‘Room’ was an inadequate description of the space. It was brick-built – although said bricks were weathered – ancient and, in places, water-damaged. The arched and ribbed ceiling was also made of old, uneven brick. The subterranean areas were much older than the casino above, elements of it Roman and Byzantine, with some medieval additions, such as the roof above me.
The main area was subdivided by two rows of pillars, which flanked a central, nave-like corridor. The floor was made of enormous stone flags, some of them containing rusted metal rings, as if to secure ropes. It was possible this had once been a dry dock of some description.
There were no windows, just a large circular metal plate high on one wall, where it looked as though a rose window had been sealed up. I knew from the plans it wasn’t a window, never had been. Every second pillar was equipped with a lamp holder with a bare bulb, apart from at the far end, where the darkness shimmered. Smoke from the grenades curled around the lights, and the air was gritty and choking, grabbing the back of my throat, like a forty-a-day fag habit.
I took all this in within a second.
My attention was mostly held by a white cinema-style screen hanging at the black end of the nave. Projected onto it was a series of faces, head-and-shoulder shots of various people, mostly male, fifty or older, I would guess. It was like a geriatric Benetton ad or a Michael Jackson video.
Each person mouthed a single phrase that was relayed, slightly out of sync with the image, over speakers I couldn’t see. I pulled out the earplugs. The words were in a polyglot of languages, but even I knew what they were saying.
Thank you.
No buyers. No auction. No girls. No Jess.
He likes to play games.
A red dot scurried along the stone flags like a glowing cockroach, then up my leg until it came to rest on my chest. I could see sections of its beam picked out here and there in the smoke from the grenades. It was coming from just to the side of the projection screen, originating somewhere in the blackness beyond it. I thought about the Kevlar armour I had strapped across my torso. Maybe the gunman did, too, because the dot slowly crawled to my throat. Not an easy shot, but certainly a vulnerable one.
The speakers went quiet. The faces continued to rotate, six of them in all, still silently mouthing their gratitude. I looked at the nearest pillar. Three, maybe four paces.
He read my thoughts. ‘Just remember, Sam, Oktane never misses.’
It was Bojan’s disembodied voice. And this was what Oktane had been activated for.
Me.
‘Stay exactly where you are. You will never make it. And just in case you think you’ll get me, be aware that I am not stupid enough to be in the building, Sam. Neither is Jess actually in here.’
‘The Void? The auction?’ I asked. ‘All a ruse?’
He laughed, a metallic sound over the speakers. ‘All a little game.’
‘How could you know I’d find this place?’ It was, after all, more by luck than any skill I’d found out about The Void.
‘I couldn’t be sure. But the spike of activity of people in London searching for FOTB told me it was very likely you had. I was impressed. I had some other clues ready to feed you if you hadn’t taken the bait. So I knew I’d get you here one way or another.’
What kind of target would I make, turned sideways, crouched, running? Small. How good could he be, this man?
‘Put your weapon down. Now.’
‘Where’s Jess?’
‘All in good time. Do as I say. Or he’ll shoot you where you stand and then you’ll never see your daughter again. Not in this life.’
I did as he said.
‘Kick it away.’
I kicked it away. It skidded over the flags like a curling kettle. It travelled further than I had hoped.
‘Turn around.’
I did so.
‘There’s a pistol in the small of your back, take it out.’ I complied. ‘Throw it after the other one.’
It clattered onto the floor. That was the sum total of guns about my body. The spare Glock was in the backpack. Not an easy extraction, but possible . . .
He read my mind. Again.
‘Now, if you want to know about your daughter, take off your backpack.’ I shrugged it. ‘Place it at your feet. If I know you, Sam Wylde, there’ll be a second weapon in there. Maybe even a third. Very slowly, take it off.’
Again, I did as I was told.
‘You’ll have some restraining straps in there. Yes? I want you, again very slowly, to take one out.’
Four paces to the pillar. Maybe five.
But I unzipped the bag and brought out one of the straps. Four paces was a long way, after all. Five, far too many.
‘Take out the gun. Slowly.’
I was very measured in my movements.
‘Throw it away.’
I complied with his instructions.
‘And rucksack.’
It, too, ended up beyond my reach.
‘Now, using the restraining strap, tie your hands together. Tighten with your teeth. You know how it’s done.’
I knew how it was done. I had made people do it myself. It took a few moments, but eventually my wrists were bound.
‘Tighter.’
I put the free end of the strap in my mouth and pulled. As I did so, I touched my throat.
‘Good. Well done.’
There was a crackle on the speaker. Then the faces on screen found their voices again. Thank you, danke, shukran, xiè xie nǐ.
After two rotations of the cast, they went silent once more. I waited. I killed the time by counting the number and memorising the positions of the rings set into the floor. Easy to trip over those things.
‘You know who they are thanking?’
I didn’t want to play his game. I kept quiet.
‘Jess.’
I swallowed hard. It was best I didn’t speak. Were these the ‘buyers’? Had I missed the sale?
‘And you know what they have to thank her for?’
You’re going to tell me, aren’t you, you sick fuck? But I said nothing.
‘Life.’
‘What?’
‘Life. That one has Jess’s heart. A fine young heart. The Chinese guy, the liver; the Saudi, new eyes, all thanks to Jess. You know what the old name of this place was? Of Constanta? It was Tomis. It means “to cut”. Ironic, eh?’
The noise began in my head again, the sizzling short circuit. My vision began to darken at the periphery. I took a step forward.
‘And that’s what we have done. Cut her. A young body like your daughter’s is worth more as spare parts than any sex trafficker could get. Of course, we could have sold her on and used the organs when FOTB was finished with her. But there would be a chance of infection then – AIDS, herpes, hepatitis. But how much more could we charge if she was unsullied? A lot. Heart, lungs, liver, corneas, kidneys . . .’
I forced the sounds in my head back to where they had come from, deep, deep into my brain. I spoke loudly, clearly, as if my partner could actually hear me. ‘Freddie. Activate . . . Vesuvius. Vesuvius.’
My words crossed the ether and arrived at a radio receiver in the VAD – Voice Activated Detonator. The explosion from the two TEDs was muffled, but there was nothing subdued about the boom of the metal disc from the ‘window’ as it spun through the air and bounced off one of the pillars, nor about the throaty gurgle and roar of the sea as it rushed in after it.
Tactical Entry Devices were designed to blow down a terrorist’s or a drug dealer’s steel doors and allow the entry of law enforcement. But they had done an equally good job of letting the Black Sea into this old building via the rose-window-style panel, which was actually a sea door.
The plume of water shot across the cellar, slicing through the laser beam, and I made my move to the pillar, scooping up my backpack. There was a crack of a round, fired blindly, but I had no idea where it went. By the time I made it to cover, the gurgling, swirling water was a foot deep and rising, cold and black around me.
I reached into the backpack and pulled out the Snorka cylinder and, hands still tied together, clamped my teeth and lips over the mouthpiece.
Up to my knees now, the sea a torrent of white streaks as it spewed from the aperture, frothing where it hit the surface of the newly created lake, and glistening like ink as it flowed into the far reaches of the room. There was a loud bang followed by a crackle and some of the lights went out.
I found the knife Pavol had bought for me, hit the blade release, and spent a few precious seconds sawing through the ties, cutting the base of my thumb through the glove as I did so. But I couldn’t feel the pain.
I hit the quick-release buttons on the side straps and shed the skin of the Kevlar body armour. It would only get in the way. The spare mags I had hidden behind it plopped into the water.
The incoming sea had seeped into my wetsuit now. It should have kept me warm, but this was winter sea. Plus, my gloves weren’t up to the job. I had selected them for flexibility, not warmth. You can’t flick off a safety and fire a gun with sausage-like fingers.
But that might have been a mistake.
My teeth wanted to chatter. Hypothermia was looming. I turned on the Snorka’s oxygen valve and felt the gas flow brush against my tongue.
The sea was creeping over my hips to my waist. I crouched down and let myself tumble forward and underwater. With no hood, my ears began to hum with pain. And I was blind. Hardly any of what was left of the light penetrated beneath the surface. I could just make out the dark column of one of the brick pillars. Using it as a way marker, I pushed myself down to the floor and began to swim, feeling myself lift towards the surface as I did so. I was too buoyant. My fingers found the first of the metal rings and I yanked, pulling myself down, until I was parallel to the floor. I hadn’t factored these in. I was happy they were there, though. They would act as my weight belt, keeping me submerged.
Worth more as spare parts . . .
Not now. Please, God, not now.
I pushed off and kicked over to the next ring, right where I thought the submachine gun would be. I groped around on the floor, but couldn’t find it. How useful would it be after a submersion? I had no idea. Or the Glocks? The latter were rated for full saltwater immersion, but I had never heard that tested. Besides, I couldn’t find either of the damned things anyway.
I moved to my right, fingertips outstretched for my next handhold. I found it. Six more, I reckoned, and I would be at the entrance to the staircase, where the curtain was. That would be where he would head, too. Oktane. For the exit. I had to get there before him.
I kicked hard, hoping not to break the surface. The Snorka produced a thin stream of bubbles, but I reckoned my opponent or opponents would hardly notice them in the turmoil above. Snorkas were used as an emergency air reserve by scuba divers. This model gave me ten minutes, at most. It would be enough. If I didn’t freeze to death first.
Two more handholds were achieved. I was having trouble moving, though. I was heavy, but not in a good way. My limbs felt like wax, making my movements ponderous. My eyes were burning and I should have thought of a nose clip. I was probably consuming the oxygen in the tiny cylinder far faster than I should.
Heart, lungs, liver.
I tried not to scream into the mouthpiece as I swam on, colliding with the base of a pillar. I scrabbled for grip on the floor, but there was no ring. I grabbed the corner of the column for purchase and thrust myself forward. But still no rings. I was in danger of floating up to the surface.
Just then, somebody stood on my hand.
Whether they knew it was a hand, I don’t know, but it slithered off. I could see the shape of the man’s legs and the boots that were trying to find purchase on the floor. The water must be up to his chest, at least, I estimated.
What I did next was instinctive.
I stabbed the back of his knee with my knife and saw something darker than the water squirt out, like a cloud of squid ink. Then I spiked the back of the thigh. Once, twice. And then I stood.
It was up to my chest, maybe a bit lower for him. He had on a sodden balaclava, just his eyes showing. And in those, surprise and pain.
Oktane still had the rifle in his hands, but I was too close for him to bring it to bear. He swung the barrel at me and it caught my freezing cheek, setting off pixels of pain across the side of my head.
As I turned, the front sight of the weapon caught the Snorka, ripping it from my mouth. I slashed at his arm as it came past, and I must have hit something because the rifle flew from his hands and was swallowed by the water.
I sucked in fresh air, stepped in close and sank the blade into his neck and twisted, enjoying the warmth of the blood that penetrated the gloves to my cold fingers. He didn’t move. The shock had petrified him. I extracted the blade, changed hands and did the other side.
Then, as if the spell had been broken, this frozen man came to life and lunged at me. A terrible gurgling sound came out of Oktane’s mouth as he leapt and, with the strength of a madman, wrapped his arms around my upper body and squeezed. I felt a rib pop. I still had my arms free and I carried on stabbing, but he had me in a grip and was dragging me under. His entire weight was on top of me now, and I couldn’t shake him. He screamed again and blood spattered over my face. I raised the knife and brought it down on his back, but it skidded off his ribs, twisting from my grip.
I pushed his head back, gouged the eyes, tore at the mouth, almost ripped off an ear, but I knew he was dead. He was just doing his damnedest to make sure I went with him.