Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 3

  He took a moment to stare beyond the deputy governor, a chance to see green fields, sky, clouds and a river.

  “Enough prisoner Stefanescu. Do you not think I can see through your sneering sarcasm? You will do well to remember who is in charge here!”

  Stefanescu, heavily shackled, picked deliberately at his fingertips, dropping pieces of skin onto Andonov’s pristine scarlet carpet.

  “The last time I looked it was Commissar Vanchev.”

  Another half-smile.

  “You are the most despicable person I have ever met prisoner Stefanescu. You have no idea about society or civilization. What lies outside those walls is beyond you and always will be. I will stake my career on it. You will remain a prisoner, here at Pazardzhik for as long as I live.” He stood, leaning forward, hands palm down on the oak desk. The discussion had been ended.

  “As is your wish, Deputy Andonov. Was it not Dostoyevsky who said ‘the degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons’?”

  Andonov had no idea who had uttered those words, and frankly he did not care. He was successful, not educated.

  “I am not interested in your words of wisdom. You will leave now. Go back below with the other rats.”

  Turning halfway towards the office door, Stefanescu stopped, standing his ground.

  “But sir, you summoned me to your office. Did you not? What was it that you had to discuss with me?”

  He had blindsided the man he considered an enemy and a weak one.

  Andonov looked up, and into his eyes, beyond to the guards, looking for signs of insolence.

  He tried to show no weakness. He had learned that on Day One.

  “Yes. Indeed. I chose to call you here to say that I have appealed your sentence – due to your behaviour, and the way that you incite such violence in my prison. You will serve another three years.”

  Andonov now wore the half-smile.

  “But my behaviour has been exemplary.”

  “I disagree. This conduct meeting is over.” He nodded to the three guards.

  For Stefanescu, it was time to lay his cards on the future Commissar’s table.

  Aces, four of them, one by one, dropping onto the polished oak desk, among the photographs of his wife and children.

  The first ace was the diamond, Constantin Nicolescu. The name alone caused a microscopic show of recognition. His eyes narrowed.

  The second, a cold winter’s day as a junior officer in a quiet rest room known affectionately and ironically by the staff as The Club.

  The third, the ace of hearts, an act of exquisite pleasure performed for and upon him by a man he had tried to forget. He was a prisoner, for God’s sake.

  The fourth, the ace of spades, was the set of grainy photographs sitting in an unopened envelope, postmarked in a place he had never heard of.

  Constantin’s timing had been as exquisite as his sexual talents.

  “Sir, you may wish to open the letter that is sat on your desk. The one with the red stamp upon it. Yes, that one. I can go if you would like me to. Or perhaps I should stay. So we can talk...”

  He watched Andonov open the envelope with his precious long-service paper knife. Then saw his eyes close once more.

  “…Alone.”

  Andonov’s mouth filled with bile. He swallowed it and spoke.

  “Guards, you will leave me with prisoner Stefanescu for one minute. I will be fine. Go.” He ushered them away with a sweating palm.

  The door closed as the three staff exited, knowing better than to listen at the door.

  “You have something to say, Mr Stefanescu?”

  “No, Deputy Commissar. I do not. I have nothing to add.”

  “Good. Are these the only copies?”

  “Roma are trustworthy people, Miroslav. Unless you deceive or betray us. You have my word that you now own the only copy.”

  “So if I burn them, I hold the ace card?”

  “Yes. But I suspect you are also a man of honour. And besides, allowing me to walk out of here would actually help you. Wouldn’t it? You could restore order quickly. Or, if I wish I can show you who actually runs this prison. Are we in agreement?”

  Andonov played chess too and knew when he was beaten. He tore the photographs into eight pieces, placed them into his ashtray and set light to them, watching the green and yellow flames and knowing that the man in front of him who held his fate in his shackled hands had for reasons unknown allowed his career to continue.

  It was all a wonderful game. He turned towards the window, not wishing to look into Alex’s eyes. It made the act less of a betrayal.

  “You will escape from here Friday. I cannot let you walk away. It would finish me. You understand? Please allow me that honour?”

  “We have an agreement, Mr Andonov. I assure you I will never return to your prison again, nor my people, nor my team. I assume you will leave the front door unlocked?” Now his smile was complete.

  He turned and hobbled towards the door.

  “Good luck with your promotion and please send my kind regards to your lovely wife Katerina and those pretty girls.”

  At ten o’clock on the Friday morning, Mr Alex Stefanescu, dressed in the uniform of a prison guard, walked along the service corridor of Pazardzhik Prison, through four sets of doors, into an awaiting truck and left the inner walls and his past where it belonged. His heart barely missed a beat.

  He waved as he passed by the yellow gate lodge, with its blue painted welcome sign, which contained two guards sheltering from the cold. For Alex, the day was as warm and bright and full of good fortune as any he could recall.

  The deputy commissar would ensure his superiors and the media that no stone would remain unturned, that he would spend the rest of his days hunting down the leader of the Seventh Wave. His reputation depended upon it.

  But Alex knew the truth.

  So easy. One act. One photograph. One admission.

  Everyone had a price.

  Of course he had another copy.

  He was free. He had left behind his past. His past had died. And when a gypsy dies his family asks for forgiveness, for his sins, for every and anything that he may have done. Gypsies fear the return of the dead, that they might haunt the living. He needed forgiveness.

  What was left of his family forgave him, a few cousins here, an uncle there. His parents had lay in the ground for many years, unable to exonerate him – they had died at his hands. Brutal and pointless, he needed to teach them a lesson about respect and he did so in one of his many, growing and quiet episodes of rage. His own parents had sold him to the authorities for a few thousand Leu – had let them tie him to a cold, damp bed for weeks on end, covered in bed sores and filth, until he could hardly walk. And they called him a sociopath?

  There was his brother Stefan. His one final opportunity would come soon – blood is thicker after all.

  And finally, his pretty girl, his beautiful little Elena, the union of one true night of love with his beloved Niko. He never once doubted that she was his – her strength was incredible, her mind so active and her eyes, those opaline windows to her soul, were pure gypsy. They said that she had deceived him – and therefore she too had to die.

  He had always said that he alone could order her death. When and only when he decided, he was after all the King of Men.

  He did not fear her return. She had her chance and like her mother had betrayed him. His brother had given his word, had said that he had watched the blood flow from her body onto the isolated country road.

  She was gone, unless somehow she could be reborn.

  Perhaps she had met with her mother? The dead and lascivious reunited.

  His mind was racing. He considered himself sane. The rapidly burning psychological file at Pazardzhik disagreed. Even his name lingered among the ashes, taunting their arsonist as he stood in the freezing rain in a quiet corner of the prison seeking warmth from the embers.

  Beware the Necromancer – the medium, th
e witch, the foreteller of the future. To die and return is to become feared, and she must surely be put to death. It said so in the bible. He had studied it as a child. Forced to, but he admired its wisdom, appreciated its words.

  ‘They shall be stoned and their blood shall be upon their own heads.’ Leviticus 20:27.

  She was gone. Curses and magic were the bedrock of Romani folklore but as loyal as he was and as Christian as he considered himself he believed none of it.

  She would never return to haunt him.

  He opened a new SIM card, slid it into a cheap phone, made a call, lowered the window and dropped it out onto the highway where it shattered before being destroyed by a following car. In another kilometre he snapped the SIM, then flicked it out of the window too, watching it arc over the railings and into the verge.

  He wound the window back up to keep out the cold, nodded to his driver, a man who also wore the mark, then made himself as comfortable as he could. It was a seven-hour drive, due north through the Central Balkan National Park, avoiding Sofia and the main cities en route to Craiova.

  They boarded the Nikopol car ferry for the eight-minute journey from Bulgaria to Romania across the River Danube.

  In seven hours he would be home, with his people, in his own bed, surrounded by his opulent belongings, a glass of Tuica, a roaring fire and the start of his return to notoriety.

  Chapter Two

  Heathrow Airport, 13th January 2015

  The world’s greatest airports are always busy, and London Heathrow was no exception in the post-Christmas high shoulder – one of the busiest times of the year at any airport.

  The man that slipped quietly through the rental drop-off and check-in experience at Terminal 3 knew how to navigate his way around most airports – they had a common theme and once you had studied it, it made the initial process easier.

  Under six foot, still in good shape, casually dressed but sharp in the right places, he knew how and what to say to the ground staff. He’d paid in advance for a premium economy seat and now stood in front of a twenty-year-old with bloodshot eyes and a wish to be elsewhere, he said the right things.

  “Must be awful having to be so bloody nice to everyone all the time?”

  The young woman looked up from the British passport and saw that the face matched the image. She smiled the first and probably the last smile of the day.

  “Isn’t that the bloody truth?” She was a local girl with a broad London accent and skin as black as charcoal. Her smile, once it formed, was infectious.

  “Where are you flying to today…Mr Cade?”

  “Australia.”

  “Nice. I must go one day. For now, I’ve only been to two places in my whole life, Nigeria and Heathrow!”

  “Then you must make it a goal. You are in the right industry after all. Get a job as a flight attendant. You’d be ideal with that smile.”

  “Do you know what? I will do that. Thank you. You are the only person to actually treat me as a human today. Just hold on a minute, would you?”

  He did. Checked his cell phone for messages and cleared some old ones.

  John ‘Jack’ Cade – or as he was now more commonly known in the much-guarded inner circles as ex-Inspector Cade – Metropolitan Police.

  An old colleague of the smaller force, further north in Nottingham that Cade had originally joined, had once said, ‘There’s no such rank as ‘ex’, Jack – when you leave, you leave.’

  That colleague was correct, to a point. When you do finally decide to walk away, to leave the ‘job’ you sever all physical ties, but the job never really leaves you.

  As he stood at the fourth check-in desk from the right at T3 on that bitterly frigid day he couldn’t help but scan his surroundings, watching for the next available threat to form. He looked into the eyes of off-duty cops doing the same thing. He knew, they knew, no words said, it’s how it was.

  He was lost for a while, just people watching, wondering how the wonderful gift of global travel had become such an intrinsic part of terrorism and the similar valiant efforts to eradicate it.

  Couldn’t the bastards just let people get on with their daily lives?

  The two men leaning against the pillar, one trying not to draw attention to himself, the other doing a better job. Law enforcement? Or goal-driven attackers just waiting for a window?

  North African, at a guess. Wrong place, right time. Two uniformed and armed police staff were approaching them with the same thought, both ready to engage, the lead with his hand overtly on the handle of his Glock 17.

  They were in their faces quickly, taking control, pointing to the ceiling, allowing their targets to know that they were being watched. Harmless pickpockets or anxious carriers of IEDs, they were a threat. Heathrow had a reputation to uphold. Cade was impressed with the response – or rather, the preventative approach to policing.

  Damned if you do and a complaint if you did.

  “Mr Cade?” Her voice was now like molten chocolate. Smooth and sweet, and it brought him back to the land of the present.

  “Sorry, I was gone then. Too many late nights…” He lied.

  He looked at her name badge, “Adaoma.”

  “I know that feeling. I was absolutely wasted last night. I really shouldn’t drink when I am up so early. I really shouldn’t.” She yawned and favoured her eyes.

  “Indeed. It gets to us all. Nice name, by the way. What does it mean?”

  “Oh, thank you. It means virtuous…although between you and me.” She bit her lip playfully, “I was far from virtuous last night – know what I mean?” Her laugh erupted and Cade couldn’t help but join in.

  “Best I don’t comment then! You are however a very lovely young lady and I thank you for making this part so much easier than normal. I wish I was twenty years younger! I may not be back for a while, so take care of Britain for me.”

  He slid his case onto the conveyor, tapping it for luck. The combination locks dialled in with his chosen number 0845 and a freshly attached bright orange sticker declaring it to be priority luggage.

  “Have a good life Adaoma.”

  “You too Mr Cade, don’t forget to turn left.”

  Her words were lost but as he walked away, into the growing crowd he looked at his boarding pass and smiled. Business class, on Emirates, London to Sydney. She was indeed virtuous.

  He stopped at a café, ordered a coffee and a pan-au-chocolate and checked his phone once more. Three minutes later the coffee and pastry were on Adaoma’s desk and Cade had made his way to departures.

  As he queued at the aviation security screening point he felt different, not alone, just different. It took a while to reach the business end of the operation, as he slowly moved forward, emptying his pockets of loose change and other bits and pieces, whilst all around him people panicked over nail clippers and liquids, aerosols and gels. For years he had been on the other side of the fence – a watcher, an observer, looking for trouble. Now he was being observed, physically and via an all-seeing network of cameras and sensors and trying to avoid trouble.

  He got through the whole process in minutes, avoided the 3D body scanner and the inquisitive blonde bloodhound with her hand held detector. He was through, technically off British soil, in limbo and now just like everyone else – waiting.

  He stopped in the brightly lit duty free outlet and picked up a bottle of Givenchy Neo – the tones suited him, mandarin and bergamot, not overly exuberant and on his skin it lasted at least long enough to be enjoyed by someone else, up close, personal.

  He took an escalator up to the Emirates business lounge and having received a beaming smile from the concierge gravitated towards the most comfortable seats, grabbed an English Breakfast tea and a bowl of muesli with chopped fruit and then picked up the freshly folded copy of the Daily Telegraph.

  The sports pages showed the usual mix of Premier League highs and lows. He noted that Leeds United had lost, again. Next season would be their year. The middle section was bolstered b
y equally positive and negative business news but a small headline on the front page, bottom right, turn of page, caught his eye.

  Criminal leader escapes from Bulgarian Prison.

  It was the type of headline that attracted Cade’s attention – always the police officer. He was about to flick the page over to see what chaos page two brought when he halted and re-read the first line of the article.

  Bulgarian authorities are hunting for the man they call the Jackdaw…

  The last word hung on his lips like a cigarette clings to its host.

  Cade picked his phone from his jacket pocket and pressed two.

  “Jason. It’s me. Our man has escaped.” It was arctic cold. Both his voice and his demeanour.

  He waited for the inevitable bout of non-diagnosed Tourette’s-induced language, which never came. Instead there was silence, albeit Cade knew his former partner was still there, absorbing the information.

  “Still there, mate?”

  “Yep. Jesus Jack, they said he was inside for twenty years. He’s got more bloody lives than my mother-in-law’s ginger tom. How? Where?”

  “Don’t know the ins and outs mate but from what I read in the Telegraph he was en route from his usual suite at his favourite Cat A prison at Pazardzhik to the newer prison at Sofia when he escaped. That’s pretty much all it says other than he was once Britain’s most wanted criminal, etcetera.”

  “Just superb. You know what this means, don’t you?” The younger and latterly Detective Chief Inspector Jason ‘Ginger’ Roberts sounded excited.

  “No, Jason, I don’t but I suspect I am about to be enlightened.”

  “It means the old team can re-form, because as sure as I can play the piano, he and his team will be out and about causing chaos and looking for revenge. He blamed us don’t forget.”

  “He did, but he’s a shrewd operator, Jas. He won’t come anywhere near the UK.”