Part 9 (1/2)

Pechev had resigned himself to the idea of surviving alone. Even if Taloquan had been lying and his parents were still alive, he had no means of finding them. Besides, he had just killed two men and for all he knew, he was a fugitive from the law. His plan was to make his way to Moscow and go to ground.

He spent his first night of freedom sleeping in Taloquan's stolen Mercedes, which he had managed to b.u.mp along the thirty miles between the estate and the suburbs of Moscow, peering over the steering wheel the whole way. In the morning, Pechev wiped off all the surfaces he had touched: the door handle, the steering wheel, the stereo, before handing the keys to a tramp begging on the corner of a street.

Pechev caught his first ever subway train into the city centre of the Russian capital.

For a week, he lived the life of a tourist, sleeping in the shared dormitory of a youth hostel near the Kremlin, where he managed to blend in with a touring college choir. In the daytime, there was business to attend to and many obstacles for a boy of his age to overcome in the process, but Pechev found that whenever his pre-p.u.b.escent body and reedy voice failed him, money talked loud. With a fifty rouble note, he managed to open a young-saver's current account in the Zenit Bank using his faked birth certificate and a false address as identification. He was given a small ceramic piggy bank as a welcome gift, which he carried with him to the nearest internet cafe.

He handed a single rouble to the pretty purple-haired a.s.sistant with a nose-ring, who in turn gave him a five minute lesson in logging on, navigating the web and even showed him how to open his own email account. In over six years, he had never once been allowed near Taloquan's computer, but he found he understood in seconds. Pechev thanked the girl, and began surfing. He found the website he was looking for a Montserrat Financial Offsh.o.r.e Accounting. In 1995, Herat Taloquan had seen the potential of online banking when it was still in its infancy and actively sought out a bank which enabled him to launder his money across a number of dotcom companies from the comfort of his office. When the governments of the world finally scrambled to police this new wave of criminal activity, Herat was way ahead of the curve. So much the better, thought Pechev, as he pulled up the personal internet banking page on the screen. He closed his eyes and searched through all the information he had stored in his brain regarding Taloquan's finances. His fingers flew across the keys like he was playing the Minute Waltz, as he called to mind every account number, sort code and pa.s.sword which he had ever consigned to memory while sitting at the piano in Taloquan's office.

Before his allotted hour was up, Lyubomir Pechev had managed to transfer forty-eight million dollars of Herat Taloquan's offsh.o.r.e holdings into his own young saver's account. He picked up his piggy bank and walked back to the youth hostel, treating himself to a Big Mac on the way.

Four days later, when the funds had cleared, he paid cash for a small flat in Basmannyy, a depressed but not unsafe area of the city. The estate agent who had initially thought she was being secretly filmed for a television show, had played along until Pechev innocently opened his backpack, pulled out a stack of crisp bills and asked her if she handled the money.

Pechev was free: to all intents and purposes, an eleven year old orphan, trying to make his way in the world. He had no need for education, at least not in the academic sense. He was financially secure and apart from his bank account and utility bills, he lived off the net. Within a week, he had arranged for a telephone line to be fitted, and bought an American personal computer for 'good price'. It was the age of the internet, and even in the backstreets of late 90's Moscow, it was possible to pay for virtually anything online. He found the website of a top-end security company and had his cheap plywood door replaced with one made of reinforced steel, had closed-circuit cameras mounted around the flat and finally had bulletproof windows fitted. He knew full well he had paid over the odds for this state of the art security but this was to be more than his home. It was base camp and from here, he intended to climb to the top of the criminal world, and take back from it everything he felt was rightfully his.

And so it was, that with a fortune in the bank and a Naudia voice distorter attached to his telephone handset, Lyubomir Pechev rebuilt Taloquan's lost empire. Out of some kind of respect for those girls who had shared the bas.e.m.e.nt cells in the mansion house, he moved his business away from s.e.x-trafficking, preferring to plough his money into drugs. He had an inherent interest in science and medicine and it seemed like the logical move. He forged new contacts in Colombia and rekindled Taloquan's old partners.h.i.+ps in Afghanistan, importing huge quant.i.ties of pure cocaine and heroin at St Petersburg and distributing it domestically and throughout Europe. He had enough sense to stay behind the scenes, choosing instead to permanently employ those people who over time had proved themselves to be loyal.

At the tender age of 13, Pechev rang in the new millennium alone in his apartment, watching hour by hour images from around the world of people celebrating in the streets. Two hours after Moscow erupted into song, Pechev was struck by a real sense of confidence and optimism as he saw the fireworks exploding on the Thames in London. Never before had he considered leaving Mother Russia, but there was something about London that caught his attention. 'Maybe in a few years' time,' he whispered to himself.

Forty years later, looking out over the same dirty old river, Lyubomir Pechev remembered that moment as though it were only yesterday. Since that time his drugs cartel had prospered and his nameless, faceless company had evolved into areas of protection, illegal gambling, and with a certain amount of chagrin on Pechev's part, prost.i.tution. He told himself it had to be done a business was business. Scionised medicines had taken the company in a whole new direction in the twenties and despite his appearance: the shabby suit, the receding hairline and greying beard, he felt like a boy again. He had become one of the richest men on the planet, with more legitimate fronts spread across Europa than even he knew about. Pechev preferred to leave all that to the accountants and solicitors. Above all, he liked to consider himself a man of the people, for the people. He still liked to get his hands dirty, so this business with Gorski wasn't entirely unpleasant. Of the employees that he had taken on over the years, some had died of natural causes, some had been killed, but no one had ever simply left the company of his own volition. Pechev understood that there was a natural ebb and flow in all things, and that Gorski's time must eventually come to an end, but he wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

He took a moment to knock the white king over with the black bishop before turning off the lights.

Chapter 26.

'Vidmar dead. Body in Proto boot, Long Rd Cnr of Clap Comm. Go well bro. Ces.'

Domino Tyrell was staring at his textabeep and trying to work out the significance of the message on the display, when Roma Bruce and her gang of thugs appeared out of nowhere.

'Domino! We've got unfinished business, you and me,' growled Roma.

'Is that so?' he asked, with new-found confidence. 'Well listen wolf, I don't want no trouble, so here,' and grabbing the evening's takings from the bag, he handed the rest over to her. 'There's enough Bad Moon in there to kill you and your crew. Go howl at the moon, you pack of freaks.'

Domino made to walk off, but Zevon placed a heavy hand against his chest.

'What the f.u.c.k is this all about, blud?'

'I'm out.' Domino smiled, pus.h.i.+ng away Zevon's hand, 'I'm so out.'

Crystal frantically waved the tiny bottle under Lek's nose, and slapped him again, trying not to open the deep cut on the bridge of his nose. 'Lek! Lek! Wake up Lek! We've got to move! They're coming!'

Lek's new blue eyes snapped open and he sat up as though nothing had happened. 'Who's coming?'

'The gangs, for Lennon's sake! We're stuck in the middle of gangland and it's a full moon.'

'It's the full moon rumble!' cried Lek, 'How could we have been so stupid?'

They scrambled from the wrecked Proto and ran for cover behind a set of bottle banks. Lek crouched down and drew a deep breath. His eyes were already bruised and his nose was swollen and black. He tried to wipe the blood from his face, but it had pooled in his white goatee and in the lines around his mouth and chin. He looked like a madman. His head throbbed, and he took a moment to search through his pockets for anything that might pa.s.s as a pain-killer. 'Scion vials and gel-caps. Bases and extracts. Enough drugs to turn a grown man into a menagerie, but not a single aspirin. Typical. How's your head?'

Crystal's left eye was virtually swollen shut. 'Better than yours, I reckon, but still painful. Never mind now. What's the plan?'

'Well, we can't just sit it out. We've missed the last overground, and I don't think we'll make the metro either. So it looks as if we're walking. We've got a little over an hour and a half to make it to Victoria, the money, and the train... and we're what? Only three miles away. Easy.'

'Any other night, I'd agree with you,' said Crystal as she peered around the side of the bottle bank at the gangs of wolfish youths who were striding over the Common, some on all fours, some carrying nunchakus and kendo staffs, some with metal chains wrapped around their wrists, holding back fierce German Shepherds. But the majority were bare-chested and empty handed, content to rely on the skills and strength that the Lupinex had given them.

Lek stared at them and the reality of the situation hit him like a fresh punch in the face. Just then, the sound of sirens filled the air and for a beautiful moment, Crystal thought the police in this part of town still cared about the citizens and had come to break up the madness.

'It's curfew,' whispered Lek, and all the streetlamps went out.

Roma led the pack down an alley around the corner. Domino had been true to his word a the bag was stuffed with gel-caps: mainly Lupinex, but there was also plenty of 'Laughing Bag' for the jackals, 'Empire State' and 'Matador' for the gym junkies, plus a few odds and ends of Snake-blood and Tiburon.

'First that score on the Common and now this! Doesn't Roma always get the goods for you?' she said, waving the bag above her head. 'Still, this is all I want.' She pulled out the stash of 'Bad Moon' and ditched the rest on the cobble stones. While the others marvelled at their good luck, Dahlia reached out and stuffed the bag inside her vest, certain it would be worth something at some fork in the road.

'What was with Domino?' asked Zevon as he counted out his share of the loot.

'Who gives a f.u.c.k?' Roma replied. 'Our soldiers are waiting for us, lieutenant. Shoot me up, big boy,' and she handed her second in command eight gel-caps of scion.

'All of this?' Are you sure Roma?'

'Do it.'

'That's a lot of s.h.i.+t in one hit...'

'You wouldn't be challenging me, would you? I said 'do it'. Now do it.'

She lay down in the filth of the alley, among the dog-s.h.i.+t and broken gla.s.s of old hypos and empty vials, and her pack filled their chambers and pumped the drugs into her veins. Roma Bruce's howls split the night.

Lek Gorski tried to clear his aching head, but teeming thoughts of the nightmarish possibilities of his next ninety minutes on the planet were clouding his judgement. His mind kept coming back to the opportunities he had wasted throughout the day, chances he had missed to make it out of the capital in one piece.

He thought about Cesar a Lek had never intended to involve him so deeply in his escape plan and when Crystal explained what he had done, how he disappeared into the night having saved them both from Vidmar, Lek could barely speak for the lump in his throat. He promised himself that if he did make it out alive, he would find some way of repaying the debt: perhaps dedicating his work at the Rubicon Inst.i.tute to finding a cure for the monster Cesar had become.