next to me might have pulled the trigger that killed Steen. Dimitri could have been the one that shot my friend in the back and left his body to rot. I turn my face out the window and concentrate on keeping track of our location.

We stay south on the motorway, finally exiting for Croyden, Daddy's old stomping grounds. It's changed a lot since I was a kid, very little looks familiar to me. Dimitri and I seem to pass pretty quickly through the prosperous parts of town and shortly are driving around the more dubious side.

I keep track of the streets and turns, and when we pull up at an unobtrusive old brick uilding on a small side-road, I have a decent idea of where we are. Dimitri drives around back to a large roll-up service door in the rear alley, and sends a text. We sit, the engine idling, Dimitri tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting. He tries again with his phone, this time making a call. No answer. Finally, he mutters something in Russian - it's probably cursing - and opens his door. He stops and points a finger at me, "Stay put!" before getting out.

I'm not interested in running away; I just sit and watch him pull up the rolling door, and we drive into the dark delivery entrance. He parks the coupe by a loading dock, and tells me, "Out now, please."

The place is dark and smells like a wet basement, at least out here. Dimitri leads me up the steps beside the loading dock to a battered steel door. Once again, he knocks and waits. And waits. Cursing again, he tries the door handle, then rummages in his pockets for keys. I try not to grin, I can tell he's getting embarrassed. This is not going according to plan.

Obviously at his wit's end, Dimitri starts kicking the door, making a hollow booming sound that echoes loudly. The door is snatched open between one kick and the next, and a skinny, older man in chinos and a polo shirt stands in the doorway, shouting in Russian. Dimitri shouts back, and they shout at each other for a few minutes. I can't follow what they're saying very well, because they are talking far too fast, but it's pretty clear what's going on.

Finally the old bloke moves aside, and Dimitri motions me through the door. Inside it smells quite a lot better, and it's at least dimly lit. We go through a maze of hallways, until we come to another door. This one has two large, well-muscled and grim-looking men guarding it, one bald and the other with a dark pony-tail, both in blue-jeans with black t-shirts and dark sport-coats. It's a strange sort of uniform, but it seems to work for them.

The bald one asks Dimitri, in Russian but slow enough for me to follow, "Is this her?"

Dimitri looks like he's had enough from his co-workers today. "Would I bring her if she wasn't?" he huffs in Russian. "Stupid! Of course it's her."

The bald guard looks me up and down with a smile. "Nice. Very nice. What is this one for?"

Dimitri shrugs, and answers, "How should I know? He says bring her, I brought her. Is he ready?"

Baldy looks at his watch. "Close enough." Pony-tail knocks on the door, receives a reply, and opens it. Dimitri firmly grabs my elbow. "Come on," he says, and he pulls me through into the room beyond.

It's like night to day in here. The rooms beyond the guarded door are opulent, tastefully decorated and very comfortable, in a leather-armchair, men's club sort of way. It reminds me a bit of a boutique hotel, really. There's a massive wooden desk situated to one side, and behind the desk is a massive man. His neat beard and curly hair are mostly iron-grey, but peppered with black, and it looks like he also affects the t-shirt and sport-coat look. Actually, given that he's obviously the boss, the underlings are probably affecting his look.

He is waiting for us, and stands up when we enter the room. I extract my elbow from Dimitri's grasp and walk on my own toward the huge desk. I don't want it to look like I was dragged here.

Moving calmly, I stop in front of the desk and give the giant bloke a friendly smile. "Hi, I'm Angelica. It's so nice to meet you." I reach out my hand to shake his, and wait to see what's going to happen. There is a long pause, and the pakhan just looks at me, his dark eyes small and sharp above his round cheeks and bristly beard. Then he takes my proffered hand in a hard grasp, his huge paw with thickly padded fingers and manicured nails engulfing mine.

He waves a hand at Dimitri; "Go," he says in English, and Dimitri gives a sharp nod and vanishes.

Now it's just me and the Pigman. He's as tall as I am, even in these boots, and nearly wide enough for three of me. Not wavering his gaze off me for a second, although his expression is quite friendly, he nods toward the other side of the room, where there is a plush leather sofa and a few armchairs. "I am Mr. Doreshchenko. Please sit down, Angelica. We do need to have a talk." His voice is warm and pleasant, cultured, although his English is more heavily accented than Dimitri's.

I choose the sofa, curling up at one end of it. Doreshchenko goes to a sideboard and pours two glasses of wine, offering me one, and I take it with a murmur of thanks. He sits down on the sofa beside me, the furniture creaking under his weight, and offers his glass to touch mine, but I beat him to the toast. "Vashe zrodovye!"

It feels for all the world like a scheduled first meeting with a client. I find myself automatically considering what he's likely to want, how to manage his bulk and girth for maximum comfort, and how to keep from getting crushed in the process. I have to smile at myself as I sip my wine - such a pro I'm becoming. But that's not what I'm here for, it's not that sort of meeting. I have to remind myself that this genial bloke very possibly arranged the murder of my friend.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "My associate Mr. McCutcheon tells me that you have been curious, Angelica."

I nod and smile, and sip my wine. It's very nice, a soft red that isn't too astringent, and with loads of character. It tastes terribly expensive. The silence stretches out, but I'm in no hurry to fill it. I wonder if this Doreshchenko uses silence to test people.

Finally he leans toward the coffee table with a soft sigh, places his wineglass on it, and turns a little more toward me. "Curiosity is not a good thing, you know. It makes people nervous. You made Mr. McCutcheon very nervous, and he in turn has made me nervous. This is not a good thing, to make men like us nervous."

His tone and face indicate that he is intending to offer me good advice, so I put on my padwan learner face. "I see. I'm very sorry, I didn't mean any harm."

He just looks at me again, fixing those shiny little eyes upon my face for a while and letting my words hang there. Finally he grunts and leans over to pick up his wineglass again. "People often do the most harm when they mean to the least," he remarks.

That comment doesn't bode well. Doreshchenko contemplates his wineglass. "You have powerful friends, Angelica, otherwise I would be more ... firm with you in getting answers. But I am aware that that would not be wise, so I ask you, in a friendly way, Why the questions?"

The "powerful friends" is no doubt Mycroft - but Doreshchenko used the plural, not singular ... less definite, it probably means that he doesn't know who my powerful ally is. It's going to stay that way, too, but it might not matter; if Mycroft operates mainly in the shadows like I think he does, then his name alone would carry very little weight, except amongst the right people.

In any case, I'm glad that the pakhan isn't going to be more firm with me. I much prefer the VIP treatment.

How should I play this? Well, what if I don't "play" it at all? After all, the most effective lie is the one closest to the truth ... Maybe I can tell him something akin to the truth, just editing out things better left unsaid.

"Mr. Doreshchenko, I really am sorry to have alarmed you. My friend Steen mentioned you, and I was curious about such a strange nickname as Pigman, so I asked Mr. McCutcheon why you were called that, but he didn't really answer me."

Now, that doesn't tell Doreshchenko anything more than McCutcheon would've already told him, but it sounds very candid - of course, candor is different from honesty, but most people don't notice that.

"Yes," the massive head nods, "yes, these are things that I have heard already." Okay, so he notices the difference. "What I need to know, Angelica, is why your friend Mr. Dijkstra named me at all. And what else he may have told you about our business dealings."

Now, there's a new one; Steen was doing business with this bloke? Maybe through McCutcheon? Lestrade said that this gang specialized in transportation, and Mycroft said that Steen was mixed up in drug trafficking, so Doreshchenko must be branching out...?

I shake my head. "No, he didn't mention you in relation to any business dealings, Mr. Doreshchenko; he just mentioned the nickname in passing..."

"I see." I can't tell if he believes me or not; this man is almost as hard to read as Mycroft! "I am sorry, Angelica, but I am doubting you. You see, the nature of my business dealings with Dijkstra were such that I don't think he would have mentioned me to you without very good reason. Very good reason." He fixes me with those small, sharp eyes again, and it's like being pinned to a specimen mount. "What reason?"

If he connects me with Steen and the book, then I'm in deep trouble. He obviously knows that Steen is dead - he said "business dealings were" - and if he is the one who had Steen killed, and he suspects that I have the book, then I'm toast. Powerful allies or no. I don't trust my ability to lie convincingly enough, so ...

"The reason was, that he wanted me to give a book to you ..." the Russian's eyes narrow just a trifle, "But I gave it to the police instead." There, I went and said it, I really hope I'm not screwing anything up by telling him that.

Doreshchenko's face is expressionless, but he hums softly to himself for a moment. "Hmmmm. Hmmm. I wish you hadn't done that, Angelica. That makes things difficult in many ways, many... but as your Winston Churchill said, 'Success is not final, failure is not fatal.' "

"That's a good quote, I don't think I've heard it before," I tell him. "And I don't take any pleasure in having made things difficult for you, Mr. Doreshchenko. I just didn't know what else to do. Steen was in a panic and didn't explain anything to me, so I had nothing to go on. I did what I thought was best."

He nods his huge head again. "Please tell me, if you will, how did you come by the book, and exactly what did you do with it?" I briefly relate to him how Steen dropped it off at my flat, and how he later called and left a message for me to take it to the Pigman, and how I went to McCutcheon to find out who that was, but then decided to hand it over to the police instead. I leave Lestrade and Sherlock out of it completely, but the story is close enough to the truth that I'm sure I am being convincing.

"And whom at Scotland Yard did you give it to?" The pakhan swirls the wine in his glass and watches me carefully with his glittering little eyes.

I make a show of draining the last of my wine. Men always assume that a woman will get tipsy on a single glass, but they forget to account for my height and mass; it's a closely-guarded secret, but I weigh over twelve stone, and it takes more than a teeny half-glass of red to even come close to getting me pissed. But it might be good for this bloke to think otherwise, so I relax my posture a little, and slow my speech just a tad. "I dunno. A uniformed constable took the book, and put it into one of those plastic bag thingees, and took a report from me, and that was it. I don't remember his name." In the nick of time, I stop myself from manufacturing a description of the fictitious constable; only lies have details.

Instead, I stop and give the pakhan a vacuous smile, and set my empty glass carefully down on the coffee table. He continues to finger the stem of his wineglass, and contemplate me. "You haven't asked me what was in the book," he finally says. "Aren't you curious about it?"

"Well, of course I am, but I didn't think you would tell me, so I didn't bother to ask." Damn, this bloke is sharp. I guess you don't get to be boss without having a bit of brain. There is a long silence, and I finally giggle, "So, are you going to tell me what was in it?"

His thick lips curl into a smile, half-hidden by the short bristles of his beard. "No, I'm not. It's best that you not know."

I shrug. "Okay. It's probably a super-secret gangster-stuff anyway, and I don't really want to get involved in any of that."

"No, you do not. However," the Russian raises his heavy eyebrows speculatively, "Mr. McCutcheon did mention that there were some other things that you seemed interested in getting involved in ... although he thought maybe you were not so sincere about that...?" Doreshchenko doesn't bother to hide the suspicion in his voice.

Bloody McCutcheon again. "No! I mean, yes, I am interested in making some extra cash on the side."

"There are ways for a talented, sincere young lady to make quite a bit of extra money. We have many customers who would like to buy our products, and too few distributors to satisfy them."

Good lord, he's offering me to become a drug dealer! "You mean, a distributor like Evan McCutcheon?"

"Of a sort. Mr. McCutcheon sees to a wide territory; you would only be taking care of a select few persons, but I am sure that amongst your current clientele you have a few individuals who would enjoy using our products, yes? And who could afford well-made, guaranteed products?"

"Made where?" Let's see what I can get out of him for useful information. "My clients are very discriminating, and they would want to know where their products are coming from, and exactly what they contain."

He shakes his head. "The proof, as you English like to say, is in the pudding. The quality of our goods speak for themselves. You would only have to give a small free sample out for any of your customers to agree. I guarantee they will come back to you for more..."

"I don't have the capital to be handing out freebies, Mr. Doreshchenko. I'm just a working girl ..."

"I think you will call me Sacha now, hmm? And, you're an Agency girl, my dear," he adds, "That means you have some special skills, and attract a certain level of clientele. It will be worthwhile to supply you with a few samples, until you begin taking regular orders, eh?" The pakhan smiles at me toothily. God, I can't believe I'm doing this, but if I can get evidence of drug trafficking going on here, then I can turn it over to Lestrade and maybe help get these murdering bastards nailed.

The sofa creaks loudly as the Russian leans his bulk over to set his now-empty glass beside mine on the coffee table. "But perhaps it's not such a good thing for you to get something for nothing, is it? It would put you too much in my debt, that wouldn't be a good way for us to begin. So, Angelica, I propose a trade. A barter."

"What sort of barter do you have in mind, Sacha?" I ask, although I've got a pretty good idea where this is going - and I'm not looking forward to it.

"Well," he says, "payment can take many forms. I'm sure you can think of a little something."

"I can think of many somethings, more than most girls," I purr.

"Many somethings? That's very interesting to me. More than most girls, eh?" He gives me a lascivious smile and sprawls his bulk back slightly, arms resting wide on top of the back of the sofa. "Why don't you tell me about a few of your somethings, hmmm? I would like to hear about them."

Ah, tell him about it. He probably likes girls to talk dirty to him, maybe even talk about sex more than doing sex. That sort of client is pretty easy to satisfy, as long as you can spin an interesting narrative. I should be able to win Sacha's confidence without even pushing the boundaries of my contract with Mycroft, a nice bonus.

I lower my voice down into a husky, intimate tone. "Oh, I have some very, very hot somethings I can tell you about, Sacha." I quickly check in my skirt pocket for a handkerchief as I slide closer across the leather sofa, under the curve of his arm. He smells of strong musky cologne, and stronger cigar smoke, but it's tolerable. At least he's clean. I rest my chin lightly on his shoulder, and breath softly into his ear, "Let me tell you about the time last autumn, when I met another woman and two men at Stoke Park for a weekend. Have you ever been there? It's a beautiful place, with very big beds ..."

As I recount for him that long weekend of creative orgy, I trace my fingers slowly up his thigh, circling closer to the bulge under the fine fabric of his expensive trousers. It takes a little doing to tease the zipper down, because of the overhang from his enormous gut, but in the end I've got it, and slipped my hand inside. He moans slightly and adjusts his hips so that I can reach further and fondle all of him, and for good measure he slides the hand nearest me down off the back of the sofa, up my thigh, and wriggles his thick fingers into my knickers, twitching them now and again as he slides a finger inside. I allow it, because that's all he's getting.

He's slow to get fully aroused, probably not in the best of health and not exactly young, so it takes some time and some fancy finger-work on my part to get him really going. His breath and subtle muscle movements tell me that he especially enjoys hearing the parts of my story that involve bondage work, so I continue telling him in lavish detail about various tie-up jobs that I've ever done over the past year, and tossing in a few that other girls have told me for good measure.

At first I have to stop and discreetly spit on my palm every now and then for lube, but after a few minutes he's aroused enough to be slick on his own, and I know then that it's time to pull the oldest dirty trick in the whore's book of dirty tricks.

I stop. I pull my hand out from between his legs, and stop talking in mid-sentence, and scoot away from him slightly. Sacha opens his eyes and asks, "What is wrong? Why do you stop?"

"I think I'm getting tired, Sacha. I think I need some more encouragement, so I'll have the strength to keep going."

The names he calls me, in Russian and several other languages, are all variations on "evil whoring bitch;" some of them are quite imaginative. He ends with, "I could have you killed, you know, just like that." He snaps his thick fingers and glares at me angrily.

"You could, but I have faith that you are much more intelligent than that." I give him a friendly smile. "So-"

I slide back over to him, and creep my hand back along his thigh, teasing. "-so, I only want to know, where does the product I am going to be selling for you come from? There has been a lot of rubbish coming out of Eastern Europe these days, people are wary - Hell, *I'm* wary of where the stuff is coming from. I need to know, in order to do a good job of selling. You want me to do a good job, don't you...?"

He lets out a great huff, like a steam engine in an old film, and gives in. "Fine, woman, you win! I was going to tell you anyway! We have our own facility, south of the city -"

Before he's done speaking, I wriggle my hand back into his trousers and take up where I left off, and then some, making him gasp with pleasure and surprise. "I didn't quite catch that. What did you say, Sacha?" Like I hoped, he's so distracted now that he gives me far more information than he meant to, and in a stream of jumbled English and Russian he tells me the manufacture is in the basement of a legitimate chemist's shop in Bromley, that most raw materials come through contacts in the Netherlands, and for love of god don't stop please don't stop what you're doing right now -!

With a smile, I return to recounting my erotic adventures in restraints. The only problem is, I'm nearly out of stories, and I can tell Sacha isn't quite close enough to coming yet to bring him on home without something good. Reluctantly, I start recounting some of my sessions with Mycroft, leaving out any names or details, of course. I'm not happy about describing those encounters to the Russian, it feels a little nasty, but I tell myself it's for a good cause and plunge on ahead.

When I get to the one where I'm bent double under Mycroft, eye to eye, and he's buried to the hilts in my arse, Sacha finally goes over the edge. He pants and groans and bellows like a bull, finally collapsing back against the sofa cushions, completely spent. I employ my hanky quickly to clean up, and lob the soiled thing into the bin I spotted under an end-table.

"I'll be back in a tick," I say cheerfully, and leave him sprawled like a beached whale whilst I go in search of soap and water.

Off the sitting room I find a small loo, as opulent as the rest of the suite. I take my time to wash up and fix my hair and makeup. When I emerge, Sacha is sitting behind his desk once more, looking relaxed and composed. And happy. I didn't realize that he looked unhappy when I came in, and now he seems almost care-free. Amazing sometimes what a little decent sex will do for a man.

I take a seat at one of the armchairs in front of the desk. Sacha puts his hands behind his head, leaning back in his fancy office-chair until the swivel shrieks an objection, and favors me with a broad grin. "You have exceptional talent, Angelica."

I smile demurely, and tell him that he is too kind, too kind.

"And you are a daring businesswoman ...you are wasted in your current occupation, you know. You could go very far working for the right people." The pakhan leans forward now, his elbows on his desk, glittering dark eyes fixed on my face. "You are young yet, and need more training, but you have potential. You could do very well for yourself. I would be willing to take on your training."

I bet you would, you dirty bastard. "Well, thank you very much," I say. Why is everyone, for one reason or another, trying to talk me out of my current line of work?

"Think about it, my dear, think about it."

I nod mutely and look down as if I'm slightly embarrassed. Actually, I'm slightly appalled. I've just been offered a job in the Russian mob. Oh, if Daddy could see me now! But I've got solid information now about what they're doing and where they're doing it; and if Sacha comes through with the samples, I'll have physical evidence as well.

"Now, since you have kept your end of our bargain, I shall keep mine." Sacha unlocks a drawer of the desk and pulls out three pill vials, setting them down in front of me. "They are labeled with the contents, and the prices; you will see I have been generous with my part of the deal! When you have given these out, and established who is interested in more, go and see Mr. McCutcheon. He will give you further instructions. Although, after that, I might prefer to have you come and deal with me personally. More pleasant that way." With another grin, he picks up a mobile phone from his desk and sends a brief text. "I will have Dimitri return you right to the nest that he plucked you from, eh?"

Impulsively, before Dimitri can get here, I say, "Sacha, there is just one more thing I really need to know."

He frowns. "You ask too many questions, Angelica."

"Why DO they call you the Pigman?"

Doreshchenko's face relaxes, and his eyes disappear into his round cheeks as he chuckles. "There was a time when I needed to become feared, to be a man of reckoning. So I hired my cousin Sergei to keep a herd of pigs specially for me, and to keep them very hungry. I only had to use them a few times, and it became known that I was not to be underestimated, you see? Reputation is all, you cannot be effective in anything without reputation. If you have the right reputation with the right people, you needn't actually do anything to be effective."

Reputation. I wonder if Mycroft ever had the equivalent of a herd of hungry pigs?