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The third day after Jennifer’s Release
Three days after she was found in Stockholm, Jenny arrives back in England …
The last time that Jenny was at London Heathrow Airport she had she come to surprise Joe as he returned from trip abroad. It was a happy time for her.
For Joe the feeling is different. Joe can never forget the day, a few months later, when he returned alone to Heathrow, to begin a fruitless search for his wife.
Today, they stand in the queue for passport checks, holding each other’s hand tightly, shuffling slowly forwards. At the front of the queue is a row of kiosks beneath a dark blue and white sign announcing ‘UK Border’. The queue continues to moves slowly forward. Finally it is their turn next; Joe stands back half a pace, letting Jenny go forward. He wants to see Jenny cross the border first. To see her safe inside her own country once more. She is called forward. She shows the temporary documents she received from the British Embassy. The official looks at it. Looks at her. Looks at his monitor. Joe can just about read his lips as he says, “Just a minute, Ma’am.”
Joe's heart sinks. He knew it wouldn't be easy but he tries his best to switch into emotional low gear and let plodding officialdom take its tedious course.
The border official glances up at Joe and points to him, calling him forward. As he does so, he picks up a telephone receiver. Joe hears him say: “that’s them here now”.
To Joe and Jenny he says. “Someone needs to speak with you. Just wait here a moment. Oh – don’t forget these!” and he hands Joe’s passport back to him and the temporary documents back to Jenny. That's a good sign at least, Joe thinks.
A few moments later Joe sees Jane Borland edging through the crowd towards them. He's pleased that it's her. She always seemed sympathetic when they spoke before. She had done what she could, he felt, and she'd helped him get through the whole gruesome police investigation process as painlessly as he supposed was possible. This time, there is someone else with her Joe does not recognize. Another woman. She is dressed rather less formally than Borland and has a pale skin with a nest of black curly hair. As the woman turns her head to say something to Borland, Joe notices a small flash as the lights catch and reflect off a stud in the woman’s nose. She looks … slightly freaky … to Joe.
At the barrier, Borland sees Colonel and Mrs Palmer, Joseph McEwan – and his missing wife. She has seen Jenny’s picture on Joe’s phone and in different versions which had stared down from the wall every time they had talked about the case back in the office. The photos of the pale-skinned, slim, happy girl with brown hair and then sometimes blond hair but always with sparkling eyes had been a continuous presence in the enquiry.
Now she sees a dark-skinned, bald, muscular woman that has the aura of someone worn down by fatigue. The fatigue is hardly surprising but the change in Jenny's appearance is more of a shock. Borland hopes that shock does not show in her face but professional training comes to the fore. She stretches out her hand.
“Mr McEwan. So nice to see you again and you must be Mrs McEwan! I have heard such a lot about you. My name is Joan Borland. I am with the Metropolitan Police. Can I also introduce a colleague, Annie Elba.”
At this point Andrew Palmer lays a hand on Joe’s shoulder and Inga embraces Jenny.
“Look”, says Andrew to Borland, “I'm guessing in the normal way you would not need us but I would feel a lot happier if Inga and I could see Jennifer and Joseph safe at home? He turns back to Joe and Jenny. ″If you're happy to see us home safe Sergeant we'll leave you now and get this pair home?” He indicates Joe and Jenny with a nod of his head.
The other woman, Annie Elba interrupts. “Actually, It would be helpful if I can perhaps have a word with Mr McEwan and Mrs McEwan’s parents, before anyone goes anywhere? This will not take long.”
“ and I could perhaps speak with Mrs McEwan?” adds Sergeant Borland, “I have made arrangements to have your bags picked up so they will be waiting for us when we are finished.”
Joe says, ″We'll be fine with that, won't we, Jenny?″
Jenny looks confused. She's not used to having to decide on things anymore and she looks from Joe to Borland and back to her parents. Eventually she nods wordlessly – and then realises that actually this is not a decision for her to make. It's more like an order to be followed. Orders. She knows where she is with orders. She smiles in relief and then in agreement.
The little party moves off deeper into Terminal 5 to reach a small suite of rooms, a small sanctuary from the bustle of the Terminal. Jenny and Sergeant Borland go into one and Joe, Inga, Andrew and Annie Elba enter the other.
Joe notices that there is nothing really to show that Annie Elba is working for the police. What did he expect? Handcuffs on the desk? A truncheon hanging from the hook on the back of the door? There's a desk but Annie suggests they all sit on comfortable chairs around a low coffee table.
Let me begin by introducing myself. I am Dr Annie Elba and I am a forensic psychologist working with the Metropolitan Police. DCI Grantby had a conversation with a colleague from the police in Stockholm to say that Mrs McEwan had been found and that she was finding it a bit of an effort to adjust to being at home with you all again?”
We had a preliminary psychiatric report from our Swedish colleagues and we thought that it might be helpful if I met you all and said a little bit about how Jenny might be feeling right now,″ Annie begins.
Joe replies. “I know how she's feeling. We all do. Scared and relieved and worried about whether the people that took her will come after her again. I don't need to be told.”
Dr Elba does not react to Joe’s impatience but merely carried smoothly on: ″I'm sure you have seen how anxious she seems and how relieved she will be to get back. That's only what we would expect of course. I just wanted to prepare you for some of the other emotions she might show. Some things you might find surprising or even upsetting.″
″Go on Doctor,″ Inga is leaning forward, listening carefully. Andrew is sitting upright with his arms crossed, much as he always does, looking like he's going to stand up at any moment. Joe glances around the room again, not wanting to be delayed by abstract conversation.
″Mr McEwan,″ the sound of his name brings his attention back to Annie. ″Mr and Mrs Palmer, I know you are all worried about your daughter and I want to explain what I am hoping to do and what I can't do. First of all, a little of what Jenny is going through. It's quite clear she has undergone an ordeal and that she is not prepared to share the details of it. From what I have learned so far, I’d say she is suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. My concern, on behalf of the police is to discover whatever I can to identify wrong doing and bring any offender to account. I can't treat Jenny as a patient, that's not my job. Do you understand that?″
The three of them nod, with varying degrees of certainty
″However, I can say this. Jenny's attitude to her experience appears ambivalent. On one hand there is some dismay at what has happened and on the other she is very defensive when she is asked about where she has been or who she has been with. This may be because she wishes to protect others or because she wishes to protect herself.″
″Protect herself?″ Andrew asks.
″Yes. There are two possibilities in this situation, don't forget, and the police - and I - will have to look at both of them. The first is that Jenny was abducted, that she was kept prisoner until she escaped. Given the time she was held and the fact that she seems to have been well treated apart from her confinement…″
This seems absurd to Joe. ″Well treated! How can you say that?″
″Compared to many cases of people trafficking that I have seen, Mr McEwan, Jenny has been well cared for in her absence. She has been well fed. She has not been physically mistreated in any way that has left physical scars, damage or impairment. She has not become addicted to dangerous narcotics as far as we can see. Anyway, given that she will feel two things. One will be a sense of loyalty to those she perceives as having looked after her. This is quite common in abduction – especially when the victim is not brutalised – and it is not unusual for that sense of loyalty to overcome any feelings of anger at what has occurred. This is especially true if the victim projects onto themselves some sense of responsibility for what has occurred. This leads us to the other feelings that she may experience. There may well be a sense of guilt over the fact that she has escaped, if for example she has formed a close attachment with others that remained behind after she left.″
″I've seen this in battle fatigue cases,″ Andrew intervenes. ″Soldiers that have survived an attack that has killed their colleagues feel guilty that they were not the ones wounded or killed.″
″That's a very similar response,″ Dr Elba replies, nodding. ″In fact there are many commonalities between the effects we would observe in a case of post-traumatic stress disorder resulting from armed conflicts and what Jenny could be experiencing at the moment.″
″You say 'could' and you said there was a second possibility other than this loyalty and guilt reflex,″ says Joe who is finding Dr Elba’s little talk all rather too abstract and indefinite.
″The second possibility is that Jennifer was not, in fact abducted. I know that is what we all assume but it could be that her insistence on keeping the secrets of those that supposedly abducted her is that they do not exist or that her relationship with them was not that of captor and captive.″
″But she escaped from them. Why else would she have spent so long away?″
″I know that's what we assume, Mr McEwan, and my feeling is that is the most likely explanation but it's also possible that what has happened to Jennifer has been entirely the result of her own actions and that her ″secrecy″ now is because she can't confess to herself, much less anyone else, what she has done.″
Joe glances across to Andrew. His folded arms say he doesn’t believe what this woman is saying either. Inga is quiet, listening attentively to but not joining the discussion.
“I know this is uncomfortable for you. I will have to talk to Jenny more before I can come to any conclusions but I thought it only fair to tell you the possible outcomes might be.″
″Of course,″ Andrew responds in clipped tones. ″Thank you. Do you have any advice for us, in the mean time? How we should help Jenny?″
″Well, as I say, I can't treat her as my patient but you should encourage her to seek help to cope with the effects of the stress, whatever has caused it. I can let you have the name of someone who might be able to help. They've worked with victims of mental and physical abuse. I'm sure they would help Jenny, whatever has gone on.″ Annie passes Joe a business card. It has a doctor's name and phone number on it but Joe does not take in any more details. He is still thinking about what Dr Elba has said, about Jenny not being an abductee after all but someone who had fled from her parents, her friends, her job and of course, from him, Joe, her husband. That's something that would be even harder to deal with in every way.
Annie Elba is still talking, ″She may also need medical support if, against what we believe at the moment, she has in fact been given drugs to alter her mood and to make her more compliant. I believe she has had a thorough physical examination in Stockholm and we are waiting for our colleagues there to send us their reports but finally, looking at her physique, she ought to be exercising as well. The consequences of going from a physically active regime to a sedentary one won't be beneficial physically or mentally. And now … I think Jenny ought to go home,″ she says bringing the discussion to a close.
Inga thanks Annie for her help. Andrew gives Joe a ″what do you think of that?″ look and I he shrugs in response. Together we leave the office. Jenny is sitting on the couch outside smiling up them all.
″All finished?″ she says. ″Can we go?″
Joe says: “Look, Andrew I am sure Jenny and I will be perfectly OK. After all, we are in England now. I think we just need some time together. Sergeant?”
Joan Borland says, “ I think you are probably right Mr McEwan but let me at least make sure you get your train safely!”
It occurs to Andrew that they may be in England – London even, but London was where Jennifer disappeared and perhaps even here, danger lurks unsuspected and visits from unexpected directions. After all, there was the incident at the Summer House just as they arrived back from Kungsholmen. Someone being hustled away by the police. When he asked about it later, the police merely said that the person had been identified and was of no further concern? For the moment, he takes his cue from Sergeant Borland who must be more experienced in these matters than he, but he resolves to keep a careful, watchful eye on his daughter and son in law. Complacency is not in his nature. Inga and Andrew pause for a moment. They do not want to lose sight of their daughter too soon. Not until they are sure she is moving on safely. It is an oddly fragile moment.
″I expect we will see one another soon Sergeant?” Andrew and Inga shake Borland's hand. Borland smiles in reply. Andrew waves and gently turns Inga away. Just as the Sergeant promised, their luggage is waiting for them. Andrew and Inga take theirs and begin to make their own way from the building and the only case remaining belongs to Joseph because as Jennifer could have told him, the slave Vyera did not have anything of her own.
“I just wanted to make sure you arrived safely and caught your connection home”, says Borland to Jenny and Joe. “Are you planning to get a train back to Warwick? If you are, I can give you a lift to Marylebone.”
“So tell me again how you knew we would be on our particular flight?, asks Joe.
“Oh, that was easy. A lady called Anna Thomassen from the Stockholm Police called to let us know Mrs McEwan had been found and we thought we should meet you, to make sure you had arrived safe.”
“We?”
“Chief Inspector Grantby and me.”
“Ah”, says Joe
“Erm”, says Jenny, glancing downwards at the mention of the name Thomassen, “I am very tired. I would like to go home now.”
Borland looks across again at this strange ill-looking woman. “Of course”, she replies. “It would be nice to speak with you again but another day?”
Jenny just nods
“Let's go to my car”, says Borland.
Jenny takes Joe’s hand once more. She walks in a daze, following Joan Borland out of the airport terminal. She's going home. That's what Joe and her parents have told her. Home. The question is, which home? She has had so many places described to her as ‘home’. She isn’t quite sure which one it will be or why it will be the one it is.
By 7:30 pm in the evening, the McEwans get down from the white and blue train and stand on the platform of Warwick Station. A small red brick pavilion with white painted windows and dark blue paint offers a few passengers shelter. There has been a recent shower of rain. The air has a characteristic tangy smell.
They take a taxi home. Jenny finds the journey difficult. It brings back memories. In her recent experience, cars take you to places you would rather not go.
The journey ends in a street of strange (to Jenny’s new eyes) newish houses. They are familiar and unfamiliar, at the same time. She follows Joe up the front path and through the door into the silent house. They stand, together. Joe thinks, home at last! Jenny is not so sure. She would be happier if she knew that her other family had not forgotten her …
As Joe and Jenny re-take possession of their home, the noises they make sparks their PC into life. Joe thinks he switched the machine ‘off’ but the PC is never ‘off’ anymore, it merely sleeps, waiting for the slightest stimulus to become active again. Igor has visited and installed a more powerful battery in place of the unit which normally runs the PC clock. This battery can drive the CPU and will recharge itself when the machine is in operation. Now the computer watches through the screen camera and listens with the microphone using software loaded by Igor together with a new version of the surveillance program which will carefully write all the activity into a file, to be transmitted to Yevgeny at night when the house is quiet and the internet connection is not ordinarily active. Today, Vyera’s geographical position can be brought up to date on the Asset Register. Her other family has not forgotten her.
It's Sunday morning, four days after Jenny reappeared. Vyera is awake early. As she wakes, she is puzzled. She is surprised to find herself in bed with a man. She has no memory of being given to him, of being sent to his room and this bedroom is definitely not her cell. She raises herself on her arm and looks at the man. He is quite good looking – and he smells nice. He is tall and quite slim. He has reasonable muscle development – although not as much as hers – and he does not snore but breaths softly through his nose, even though his lips are slightly parted.
Vyera slips out of bed and explores. She seems to be in a small house. She has not seen any small houses in the grounds of the Dacha Kustensky, but the grounds are large and she could have easily missed a small cottage or two. The house has two floors. She goes downstairs to the first floor(1) and finds the kitchen. She will make some tea with lemon for the man and take him some mineral water, too.
When she searches the kitchen cupboards, she finds water but no lemon and the refrigerator is almost empty … and something is wrong. Seriously wrong. None of the labels of the provisions makes sense. None of the writing on anything in the kitchen is in kyrileetsa.(2)
Vyera thinks hard. There's a slow, slow realisation that she is no longer Vyera. She has now become Jenny once more and this is Jenny’s house. Her house. The realisation, as it steals over her is hard, confusing, unsettling. Duties, desires, hopes, regrets and things she had been forced to accept about ‘her situation’ seem to lay around her like the debris from so many broken pots. As she considers each of these facts, something else prevents her from the clear contemplation of what was in her mind.
With effort, Vyera applies herself to make tea for Jennifer’s man. But not just her man – her husband!
She climbs the stairs with the tea and water and at the top, there is a photograph on the wall. It shows a couple. The man is dressed rather formally. He smiles broadly but there is a shadow of diffidence on his face. Standing by him, there is a girl. She is wearing a wedding dress. On her head is a small skull cap with a veil cascading down behind it. The girl has bright blue eyes and curly hair and looks completely confident in her happiness. How fortunate, thinks Vyera. To be a bride! To be able to get married. To have hair to brush and style and comb and colour. She is staring at the picture as she realizes that the girl is herself. It is her wedding. She once got married. She got married to the man she is serving with tea.
Jennifer is caught between two emotions. Vyera’s surprise and astonishment and Jenny’s remembrance of her own history. Jennifer smiles. Of course. My wedding! How silly to forget. But Vyera is just a step behind, As Jennifer enters the bedroom, Vyera catches up and fuses imperceptibly with her. As she lays down the tea, it is hard to know if it has been brought by Jennifer, or by Vyera.
The man has finished his tea and has refreshed his mouth with water. Vyera’s training takes over. Without the need for any further instructions or invitations, she bends forward and takes his penis into her mouth. The man starts with surprise, but Vyera closes her teeth around the head of his cock, to prevent his escape. She pulls gently, stretching him.
She tickles his balls with her fingers. He is not shaven. “That’s a pity”, she thinks, but it's not her place to make such judgements. It's her place to bring comfort and pleasure, even ecstasy if she can manage it. The memory of Neena’s cane returns. The encouragement to perform well. The man's cock is rapidly swelling. Vyera applies the upper surface of her tongue to the smooth sensitive skin on the underside of his cock head. She rubs back and forth. He grows. Long. Wide. Tight. Her tongue makes him squirm and begin to mew. Progress! She decides to subject him to a little more of this treatment and then swirls her tongue along the sides of the very sensitive ridge around the sides of his ‘head’.
Vyera can feel herself juicing. It will soon be time for the main event.
She gives the man a final hard rub, wiggling the stud on her tongue into the little cleft between each half of his cock head, leading up towards his urethra. Also, this man has been ringed. Nice! Vyera has not had a man with a ring yet. This is going to be a ‘first’.
She pulls his cock out of her mouth with a ‘plop’, plants her palm firmly on his chest and swings herself round so that she is straddling his stomach. She can feel the head of his prick bounding in time with his heartbeat, tickling the upper inside of her thigh. She slides backwards and impales herself on him and down and down so he is right inside.
Joe has been ambushed by Jenny’s behaviour. He had not thought about making love to anyone since he and Gwenda had fucked. There had been so much else crowding his mind. Now he is held captive. There is no doubt at all who is the stronger. Jenny’s thighs trap him. Her hand on his chest keeps him on the bed. The feeling of her vagina gripping his cock disarms any desire he might have to escape. She moves her grip. Both arms are now around his chest. She starts to slide up and down the length of him. From deep inside to the point where his prick is about to pop out of her, only to be recaptured and driven into the depths of her. She slides up and down again and again and again; expertly driving him towards climax.
The sensation in the head of his prick intensifies. The gentle tickly feeling becomes almost painful in its intensity. Once, if he had been on top, he would have eased back, to reach his climax more gently. Now he is a prisoner of her thighs as Jenny's movements mercilessly whip him to climax. He comes! A fountain of semen erupts from him. Its passage along his urethra is hot, burning. Still she slides back and forth along his length. His face is contorted, almost in pain. The terrible sweet pain of orgasm!
Vyera feels the man coming. She feels the little fountain welling up inside. She thinks about the way she is coating the inside of her vagina with sperm each time she fucks herself on the man’s penis. She wonders, abstractly, if she is still ‘protected’ but the answer does not seem to matter.
He begins to soften. If he thinks he is finished with her, Vyera is not finished with him! She lets him slide out of her, then turns around to give him a good view of her bum. She takes him in her mouth and begins to lick and suck. Of course, he is tender. Very tender! That’s nice! Vyera begins an excruciating sexual torture. She will not stop until he squeals. Loudly. Desperately. The man thrashes left and right but it seems that Vyera really is stronger than he. She holds tight and continues to suck and lick until he is absolutely clean – when, result! He starts to stiffen again. The predator turns to view her pray! She turns and re-impales herself.
“This could be sore for you. Do you mind?”
“No”, he gasps.
“Good”, she says. “This time we have to fuck until I come!”
Joe is feeling content, a post sexual comfort. When Jenny brought his tea he'd felt great, to be woken up by his wife bringing it . After all the long lonely days, it was wonderful to have her back again and to have the simple reassurance of tea!
Then she'd raped him. It is the only word he can think of to describe what happened. She was always a good lover before but now she is ravenous, Joe realizes. Insatiable. His prick is still tender, but it’s a nice tenderness!
Joe is in the bathroom, shaving. Jenny comes in, stark naked. Before she was more modest, Joe thinks. She was never prudish, but now the way she comes into the bathroom she seems very confident about being naked. She leans down to look at the bath and before she climbs in to have her shower, she squirts cream cleaner around the tub and starts to wipe it over the inside with her hands.
“Jenny! What are you doing?”
‘Cleaning the bath.”
“I can see that but you are using your hands.”
“Yes.”
“But you are supposed to use a cloth.”
“Oh, but there isn’t a cloth so I just got on with the job. Is that satisfactory?”
“It’s not about being satisfactory,″ Joe is puzzled by the word, ″it’s about taking care of your hands.”
Jenny stands up and looks at her hands. “They will be fine,″ she says. ″The cleaner is quite gentle, so as not to damage the bath. I will put some cream on them later.”
Joe is discomforted by the oddness of her behaviour. She has never done this before. It’s a bit like the way she is walking around the house naked. As if it is expected, in some way.
By now she has got into the bath, turned on the shower, not waited for it to run hot, but plunged straight under the water and washed herself. She only takes seconds – maybe a minute or two. As Joe watches, he notices for the first time that she is completely hairless. Absolutely completely. Except for her eyebrows.
Now she takes the squeegee and runs it down the shower screen and the surrounding walls, along the sides of the bath and finally along the bottom.
Then to Joe's astonishment, she takes her towel …“Jenny, what are you doing with the towel?”
“Drying the bath and the taps and the walls, of course.”
“But Jenny,″ Joe pauses. He really isn't sure how to deal with this. ″Use the towel to dry yourself first!”
“Should I?”
“Of course!”
Jenny looks down at the drips of water on her body and then at the towel. To Joe it looks as if she's thinking about something a long time ago. “Actually, you dry faster if the towel is slightly damp. I told Tracy but she would not listen. She got punished for leaving her washing area wet. It was really her own fault but I did tell her. Then I worried that I might get blamed for not teaching her properly. Anyway, I didn’t. Not that time.”
As Jenny talks, she goes on drying the bath, the taps, the shower screen and lastly, the bath. Joe stands there watching, uncomfortable but unable to ask her to stop.
When she has finished there, she cleans her teeth and cleans the wash-hand basin, dries them with her towel, dries herself, her lips and leaves.
Once she has finished, you would never know anyone had used the room. Joe goes to take his turn to shower. He would normally just leave the bath to dry itself but – he looks across at Jenny, she is sitting quietly in the bedroom, obviously waiting for him – he doesn’t think he can do that anymore. Not if Jenny is going to behave in the way she just has.
Joe is fascinated and puzzled in equal measure. He finds himself copying her. Then he realises that she must be doing something she was taught to do, or made to do when she was away. That was why, Joe guesses, she mentioned ‘Tracy’.
Its then that Joe feels even more disturbed. They have trained her to live in a particular way he thinks, and now he is copying her out of respect. So Joe wonders, ‘are ‘they’ beginning to change the way I will live my life too?’ It's an uncomfortable thought – as though in coming home, Jenny's ordeal isn't ended. And neither is his.
It's Sunday evening. Jenny and Joe are sitting in The Cranford. They have done the shopping, packed the food away and then come out for a meal. Joe couldn’t be bothered to cook. Jenny still looks very tired and disorientated. Joe had watched her as they shopped.
The supermarket seemed to overwhelm her. Joe would occasionally catch her unawares as she picked things off the shelf, examining them as if she had never seen them before. Simple things. Everyday things. Corn Flakes. Marmalade. In the end, Joe was glad when the shopping expedition was done.
Going out for a meal seemed like an ideal antidote to the strangeness of shopping. The Cranford had a table and here they are.
Jenny is very quiet. She is eating the food as if she has not eaten in a restaurant before. Occasionally she casts a furtive glance around, as if she is expecting to be ‘caught’ or something.
Joe looks on sympathetically, careful not to say anything that might upset her, trying hard to find a way of balancing out this nervous, shy girl with the sexually voracious woman of the morning. It's going to take time, he thinks, to get back to where they used to be. If ever they can.
″You can't go back, you can only look behind from where you came…″ Joe is turning over the lyrics of a song in his mind when someone puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Joseph!” Joe turns and looks up into the confident face of Andrew Edwards. He smiles back. He is smartly dressed, as always but visible at his neck is a smart round metal band. His collar! Philipa is by his side. Joe gets up, uncertain of how he is going to handle this. Explaining about Andrew and Philipa to Jennifer hadn't been on his list of things to do just yet.
“Andrew, Philipa!″ Joe feels the best approach is to take control of the conversation quickly. ″Let me introduce you to Jenny!”
Jenny stands up. She bows her head just a little, and then she looks up as if she has calculated that this is the right sort of response for a public place.
For a moment the confident Andrew Edwards is lost for the right thing to say and Philipa takes Jenny’s hand and says, “So you are Jenny! Andrew and I are so pleased to meet you. How long have you been back?”
It’s a clever remark, Joe realizes. It makes it sound as if he and Jenny have just got back from a trip abroad, which of course they have, even though that ‘vanilla’ remark hardly does justice to what actually took place.
Jenny replies, with equally surprising frankness, “I was sent back to Joseph when he was in Stockholm. We just arrived here yesterday.”
Philipa’s face does not change but Andrew’s eyebrows flicker with a questioning expression for an instant. Joe can tell that he has noticed the telling phrase ‘was sent back’ just as Joe has. Joe looks at Jenny. She is blushing, biting her lower lip. It looks like she has said more than she intended.
Joe wonders if ‘sent back’ implies captivity. It's absolutely consistent with the sort of things she said to him as they drove back to the Summer House in the taxi. Joe suddenly realises that no one has said anything for what seems like hours. It's an uncomfortable silence.
“Look”, says Philipa adopting a breezy tone. “It's wonderful to meet you but I think you two need time together, not time talking to acquaintances. Andrew, lets leave Jenny and Joe alone but it would be super to get to know you better Jenny.” Joe sees that Philipa has taken Jenny’s hand. “Can we meet up again?” Jenny smiles acceptance of Philipa’s proposal but casts her eyes down once more.
It's been an awkward meeting. Joe knows that he is going to have to get used to them …
Monday, five days after Vyera’s release
It is a fine summer morning in Moscow. The air is fresh and clean. The freshness may be a harbinger of autumn but Igor Ivanovitch Mendeleyev can tell that the day will be warm. As a provider of advice and assistance to Anatoly Kustensky, Igor sometimes finds himself having to deal with unusual situations but this is one of the more extraordinary circumstances he has had to grapple with.
He looks out from his office window at the care-free passers-by on the concourse below. He's preparing himself for a difficult meeting. Such unexpected events! Some problems too! He shrugs. That is what makes life interesting, he muses. The unexpected brings opportunities for new thinking, opportunities to meet new challenges. Except this time… Well, this time the challenge in front of them has to be met successfully. He shakes his head at the thought of the problem. There is very little room for error.
The meeting comes to order. Around the table are Anatoly Sergeyevitch, Mendeleyev, Julia Romanova, Neena and Yevgeny. The look on everyone's face is serious; not worried but very much focused on their shared problem.
Anatoly begins proceedings, taking the chair. It’s a formal meeting. He is using first names and patronymics for everyone round the table. He talks in a clipped tone that betrays his military background. Some people find his manner brusque. He feels that getting straight to the point is more efficient and reduces the risks of misunderstanding. He doesn't back away from any of the issues that face them. Even when something is as personal as this he knows that he has to push private matters to one side. “Five days ago, the slave Vyera Anatolyevna was released into the care of her family in Stockholm by Svetlana Nikitechna. This release was made ‘on the spur of the moment’. No proper preparations were made for either Vyera or for the environment into which she was released. This is a new situation for us and we do not have a detailed contingency plan to follow in these circumstances. Telephone intercepts provided through the continued interest and support of ‘old colleagues’ confirm as we might have expected that Vyera’s father initially took her to the family home and then contacted the British Embassy and the Stockholm Police. We can assume that by now the British Police will also be aware of her. Our contacts inside the Stockholm Police report that Vyera has been interviewed by a member of the detective bureau and that arrangements were made for her to be seen by a psychologist.
The purpose of this meeting,″ Anatoly looks around the table just to make sure that everyone is still with him, ″is to make some predictions about Vyera’s likely behaviour and to discuss how she might be brought back into our care. You will, of course, realise that the situation is now complicated because of the increasing number of people and official organisations who know she is in circulation once again.″
The team around the table all look uncomfortable. They know how difficult this could be.
″As soon as I became aware of what had taken place, I thought about the practicalities of eliminating Vyera, but she was released in a public space in front of her parents and husband and other passers-by, so a ‘discrete elimination’ was not possible. Vyera’s father is a military man and took her back to somewhere he could defend – the family home in Stockholm and called in reinforcements: he contacted the British Embassy and the police who immediately dispatched officers. Even at that early point – an hour or so after her release – elimination would have involved three other people and at least two police officers. This did not seem practical. I have also spoken to old colleagues in Moscow who advise that – due to the wider political situation – elimination was not a desirable option from their perspective. (1) They do not want another Litvenenko – Lugovoi situation. (2) However they are, let me say, keen that we should resolve this crisis quickly and in a satisfactory way.″
Anatoly's words don't give his audience much comfort. Worrying about the State Security Apparatus while trying to juggle the Swedish and British police as well as Vyera's family isn't going to help.
″To summarise. The people and organisations aware of the re-appearance of Vyera or Jennifer McEwan as we should probably call her in this context, are: Her husband and parents, the British Embassy, the Stockholm Police and the British Police. The more time passes, the wider the ripples will spread and, unfortunately, the ripples will not get any smaller.″
″I think there are three areas to attend to. First: can we trust Vyera to keep our confidence? Is she likely to tell all she knows, as soon as she can? Or will she attempt to remain loyal to us but find the pressure she comes under from the authorities too hard to resist? Second: We should revisit the alibis that we arranged to cover the time when she first joined us in London. (3) Dr Hahn must be told that Jennifer McEwan has reappeared and we should decide how far to cooperate with the British Police if they want to speak to Anna Symeonova Tereshkova. Neena Alexandrovna - I just can’t recall exactly – Anna Symeonova made very special efforts ?”
“She shaved her head, Anatoly Sergeyevitch,” Neena replies, “so that she would look exactly like Vyera and so the hospital staff would remember her.”
“Of course she did! An ideal solution to the problem at the time. If the Foreign Ministry allows the British Police to interview Anna Symeonova, assuming their investigation gets that far, she will have to resume her former appearance.”
Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat. This is a point of detail he fears but since it is being discussed anyway it would be sensible if they came to the right decisions. “Excuse me, Anatoly Sergeyevitch, but should she? That may only serve to confirm suspicions in the mind of the police. It is so very neat. Women – if Neena Alexandrovna and Julia Vasilyevna will excuse me – I have observed that women often change their hairstyle. And colour. Anna Symeonovna needs to look like someone who might shave her head but should perhaps look just a little more conventional. It avoids too much pepper in the stew?”
“Thank you. A wise caution, Igor Ivanovitch. So Neena Alexandrovna: discuss the position with Anna Symeonova and come to some agreement with her. If she needs to change her hair, perhaps she should make incremental changes, so she does not arouse inappropriate attention from her work colleagues?″
Neena nods. She doesn't write anything down. They are all used to having to remember the outcome of meetings without the aid of written notes.
Anatoly continues. ″Then there is the airport. I think it most likely that they will still have records of aircraft movements from then. They will be able to tell the police that our aircraft left on the day Jennifer McEwan disappeared certainly. And who the passengers were, I am sure.″
Yevgeny reminds himself to check with some ex-colleagues. ″I can probably get confidence over the level of exposure there, boss.″ Anatoly nods his thanks.
″Finally; I think we can all agree that it would be much preferred if Vyera returned voluntarily at an early date. How can we encourage her to do that? It will depend on good information, I think; good intelligence. What leverage can we apply to make her life in the UK less appealing in fact than the life she remembered when she was enslaved? Are there inducements we can supply to encourage her return? What will the attitude of her husband be to her return? Has he formed any other relationships whilst Vyera was in our hands? Will he be torn between new relationships and his wife?”
Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat. There's an additional problem that he has just thought of. ″Anatoly Sergeyevitch, just to make sure we do not miss anything or give ourselves more problems than we need. At a previous meeting, we made a provisional decision to release the American, Tracy Randolf. Now we have a crisis on our hands, can I suggest that particular release is delayed until the ‘Vyera Situation’ is finally resolved and the dust has settled?”
Anatoly pinches the brow of his nose. He wishes Mendeleyev would not keep ducking off down these side lines. The only trouble is that, once again, he's right, this probably is a significant issue. “The American girl?” In the turmoil of the past few days, Tracy Randolf has not been far up the list of things to think about for Anatoly, but mentioned at this moment, in relation to these particular events, Anatoly finds a final decision about Tracy rather easy to make. “The American? There will be no release for her. She will now have to stay. Permanently. I am not having her wandering the streets to cause yet more difficulty.”
At these words, Neena finds herself smiling. No release for the American? A life time of slavery? How satisfactory! Neena also notices that she is wet between her thighs …She grins but the sound of Anatoly’s voice brings her back to the meeting.
“So let us start with Vyera’s state of mind. Igor Ivanovitch. Your opinion please?”
Dr Mendeleyev purses his lips. He knows that Anatoly Sergeyevitch, a man of action, wants an answer with some precision but precision is not really possible, only probabilities. He rubs his chin with the palm of his hand. “I can only give you probabilities, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. At present, I expect Vyera to remain loyal. Probably. Evidence: the psychological evaluations we made during her training and the blood biochemistry results we had. Even more important, her behaviour. Julia Vasilyevna and Neena Alaxandrovna may wish to comment here?”
Julia begins. “The last time we met, Vyera was completely stable. I had no anxieties about her. She showed every sign of accepting her place and her role and accepting that she was ‘at home’. Neena Alexandrovna?”
“I agree,” continues Neena. “Vyera had been doing exactly as we instructed her. I would have rated her acquisition, training and programming as a complete success but even more: she had come to enjoy the life we had given her. There seemed to be some sort of significant change after she had been working for Alana Anatolyevna, a sort of final acceptance …”
“Anatoly Sergeyevitch, can you perhaps give us some more details about Vyera’s release?”
Anatoly takes a deep breath. Of course Mendeleyev knows about Sveta’s history and the devils which had harried her during Alana’s pregnancy and confinement but it is still hard to speak of it. It seems disloyal to Sveta. To speak of her in front of subordinates. However, this is a crisis.
“We were on the boat, leaving Stockholm. The captain had just slipped the mooring and the boat was moving slowly towards the main channel out into the Baltic. We were reasonably close to shore when Vyera – who was serving dinner to us – noticed her husband and parents sitting on the quay as we went slowly past. I think memories came back …”
Anatoly allows himself a tight little smile at his understatement. He notices a sharp intake of breath from Neena. He leans back in his chair, his palms flat on the table. Mendeleyev is slowly shaking his head.
“… Svetlana Nikitechna noticed something was amiss with the girl and followed her out onto the deck. My mind was elsewhere until I heard Svetlana Nikitechna calling to Joseph McEwan with the boat’s loud hailer, asking him to ‘wait a moment’. By the time I got out on deck, Vyera was swimming for the shore and there was a frisson of interest amongst the passers-by; also, I think it's fair to say, incomprehension on the part of Vyera’s husband and parents … I should mention that Vyera’s collar had developed a fault and had been removed. There was no spare.”
Anatoly notices that Julia has buried her head in her hands and is gently shaking with suppressed laughter. He scowls at her reaction but it's easy to see how it can seem like a ridiculous sequence of unfortunate events!
Of all the people in the world who could meet, it was Vyera and her parents and her husband. Of all the places in the world where each of them might be, there were all in Stockholm. Of all the days in the year when they might be in the city, they were there on the same day. Of all moments during the day, they were all present at the same time in the same place. Of all the things they could have done, Vyera was serving dinner looking towards the shore and they were sitting on the shore, looking towards her. Of all the moments when Svetlana Nikitechna could have broken down psychologically, it was at this time, on this day with Vyera and her husband and her parents all present and Anatoly Sergeyevitch’s mind wandering elsewhere. And her collar! The ‘friend’ which was supposed to keep her safe had failed her and had been removed, so she could do her job. With considerable effort, Julia collects herself.
“I am sorry Anatoly Sergeyevitch. This is indeed a very unfortunate sequence of events.”
Julia’s reaction breaks the tension in the room. Suddenly, now all the cards are on the table and the absurd sequence of misfortunes are acknowledged, it seems easier to see what practical steps have to be taken.
Dr Mendeleyev picks up the threads of the conversation. “We can take it, Anatoly Sergeyevitch, that all telephone and internet traffic from Vyera. Joseph McEwan and Vyera’s parents is under close surveillance?”
Anatoly nods in agreement.
“Then we will have … oversight … of their plans?”
“No”, contradicts Anatoly. “We will know the content of the messages but not their true intentions. Vyera’s father is a soldier. He will be familiar with setting traps and false trails to deceive the enemy. We are his enemies. The ones who took his daughter. Barely an hour after Vyera’s return, he had established a redoubt and called in powerful re-enforcements. This could be a close fought battle, between him and us.”
Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat: “If I may, Anatoly Sergeyevitch, I think I can point the way forwards.”
He smiles. Anatoly pauses. What has the old goat in mind? Please “Igor Ivanovitch, you have our attention …”
Dr Mendeleyev rises and walks to the white board. He points a remote to a data projector and the screen comes to life, with a picture of Vyera, taken at her graduation.
“So here we see our colleague, our friend and our slave Vyera Anatolyevna. Such a happy day for many reasons. She had completely habituated to her new life as Vyera. She had completed two difficult projects successfully. One, intellectual. Writing a Doctorate thesis. The second, the most difficult, letting go of Jennifer McEwan and becoming Vyera Anatolyevna. Our task is actually quite simple. I will be engaged in a battle of psychologists: my British colleagues will try to recover Jennifer. I (Dr Mendeleyev lays his arm across his chest to make his point clear) I will maintain Vyera’s belief that she has always really been Vyera and Vyera is who she will remain. In due course she will return to us of her own accord, and probably to the relief of her husband, parents and friends. Return to a place of safety and to her true life. Of course, I will need assistance from you all, especially you Neena Alexandrovna and … probably you too Julia Vasilyevna. I may also need help from Svetlana Nikitechna and perhaps, Anatoly Sergeyevitch you will help me choose the best time.
“Let us consider for a moment the events after Vyera’s acquisition. She is subjected to a series of carefully planned major psychic traumas, one after another after another. And there is no escape. She has completely lost control of her destiny, for the first time since she was a tiny child.
“First, the trauma of the recruitment process, from her point of view: She offers to assist Neena Alexandrovna when she appeals to Vyera for help.She is betrayed by Neena Alexandrovna, forced to restrain herself and watch as she is sedated and all the while, hear herself referred to as ‘Vyera’, someone who she has never encountered in the past. She sinks into a stupor her mind tortured by the idea that she has been mistaken for someone else.
“Second, the trauma of her interrogation and training. She arrives in a wholly alien environment. She is interrogated. Her training begins. Incidentally, I thought that your offer to let Vyera walk out into the garden in winter, to demonstrate that she was not in England was masterly, Neena Alexandrovna. So Vyera is forced by snow and wind and the evidence of her eyes to accept our account of her circumstances. She is forced to use an unfamiliar language. Her whole view of herself as someone who can initiate action and live the life she wishes to live, is relentlessly stripped away until she has to accept our view of herself as a slave. A possession. Someone who lives to follow instructions. Someone who has nothing for herself, not even her sexual urges. Everything has to be given to her superiors and ultimately, everything she thinks, feels, touches, uses is for the benefit of her Owners.
“Third, the trauma of losing her husband, her parents, her friends, her career, her home, her language, her country. Day after day, she journeys father and father away from them. She is conscious that she has given no explanation, has not said farewell. She knows that from their point of view, she has just vanished. She is totally bereft of their love, affection, company, support and encouragement.
“Finally, her appearance changes. She agrees to sacrifice her hair. Her skin colour changes. She is marked with a number from the asset register, on her breast, her foot, her neck – in fact anywhere she or anyone else looks, her numbers mark her out as a possession. Even her physique is altered until she is unrecognizable to anyone who knew her before – and she knows it!
“Meanwhile she is rebuilt – as Vyera. The more completely she accepts the role of Vyera the slave; the more energetically she applies herself to the tasks she is given, the more carefully she carries out our instructions, the better she is treated. She is forced to rely on us for food, warmth, light, occupation, stimulation, recreation. She is kept grounded by her collar, by punishment and in due course, her sexual desires are slaked but on our terms and in the ways we choose. These may not be what Jennifer McEwan would have chosen but there is no Jennifer McEwan any more. Only Vyera remains and Vyera knows that good things happen when she does as she is told, so she obeys and I think it is fair to say, her sexual horizons are expanded significantly and she becomes insatiable.
“Simultaneously, the pain caused by her memories of another life when she was another person, are salved. The pharmaceutical regimen she receives makes it harder for her to feel a connection with the events of her past, which in her mind become phantoms growing smaller and paler with each passing day.
“Her transformation is almost complete. In fact, only the appearance of both her husband and her parents in a city she knew when she was Jennifer is enough to unsteady her. Even then, she has to be given a direct order by Svetlana Nikitechna before she will leave and cross the gulf to her former life.”
“Our memories reside in two areas of the brain. Those automatic memories – how to ride a bicycle, how to behave, language – are in the amygdala. The memories of the sequencing of events, the passing of time, the progress of our lives, reside in the hippocampus.”
An animation begins to unfold on the screen to show the structure of the brain and the location within its lobes and substance of the hippocampus and the mysterious but it seems, crucial amygdala.″ (4)
Neena cannot help in her own mind super-imposing Dr Mendeleyev’s animated diagram upon her memory of Vyera and she is immediately struck by the cruelty of the juxta-position. The Vyera of memory was generous, loyal, hard-working – and more besides. She was someone it was a pleasure to be with, whose company was rewarding. Was it really true to suggest that human beings were merely automata, not made from metal and gears but from flesh and blood? Surely people were more than that? Surely the challenge Vera had met and surmounted had a flavour of the heroic, not merely the out-workings of the chemicals suffusing her brain? Neena begins to wonder if she had begun to love Vyera? To love her as the person she was and not the person Neena had worked hard to forge. Dr Mendeleyev however, is still talking …
“The chemical changes we wrought in Vyera’s body and brain will have disrupted the ability of the hippocampus to record property many of the events Vyera experienced and apply the time and date stamps which a person would do in normal circumstances.
Under questioning, she will most easily recall a disconnected series of images stained by the emotions she had at the time.
″The early painful events of her basic training will be ‘out of focus’ compared with the more rewarding sensations and memories of her life in the recent past, which included her graduation, the celebrations we held for her, the work she did with Alana Sergeyevna to look after little Dmitry, her official naming as Vyera Anatolyevna and her sexual exploits which I think were rather satisfactory?”
Dr Mendeleyev looks at Neena and smiles. Neena is not sure whether to simply smile back or not. She does not want to accept the role of being a bit of a slut herself, which Mendeleyev seems to be offering. In the event she smiles modestly as if to imply that these were merely events planned as part of Vyera’s continuing development and something quite apart from her own sexual recreations!
“Meanwhile the amygdala is resistant to disruption by the biochemical changes of chronic stress and neurological arousal. Here Vyera is present. The most natural and spontaneous way for Vyera to behave and respond to events is as Vyera and not as Jennifer McEwan.”
“Our British colleagues will form the view that Vyera is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD is a condition which persists so long as the subject's memory is disordered. They will do all they can to persuade Vyera that she is safe, she is home and she can resume her former self.”
“Our task is to persuade Jennifer McEwan that she is really Vyera. That Vyera is the person she really is. That Jennifer is the misunderstanding and that Vyera is the reality of her situation.”
“What does this mean in practice?
″First, we must maintain contact.
″Second, we must continue to supervise her work, whatever that may be
″Third, we must remind her of the positives of her life with us: physical, sexual, intellectual, recreational.
″This connection must be maintained and her every action must be monitored until circumstances can be engineered such that she cannot avoid the conclusion: she belongs with us and her life is fulfilled only when she is with us. That is the point at which she will return or appeal to be taken back.
“So returning to Vyera’s state of mind, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. It is probable that she will be loyal to us now and in the near future. If arrangements have been made for her to see a psychologist it is a reasonable assumption that she has not cooperated with the authorities during her initial interrogation. We need to have knowledge of the results of that examination, I think. The comments from Neena Alexandrovna and Julia Vasilyevna suggest that, thanks to the great efforts made during her training, Vyera arrived in Stockholm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. (5) However, the authorities there have had an unrivalled opportunity to study this condition and develop strategies to deal with those who have it, so there is no reason for complacency.”
Anatoly turns to Yevgeny:
“Yevgeny Petrovitch? Do you have anything to offer at this point?”
Yevgeny pauses and starts. “As you know, Vyera’s people were kept under observation in the aftermath of her abduction by our colleagues – ‘Big Brother, that is to say.”
“Recruitment.”
“I am sorry?”
“Recruitment. I do not abduct people, Yevgeny Petrovitch I prefer to speak of recruitment or acquisition. Providing fresh opportunities. We are not principles of a criminal organization” says Anatoly, to clarify the situation.
“Yes, I am sorry”, replies Yevgeny and continues with a little less confidence.
“So surveillance was maintained and we were given access to the results and after the British police downgraded their operation we maintained intermittent surveillance, taking samples as you might say.”
He notices Dr Mendeleyev nodding in agreement. Clearly, he has done the right thing.
“I think there are two themes which emerged – well perhaps three.”
“First, Joseph McEwan continued to search for his wife. On the one hand, He did this along what you might call normal channels. Her disappearance was reported to an organisation which attempts to trace missing people and reunite families and he kept in close touch with them. Second, he tried to find out more about the person he had lost. My impression was that Vyera and Joseph were not one hundred percent sexually compatible but – bravely – Joseph began to move in BDSM circles near his own home. He attended a munch –″
“A what?” Dr Mendeleyev leans forward quizzically.
“A munch. A meeting of people easy with BDSM sexuality but in a ‘normal’ environment to allow explores to meet the more experienced in a non- threatening atmosphere.”
“I see”, replies Mendeleyev and sits back in his chair to let Yevgeny continue his presentation.
“He also attended a BDSM club and formed a relationship with a local businessman and his wife who are building a BDSM outdoor playground.
He had himself tattooed – at the same studio where Vyera had been a client. He visited the Inward Bound playground and arranged a session with a “Mistress Zhukova”, who of course also works at Inward Bound. His company were reasonably generous and gave him space to 'grieve' his loss. Actually he has exchanged a number of rather flirtatious emails recently with one of his colleagues, someone called ‘Gwenda’. I think they may have been sleeping together. Actually. ‘Gwenda’ was also in Stockholm when Vyera was released.
This last remark catches the immediate attention of everyone.
“Ah,” says Anatoly. “Here we might have our first opportunity to destabilise the happy family?” Mendeleyev is nodding.
Anatoly weights the discussion in his mind. Much more positive than he was expecting but it was merely the starting point. There was a quotation from Lenin which seemed to sum up their intentions: ‘Trust is good. Control is better’.
1. In 2011, the Russian Government began discussions with the United States and the European Union about reciprocal visa–free travel for Russian, American and European citizens to one another’s countries. The British were reluctant to accept the proposal before the resolution of the Litvenenko/Lugovoi affair.
2. Andrei Litvenenko: see references, Chapter 5
3. See Chapters 1 and 2 of Tales From A Far Country.
4. Want to follow Dr Mendeleyev deeper into the brain?
5. Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological condition seen in hostages and victims of kidnapping where the victims begin to identify with their captors and regard their rescuers with suspicion and hostility. It was named after hostages, taken during of an armed bank robbery in Stockholm, strongly identified with and supported the armed gang who had taken them hostage in the first place, after they had been rescued by the police.
Five days after Jennifer reappears
“Good flight?” Grantby welcomes Thomassen into his office.
“Yes, thank you.” She looks around. It's a grey day and the grime on Grantby's window doesn't help brighten the office either.
“Did you come British Airways?”
“Yes, I actually like Terminal Five. There is a rather good, informal, Japanese restaurant there I use after I am airside. Anyway. We have much to discuss, so we must start.” (1)
“Of course. Are you going back today?”
“No, I thought I would stay a few days as I had to be here but we should do our business don't you think? Let me tell you the background to this case as we see it.”
“Please, just go ahead …”
“At the end of the Soviet Era, you will recall Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia re-gained their independence from the USSR and in the period afterwards, there was considerable political and social instability in the Eastern Baltic, Finland excepted. We immediately noticed an increase in the haphazard movement of people and an increase in the numbers of people trying to come to the Scandinavian countries to live and work. We are a very attractive destination but not everyone can come, so that encourages people to attempt an illegal immigration. Scandinavian working conditions are good with high wages and with good social benefits. This is making many of our industries less competitive, so from the Swedish side, there is an incentive to draw in workers who will work longer hours for less money. Thus we have two factors which are promoting illegal immigration. Many people come from Russia and the Baltic states, but they come from elsewhere too. You may remember the case recently of some homeless men who were trafficked from the UK and working under conditions of slavery in south Sweden?” (2)
“Yes, I do. A bit of a surprise, that.”
“Indeed. For us, illegal immigration is a threat to order and to the integrity of the State and we are very interested when we find people who may have come to our country in strange and unusual ways. The criminals responsible are determined and resourceful people with significant resources of their own to put in play. Their business is profitable so this encourages their efforts. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, there are significant numbers of these energetic people on our doorstep making fortunes without the normal restraints we find in democratic societies and without the restraints imposed by communist doctrine, do you understand?”
“Yes, exactly. I do. You think Jennifer McEwan may be a victim?” Grantby is warming to Thomassen. She is setting the scene clearly. He can quite understand the problems her team must be facing.
“Mak youan. Is that how you say it?”
“Yes, Mak Ewan.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, we are very interested.”
“Have you any evidence in particular?”
“Yes actually we have. Two things.
″First Fru McEwan – is that right this time?” (3)
“Yes, spot on.”
“Good. Fru McEwan can now speak Russian, according to her father. She could not do that before she disappeared. Second, she swam from the harbour about the time a private yacht owned by a Russian businessman was leaving port. The AIS signal from the boat was recorded as the boat left its moorings but then the transmission ceased and it was not picked up again until several days later, when the yacht had reached St Petersburg.”
“Equipment failure?”
“Possible. However, our Security Service has information that the yacht owner, Anatoly Kustensky was formerly in the KGB and although he seems to be a legitimate businessman at the moment, he remains ‘well connected’. “
“Kustensky? Well fuck me!”
Grantby notices that Thomassen has paused and is looking at him with her head inclined to the side and one eye slightly closed
“Not a serious proposal I hope, Chief Inspector?
“Pardon?” Grantby blinks at Thomassen's remark and then understands what he has said.
It takes Grantby another half second to realize that the Ice Maiden Inspector is actually making fun of him and cracking a joke. When he realizes, the whole exchange seems absurdly funny. Eventually, Grantby is able to regain his composure.
“Ah, I’m sorry. Boy’s talk I am afraid. I did not think you did jokes. You seem so serious.
“Yes, it was a joke and I understand ‘boy’s talk’ but I am serious by the way. Perhaps we should continue?”
“Yes, perhaps we should.”
“You were surprised when I mentioned Anatoly Kustensky?”
“Yes, I am really because his name has cropped up during our investigation.”
“How interesting! Can you tell me?”
“Jennifer McEwan is a psychologist and was researching for her PhD at a place called Inward Bound which is an ‘adult experience playground’, as they call it.’’
“So, sexual experience?”
“Er, yes that’s about it.”
“I see. You do not exactly approve?”
“Well, er, let's just say it is out of my personal experience.”
Thomassen nods. She thinks for a moment about another jokey remark but she feels she has teased Grantby enough. “Please go on.”
“After she disappeared we interviewed her husband, the Chief Executive at Inward Bound and her research supervisor who is a woman called Professor Angela Dawney. They all confirmed a story that whilst McEwan was at Inward Bound, she had been arrested by men who claimed to be from the CIA and interrogated about someone known to Professor Dawney. One Anatoly Kustensky. He was attached to the Soviet Embassy in the late eighties and early nineties and kept an eye on the anti-nuclear protests at an American cruise missile base in Oxfordshire. That was where he seems to have met Angela Dawney. Dawney was also arrested and interrogated, by the way. Also, just at the end of last week actually, a colleague of Jennifer McEwan reported that some of her academic work, done in England before her disappearance, has been found written up in a Russian technical journal.”
“Ah …the woman Angela Dawney,″ Thomassen pronounces it as An-gel-a, ″has not come to our attention but we can look again. It is another piece in this puzzle. So Chief Inspector, there seem to be several Russian connections in this case. Kustensky knows Fru MakEwan’s supervisor. Kustensky’s yacht is near the place where MakEwan is found. MakEwan can speak Russian. MakEwan’s technical work is published in a Russian technical journal – not under her own name?”
“No, there were three Russian authors. Here they are..″ Grantby leafs through his briefing papers. “Mendeleyev, Romanova and Kuznetsova.”
“May I?”
“Please …”
Anna Thomassen photographs the names on her iphone to note them down.
“oh”, she continues, “here are the medical and psychological reports on Mrs McEwan I promised you. They are both preliminary but the psychiatrist felt that she had clearly been the victim of significant psychiatric trauma and the medical report showed she had minor skin abrasions and bruising on her back and thighs but no serious injuries. There were no traces of narcotics – or alcohol – in her blood. Samples were sent for more detailed clinical chemistry because her physique raised suspicions that he had been given – or taken on her own initiative, which is still possible – anabolic steroids or similar pharmaceuticals.
Grantby leafs quickly through both documents, clearly things which would benefit from careful reading. He lays them aside and takes up another thread which had puzzled him:
“You and your people provided quite a high level of protection for the McEwans before they came back to the UK? You mentioned you were taking them to the airport to guard them against who ever was responsible for Mrs McEwan’s abduction, assuming that was what it was?”
“When I interviewed Fru Mak-Ewan , it was clear at once that she was not the stereotypical victim of human trafficking – she was not for example, a young, naïve, poor and poorly educated girl who had been seduced by promises of a better life in Scandinavia and then found herself trapped in sexual slavery. She was quite different. She was a very intelligent person and had been very well cared for. Her complexion. Her physique. The way she carried herself. For example, her head had been shaven but her eyebrows were very carefully styled. It softened the starkness of her bare head and made the overall impression very attractive very … sexy? Is that the right word?’
“Yes, that is the right word”’ replied Grantby and continues “but she might have developed that skin disease where people just loose their hair?”
“Alopecia?”
“Yes, alopecia”
“People who suffer from alopecia also loose their eyebrows. These are things that girls notice, Chief Inspector. So, I found myself wondering if Jennifer MakEwan had been acquired for a specific purpose and her release might not have been intended. If I had worked to remove her from the UK, would I let her go in Stockholm, to swim ashore into the arms of the first person she met? That seems to strike a false note and I felt a measure of protection was needed, in case her abductors tried to reclaim their prize. This information about her academic work published in a Russian journal adds to my suspicions … and actually there was an unexpected incident which increased out anxiety.”
“Oh?”
“When the family back was taken back from our Headquarters, our officers found an unexpected visitor who seemed to be stalking the Palmer’s house …”
Grantby is now leaning forward, concentrating on the Inspector’s every word.
“…the woman was overpowered, arrested and held in custody until we could positively identify her and verify her story. She was in fact one of Mr MakEwan’s colleagues who was in Stockholm on company business and decided to pay a surprise visit …
By this stage in her story, the Inspector is smiling broadly
… and I think it is safe to say that she was the one who had the biggest surprise. I think Mr MakEwan may have some ground to make up with one of his workmates!
Anna Thomassen becomes serious once more: I think”, she says to Grantby, “I think you should look for any signs that Anatoly Kustensky may have been at work in the UK at the time of Jennifer MakEwan’s disappearance, don’t you? ”
After he bids farewell to Inspector Thomassen, Grantby reflects on what Thomassen said about protecting the McEwans. Kidnapping was an uncommon crime in the UK and the idea that Mrs McEwan might be in danger from another abduction attempt had not crossed his mind. Brian Ackroyd was going to visit Mrs McEwan in Warwick that morning – or was it the day following? Grantby decides he ought to put Ackroyd exactly in the picture about his conversation with the Swedish visitor …
It's 11 am on Monday morning. Chief Inspector Grantby and Sergeant Borland are meeting in Grantby’s office. Borland is giving Grantby an account of her meeting with Jennifer McEwan at Heathrow Airport
“So what did you think of her? Our mystery woman?” Grantby is keen to get as much background as he can after his discussions with Thomassen.
“I thought … she … hmmm.″ Borland is thoughtful. It was a curious encounter, certainly. ″Physically, she is just as attractive in fact as she is in the photograph Joseph McEwan has on his I-phone.”
“She was bigger than I expected. I had got the idea that she would be slim from her husband's original statements, the description and so on. It turns out she is quite powerfully built. Like an athlete who does javelin or discus. Very muscular.”
“Now that is an interesting observation, Borland. You're right that all the descriptions we have of Jennifer McEwan refer to her as ‘slim’. It must be the result of something that's happened while she has been away. It's not the normal modus operandi of kidnappers though, is it? Putting your victim through a body building course? I wonder if ‘bulking up’ was her idea, whilst she was away. Might be useful to keep that in mind, as a line of questioning. It might tell us something about the conditions she has been kept under. She impressed the Swedes too because when they gave her a physical examination, they had samples taken and sent for analysis to see if she has been on steroids. So what else did you pick up?”
“That was just my point ‘one’. Second, I thought she looked very tired. Not sleepy or browned off tired from a long journey but a deep inside tiredness, if you know what I mean. Oh yes – and her skin. She is quite deeply tanned. You know how brown Scandinavians seem to get when they go on holiday?”
Grantby frowns. His idea of a holiday is pretty traditional. Two weeks on the Spanish coast is about as exotic as he manages. “Not really.”
“Well it's something I have noticed when I have been abroad. McEwan is half – scandinavian but if her colour is anything to go by, you would think she has been in The Mediterranean all the time she had been away”
“Ah, I don’t remember that in any information we had about her.”
“No, I do not either and thinking back to her husband’s photo of her, she looked pale skinned, pretty much like any northern European. Now she could almost be Indian.
Grantby remembers his conversation with Anna Thomassen earlier that morning. He says:
“so what else did you notice about her? From the feminine perspective?”
“Er,” for a moment Borland is taken aback. She is not expecting such a question from Grantby, “Well, her complexion was good, no blemishes on her skin, no dry skin on her face, eyebrows carefully plucked and styled, no signs of old bruising – oh, we shook hands and I remember thinking how nice her nails looked. Not long, actually very short and practical but really nicely shaped. Filed, not bitten. Cuticles pressed back – and she has some sort of gloss on them. Her nails, that is. Her skin was soft and moisturised. Not rough or waxy.”
“Hmmm. Once again. Not what I would expect an abduction victim to look like, after they had been released?”
“Well, no. I mean I agree. It was strikingly incongruous.”
″How about your conversation? How did she react to being questioned?″
″Socially, she interacted reasonably well, I suppose. Surprisingly well given what we imagine she's been through. When her husband introduced her to me, she looked very uncomfortable. There was a real mixture of fear and resentment. Fear at what I represented and resentment that I had turned up in the first place. There was a real sense of ‘what are you doing here? Why can't you leave me alone?’ We are going to have to put a lot of work in to gain her confidence.”
“So, a long haul, you think?” Grantby’s glum face doesn't hide how he feels about Borland's news.
Borland can tell that her boss is disappointed. They've all got too much to do and this crime, where the apparent victim won't even admit to her circumstances being out of the ordinary, is taking resources. “Yes, I am afraid so.”
Grantby looks out through the grimy window of his office. “Well, Borland, let me know how you want to play it. There's a few other things you need to know. This morning I had the pleasure of a visit from an Inspector Anna Thomassen of the Swedish National Investigation Bureau.″
Borland nods. ‘That puts a different complexion on events’, she thinks. When was the last time a senior foreign policeman came to London to discuss a case she was involved with?
″I wouldn’t like to be a villain she picks up, I can tell you. When we compared notes, there was an odd name which kept on cropping up. Anatoly Kustensky. Briefly, KGB man in London in the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties. He met Professor Dawney when she was a student radical at Greenham Common and he's kept up with her ever since. A yacht belonging to Mr Kustensky was close to where McEwan swam ashore in Stockholm. And of course, McEwan
• and Dawney – were detained and questioned about Kustensky when she was at that funny place in Suffolk doing her research by some people who said they were CIA. You knew all that, anyway?”
“Yes, thank you Sir. I was probably one of the first people to hear the story when I took a statement from Joseph McEwan”
“Yes of course, you questioned the husband right at the beginning of all this, didn’t you? Well, I think you should start by seeing if you can find any Kustensky footprints around about the time Mrs McEwan vanished. We did not get very far last time working forward from the few clues there were, so this time I think we should try to see if we can establish any connections going the other way, so to speak. Start thinking about how you could get people out of the country and assume they don’t want to go in the first place. How would you do it? What would you need? How could you ensure your ‘cargo’ arrived safely? How could you ensure there was no detection on route? If you were detected, what might your story be? That sort of thing and maybe we can meet again at the end of the week. I would like you to concentrate on this and I will get your colleagues to cover the other cases you are working on at the moment. OK?”
Borland is happy with that. It might not lead anywhere but at least it's something she can get her teeth into. Maybe in the meantime she'll think how to get more out of Jennifer McEwan. “Of course. Shall we meet at the end of Friday? I can change that according to progress?”
“Yes. See what you can find out. Kustensky might just be the key to all this.”
In a small suburban house in Warwick, Jennifer McEwan is gingerly exploring her old home, somewhere which now feels very new – and strange. It is so small, compared to the house she has become used to! As she prowls quietly around, she wonders what she ought to do?
Joseph has gone shopping and told her to stay in bed, told her he would fix breakfast. Jennifer is not used to this. It is very unsettling. She should be making breakfast for him. Jennifer has an odd feeling that she is not alone in the house. Of course, she is not used to being left alone. She has grown accustomed to being watched and instructed and supervised and corrected and disciplined and now … nothing. She reflects on ‘her situation’ again. The feeling of ‘someone being there’ is wrong. Actually, it is wrong way round. What she has noticed, is that there is no one there. She is alone. Afraid. She must use her time well. She was taught that. She goes into the kitchen. It is tidy but not properly clean. It does not reach the standards she has been trained to. She looks in the cupboards. More untidiness! She carefully lines up the tins and jars, labels all facing forwards. (4)
She still cannot settle. She does not want to be occupied with cleaning when the man returns. Especially if he is expecting a meal. Her best option is to be ready … she returns upstairs, she makes the bed. Tidies the room, gets washed and cleans her teeth and straight away notices how sharp and minty the tooth paste is, compared to that she is used to. The man is still not back.
Jennifer (but perhaps really Vyera) finds the office – it's actually a small bedroom – and looks at the computer. It stands mute and silent. She is tempted to turn it on, but should she? Is she allowed? She remembers – remembers all too vividly – another morning when she was left alone in an office with a computer. At the end of the day, she was thoroughly caned by her supervisor for trying to send emails. But now? Today? Has she been given instructions? No. Has she been given restrictions? No. So perhaps it is allowed? She gingerly turns the machine on. A few moments later, she is looking at the desktop picture. It’s a picture of her and the man … no, not the man, it is a picture of Joseph. He is sitting. She is standing behind him, her arms around his neck. He is laughing. She is laughing. The moments tick by …
In Russia, Neena Kirova is in the dining room of the Dacha checking the work of the domestics. Tonight there are to be guests for dinner and she knows Anatoly Sergeyevitch and Svetlana Nikitechna will need the presentation of the food and the dacha as a whole to be to be impeccable. In the midst of these immediate concerns an alarm on her I-phone sounds. Yevgeny has been given a small app to alert Neena when someone is working on the McEwan’s computer. Neena immediately turns tail and rushes up the stairs towards the office. The phone alarm continues to sound! She is breathing heavily (despite her fitness) and perspiring freely by the time she sits down and fires up the computer. Perversely, it seems to take minutes to ready itself even though it was probably only seconds. Neena is still breathing deeply and feels uncomfortably sweaty as she waits for the computer. ‘Butterflies’ are squirming in her stomach. She brushes her hair off her face to try and seem presentable and ‘in control’. As soon as the machine has booted up, Neena grabs the mouse and clicks the surveillance programme icon. Her screen changes to show a list of the programmes active on the McEwan PC and through the screen camera, there is an image of Vyera, apparently staring vacantly into her own screen. Neena composes herself. She brushes her hair once again and straightens her blouse. She clears her throat. All the while, all she can think of is how nervous she feels. She has to get this right!
As Jennifer stares at the screen, not sure what she should do next, without warning the machine comes to life all by itself. A small spot in the top right enlarges to fill most of the screen. The face of a young woman looks out at her. At first the face is serious, then the image animates. The face smiles. A voice says:
“Prevyet Verochka! Kak tee sevodnya?” (5)
Jenny gasps! Then her training comes to her rescue – or rather, her amygdala takes charge. “Thank you Mistress. I am very well. What can I do for you?”
″What have you done today?″
“I have got up, washed, begun to tidy the kitchen, made the bed and tidied the bedroom”
“I see. Is that the logical order?”
“No, Mistress, it is not.”
“What should you have done?”
“I should have washed and prepared myself for the day, then made the bed, tidied the bedroom and then begun to work in the kitchen. Oh, Mistress it is difficult here. People keep asking me questions. They wish to know about you all …”
“Us all, rabinya. They wish to know all about us. Have you answered their questions?”
“No, Mistress. I do not have permission.”
“No, you do not have permission. Where is Joseph?”
“He has gone shopping. He told me to rest, here.”
“Did he? What is the vocation of a slave?”
“To work for the good of their Owners and the people the Owners give their slave to.”
“Excellent, Verochka! And what are you?”
“I am a slave Gaspazha. Your slave.”
“Well done, rabinya! You are our slave. At present, we have sent you to Joseph. In due course, we will tell you to return to us. How does that make you feel?”
“Much better, thank you Gaspazha. I feel safe now.”
The face of the young woman on the screen smiles in reply.
“Rabinya: your next task. Joseph’s home. It must be cleaned to our standards. When I call to see you, I expect to be proud of the work you have done. Today, you will begin to work in the kitchen. We set very high standards for cleanliness in the kitchen, rabinya. Do you remember?”
“Yes, Gaspazha Neena. I remember.”
“Very well, rabinya Vyera I am going to leave you to your work now. I will be back to supervise you soon. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Gaspazha. Thank you for coming to see me. I feel so much better now!” Neena’s image smiles once again at Vyera from the screen, blows her a kiss and vanishes and Vyera is once more alone. In small suburban house. In England.
In Russia, Neena Kirova breathes a heavy sigh of relief! She is very pleased and actually very considerably relieved at how well her encounter with Vyera has gone. Dr Mendeleyev was right. Vyera seemed to be under control when they maintained control over her. Behaving towards Vyera as if she was still at the Dacha and wearing her collar made her reciprocate and behave in her turn, as if nothing in her personal circumstances had changed at all. However, the little exercise had felt to Neena if she was controlling a spacecraft which had landed on the moon. At least it had landed safely, but when could they induce it to return? As Neena stands up, she notices how shaky her legs feel and that the backs of her knees are damp within her tights and her arm pits are moist. The stress of her encounter! Perhaps something the slave Pavea could deal with later?
Borland is sitting at her desk, mulling over Grantby's instructions.
Where to start? Jennifer McEwan had been found in Stockholm but she had disappeared in London, so transportation from the UK across water was key. How could you get someone to go abroad? If they went of their own accord, that would be easier, but McEwan knew that her husband was still in the UK when she was last seen, so why would she let herself be persuaded to leave the country? The more likely conclusion was that she did not leave the UK willingly, so now the problem became how to transport an unwilling victim?
Borland pours herself coffee and lets her mind range over the problem. There are three ways to leave the United Kingdom. By rail, using the Channel Tunnel. By sea, using a ferry from one of the channel ports, or from Harwich or from Hull or finally, by air. For all routes, there were the passenger and freight facilities.
If Jennifer had left unwillingly, disguising her as a bone fide passenger would be difficult especially in a private vehicle, which made transporting her as a freight consignment more likely.
There had been considerable scrutiny of freight movement in recent years to stem the tide of illegal immigrants, but Jennifer was not entering the UK: she was leaving so that would significantly reduce the risk of detection by the authorities, who would be looking the other way, quite literally. If she had travelled as “freight”, how might that be done? If she was in some sort of box, she would need to be sedated and as movements by rail, sea and road take longer, the sedation would be prolonged. Common sense suggested this would be technically risky.
What about imprisoning her in a cargo container, perhaps with a minder? Transporting people in cargo containers was possible – illegals had used it to fatal effect – but how easy would it be to trace the movements of individual containers and could the duration of their journeys be relied upon? If a cargo container had been used, it the container would have been specially modified to allow its contents safe passage. Would those modifications have been noticed? Would the container have stood out as being different in any way?
What about transportation by air? Air was fast and direct. Borland remember reading a report of a sedated young girl who had been found in an airfreight container at Heathrow airport some years before, so people traffickers had used airfreight in the past. (6) The girl at Heathrow had been intended for a scheduled Aeroflot flight, (another Russian connection …) but would a private aircraft be a more elegant solution? There would be records of international private flights as there are for commercial scheduled flights, so perhaps that is the place to start. Sergeant Borland picks up her telephone …
“British Airports Authority?”
“Sergeant Joan Borland, Metropolitan Police. I am looking to find out about private aircraft movements.”
“One moment.”
“Scheduling?”
“Sergeant Joan Borland, Metropolitan Police. I am looking to find out about private aircraft movements.”
“From Heathrow?”
“Yes, Heathrow for a start.”
“That’s easy. There aren’t any! Sorry, darling but you are looking in the wrong place. (7) There are absolutely no private aircraft arrivals or departures form Heathrow, ever. Not
even if you are John Travolta with your own Boeing 707.”
“Ah – what about the other London airports then? Gatwick, and Stanst …”
“Exactly the same. The private jets into and out of the London area use Blackbush, Farnborough or Biggin Hill. Manston handles some traffic too. You might want to try Farnborough first because they have worked hard to attract that sort of traffic. Got a swanky new terminal, just what the rich and famous like to see. You might find it easier to talk to NATS, though.”
″NATS?″
″National Air Traffic Service. (8) They have all flight plans filed for trips within, into or out of the UK. If you know the destination or the aircraft type you are looking for, they should be able to help.″
“Ah, thank you, that has been very helpful.”
“Pleasure.”
Sergeant Borland opens Google and puts in ‘NATS’. Among the hits, is the main site which has the telephone number under ‘contact us’.
″National Air Traffic Service. How can I help?″
“Sergeant Joan Borland, Metropolitan Police. I am looking to find out about private aircraft movements.”
″I'll try and find someone that can help you. Is this for a current flight?″
″No, it's quite a while ago, November 2009.″
″Hold on please.″
Eventually Borland's patience is rewarded. ″NATS – AIS,″ a voice says. ″How can I help?″
Borland introduces herself again and launches off into her query. ″I'm trying to find out about aircraft movements from the London area on or immediately after November 10 2009. I'm looking for anything involving an aircraft registered to an Anatoly Kustensky or possibly to his company AKE. It's almost certainly a Russian registered aircraft and probably relates to a flight out of the UK, possibly to Russia. Would you be able to find something like that in your files?″
″Yes. It shouldn't be too difficult assuming there was a flight plan, which there would have to be for any international flight. It will take me an hour or so. Can I come back to you?″
Borland is pleased with the helpful response. She's got plenty to do and is surprised by how quickly the hour has passed when her contact at NATS returns her call.
″I think I have what you want. I have a Bombardier Global Express registered RA-9560D to Anatoly Kustensky Enterprises with a departure from Farnborough EGLF to UUMU, that's Chakalovsky Airport, northeast of Moscow at 20:15 on Tuesday 10th November 2009.″
″Thanks,″ says Borland. ″Could you fax me a copy of that?″
Bingo! (9) she thinks. Moments later, she's on the phone to Farnborough.
“TAG London, Farnborough Airport.” (10)
“Sergeant Joan Borland, Metropolitan Police. I am looking to find out about private aircraft movements.”
“Is this a general or a specific enquiry?”
“This is an enquiry which is part of an on-going investigation.”
“I had better put you through to the General Manager…”
“Mike Hodge?”
“Good afternoon Mr Hodge. This is Sergeant Joan Borland, Metropolitan Police. I am looking to find out about private aircraft movements.”
Borland is getting tired of her opening line, but at least she feels she is making progress.
“And what can I tell you?”
“I'm trying to find out about private aircraft movements connected with a company called AKE, which I think stands for Anatoly Kustensky Enterprises?”
“AKE?”
“Yes, do you know them?”
“AKE? Sure. There are here quite regularly. They operate a Bombardier Global Express. The company uses it a bit like an airliner, flying between their offices so it is normally carrying businessmen and other company employees. Well, I suppose they are. Occasionally it has been chartered by other groups and other people.”
“Oh. Do you have a log of the arrival and departures of the aircraft?”
“Yes we do and there are copies of the invoices we sent to the company.”
“Invoices?”
“For the landing, take-off and ground handling fees. That is how we make our money.”
“Of course, I am sorry to be so slow on the uptake. So was this aircraft at Farnborough on Tuesday 10 November 2009?”
″I am getting that ‘where were you on the night of the thirteenth’ feeling. If they were here, I am sure we will have the details. Let me put you through to ‘Operations’, I'll ask them to let you have anything they've got.″
The line buzzes and after a few moments of silence, there is another voice.
“Andrew Jeffries. I understand from Mike Hodge that you want to know about movements of a ‘plane belonging to AKE?”
“Yes please. Specifically, I would like to know if it was here on Tuesday 10 November 2009.”
“Just a minute … I can check that for you.” There is a short pause. Borland can hear the tap of a computer keyboard in the background. ″Yes, found it! We have the aircraft arriving on Friday 30th. October ’09 and left on … Tuesday 10th November. Any use?”
Borland’s lips are tingling with elation. To have found what they were looking for after three phone calls and two hours after getting her instructions from Grantby! Now her confidence was rising, Sergeant Borland becomes bolder – and inspired.
“Would you have a passenger list as well? Do you keep them?”
“Er no, not for private flights. The flight plan will have filed ‘souls on board’ but that's just a total. We are really only providing facilities for the aircraft owners to operate their own aircraft. You would really have to go to the aircraft owners – AKE in this case – themselves to find out that. After all, it's their responsibility to know who gets on their own ‘plane. Customs and Immigration formalities are handled by the UK Borders Agency but I do not know if they'd have lists. Maybe but they are hardly the most efficient!″
Borland isn't looking forward to trying to dig things out of UK Borders, that's bound to be hard work with the mess they are in at the moment. (11) Still, she senses that it is worth pressing on with Jeffries.
“But what if one of the patients was not well. Sedated or something?”
“Oh, a Medical Evacuation case?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Medical evacuation? This was not what Borland had in mind. It sounds too official. This is not how she imagined Jennifer McEwan’s abduction was, but as she tried to think more carefully about the events which might have taken place, she realizes that her initial idea of a sedated young woman being encouraged onto an aircraft bound for some foreign country was completely unrealistic. Then there was the question of the girl's passport. It had not been found at the McEwan’s home. That suggested Jennifer had deliberately taken it but the ‘working assumption’ at the moment was that Jennifer had been an abductee …
Borland picks up the thread of the conversation but just a little less confidently.
“Medical evacuation? Can you tell me more about that. It makes me think about battlefield casualties.”
Jeffries chuckles.
“I know. It is not something we do, really. Heathrow is where you go if you are a medical evacuee. It's quite involved and there are companies – well, I mean I can think of one off the top of my head – who specialise in that type of work. They have a dedicated medical and nursing team and special aircraft and so on and if you are really that ill you can get all the care you need here in the UK, until you are fit enough to go home on a scheduled airliner.”
Go home. These two words prod at Borland's conscious mind. There is another relevant question she can ask somewhere but what is it? It seems to slip and slither in her mind. If only she could grasp the idea firmly and put it into words.
In the event, Jeffries helps out. “… I mean we have our fair share of the beautiful people coming back from skiing with broken legs and things like that. Your best bet is to talk to Margaret Patrick. She's the Medical Officer. If there were any ‘walking wounded’ on that particular flight, she might have a record of it. I will put you through …
“Abby Haines?”
“Sergeant Borland. Metropolitan Police. Can I speak to Margaret Patrick please? I was given her name by Andrew Jeffries from Operations.”
“Dr Patrick will be in later this afternoon. I'm her PA. Can I help with something?”
“Er, I don’t know. It might be better for me to speak to Dr Patrick. I am interested in what Mr Jeffries calls ‘walking wounded’.”
Abby Haines laughs. “I will tell her you called. Shall I ask her to ring you back?”
Borland wants very much to keep possession of the ball and declines the offer. ″It's probably easier if I call.″
“OK. If you could call back at … oh, I dunno … say … half three?”
“Thanks, I will do that.”
At three fifteen, Borland herself receives a call from Farnborough. She hears a soft, gentle, precise voice.
“This is Dr Patrick. May I speak with Sergeant Borland?”
“Ah, Dr Patrick. Thank you. I was just going to call you. Yes, er, I was interested in what your colleague Andrew Jeffries calls ‘walking wounded’.”
“Well I will try to help. We don’t get too many of those …”
“Actually this is a very specific enquiry. I am interested to know if you had any record of a passenger that may have needed medical assistance leaving Farnborough on a private jet owned by a company called AKE on Tuesday 11 November 2009?″
“Well, that is a specific enquiry! Just give me a moment … I will check my diary …I am afraid I still like to use pen and paper. Just give me a moment to get it off the shelf.”
Borland waits for Dr Patrick to come back on the line. She notices that her heart is beating just a little faster.
“Here we are. November. 11th. November. Tuesday. Yes. Female under the care of Dr Artur Hahn, Orthopaedic Surgeon. Suspected fracture of transverse processes of the lumbar spine - those are the little wings of bone which stick out at the sides of your spine – transferred home to Moscow under sedation. Was that what you were after?” Without waiting for her to answer, Dr Patrick continues, “I do actually remember this girl quite well. She had been sedated quite heavily by Dr Hahn. Personally, I might have just given a rather lighter sedation and anti-inflamatories, something like ibuprofen. Anyway that’s how Hahn obviously likes to do things and I know the Germans have a name for being thorough, but I thought this was a bit too thorough, if you know what I mean. Still″ (the tone of Dr Patrick’s voice becomes lighter) ″the sort of injury she had can be very sore and the patient was not complaining! There was one other thing that made her memorable.”
“Oh?”
“Yes: she had a shaven head. That’s not a very common thing for girls to do. I thought at first – when I first saw her – that she must have had chemotherapy for cancer but she had no significant medical history apart from her injury, so she must have done it because she liked her hair that way. Not many girls do that. She was very pretty, though.”
Borland gasps. A girl under sedation with a shaven head! Was this ‘game over’? She struggles to recompose herself.
“So how exactly were the arrangements made? Did the patient and Dr Hahn just turn up out of the blue?”
“Oh no, of course not. He had ‘phoned me earlier in the week to discuss the situation. It might have been the day before. I just can’t exactly remember. Anyway, I had to call him back, so I called to his Rooms first and then I called the hospital where the girl was an in-patient.”
“Oh, I see.” Borland’s heart is rapidly falling back to earth.
“So had she been in hospital quite a while?”
“You would have to ask Hahn for the details but I think she had sustained her injury over the previous weekend in a riding accident. She was initially taken to a private hospital in London and after the injury was assessed, she decided she wanted to go home and Hahn made arrangements and contacted me. The hospital concerned was … the Wellesley Hospital.”
“How would I find out more about the patient?”
“Your best bet is to speak to Dr Hahn. In the normal way of course, I could not give you the name of the patient because we have to protect confidentiality but if this is part of a police enquiry, I can do so.”
“May I ask if the patient was called Jennifer McEwan.”
“Yes you can but no, the name was Anna … oh, please excuse me. These Russian names seem so strange … Anna … Symeonova … Tereshkova. I think I have got that right. I think she was a Russian national but speak to Dr Hahn. I am sure he will be able to tell you more. Here are his details …”
References:
1. All British Airways flights to and from London Heathrow use Terminal 5. The Terminal operations suffered some significant teething troubles after it opened, troubles which, to the embarrassment of British Airways and the Airport management team, were widely reported.
2. ‘British men forced into modern slavery abroad’ : an article on the BBC web site.
3. Fru. Swedish for ‘Mrs’
4. Phil heard a story about a western diplomatic family living in Moscow who suffered periodic burglaries of their apartment. The intruders (thought to be from the Russian Security Services) never removed anything but their ‘calling card’ was to carefully align all the tins in the kitchen cupboards with the labels facing forwards.
Freddie was delighted to know that people in the Russian security services might suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
5. “Hi, Verochka! How are you today?”
6. A reference to an incident described in Freddie’s earlier book “Market Forces”
7. ‘darling’ cheeky and patronising south-of-england slang. Not safe for use at work these days!
8. For more information, visit the National Air Traffic Service web site
9. “Bingo’ – faintly old fashioned British slang. An exclamation of pleasure at hitting some form of target. Definitely ‘safe to use at work’
10. Farnborough Airport. Formerly, the home of the Royal Aircraft Establishment.
11. The UK Borders Agency is the British Goverment agency which deals with border control and matters of immigration and asylum. It has struggled to perform to the standard expected and has been drenched under a shower of bad publicity in recent years.ý
“Come Fly With Me” is the title and first line of a song by Sammy Cahn (lyrics) and Jimmy Van Heusen (music) and sung to great effect by Frank Sinatra on his album of the same name released in 1958. The song implies that air travel is a romantic and glamorous adventure. Well: maybe once upon a time!
6 days after Jennifer reappears
“You had a busy day yesterday?” DI Grantby looks up from the papers he is reviewing and out through the door of his office as Sgt Borland pulls off her coat.
“Yes, Sir. A productive day, I thought.” She walks across to the door.
“Mmmm, I looked through your report. I’m impressed.”
Borland smiles. She's not used to complements from Grantby. “I was surprised I made as much progress as I did. I thought I'd have to go through the origins and destinations of thousands of shipping containers. This was a real break.”
“Looks as if it could be, doesn’t it?″ Grantby is, as ever, cautious when presented with answers at an early stage. Long experience has taught him that quick answers aren't always good ones. ″Let's not leap to any conclusions though. This Russian bloke …”
“Anatoly Kustensky?” Borland is happy to be discussing her report. It's one of the things she likes about working with Grantby; he's always ready to listen. He never just works with the paper.
“Yes, him. He is supposed to have been in the KGB so unless he has become very careless in his old age, I bet he has made some fairly sophisticated attempts to cover his tracks. Assuming he is at the bottom of the affair, of course. It all seems a bit too good to be true and, as far as I'm concerned, if things seem too good to be true, they often are too good to be true.″ He looks up at Borland. ″So, let's spend today doing some careful, traditional, police work. No theorizing. No guessing. Just collecting. When we've got some more we'll see what we do with it. I think you should go to this private hospital that the airport MO talked about. I will see what I can find out about Dr Hahn.” (1)
Borland grins and nods. She wasn't expecting to spend the morning in the office anyway.
Grantby sits back and thinks for a moment. He peers out of the window. Pigeons fly past to swoop down on crumbs in the street below. It's no good pecking around like them, he thinks. He needs some background information on Doctor Hahn. Some back channels are going to be best place to start. He ‘phones an old friend in what used to be called ‘Special Branch’. (2)
The voice on the other end of the line is brusque. “Lockwood.”
“Mick? Hi, Colin Grantby here. Look I wonder if you can give me a heads up about a German orthopaedic surgeon called Dr Artur Hahn?”
“Hahn?” Mick Lockwood is happy to help. Grantby is old school, respects the turf boundaries, always a good bloke to have on side.
“That’s right : H – A – H – N , first name Artur. Just wondered if you had anything on him? I am just trying to work out if he needs further attention in something I'm working on.”
“So what's he maybe done, this chap?”
“Not sure, Mick, if I'm honest. I am reinvestigating a disappearance case from the end of 2009. The girl concerned has just surfaced in Stockholm. Her boss is friends with a former KGB man and the KGB man who has turned into some sort of plutocrat has a yacht which was close to where the girl was found. When we looked into the disappearance first time round, there was a wild story about McEwan (that’s the girl) and her boss (a woman called Angela Dawney) being arrested and questioned by people from the CIA. You might remember that we asked your people to speak to MI5 and ask the Yanks what they were up to …”
“Oh yes, I remember The Yanks denied all knowledge. They were all ‘What us? We wouldn’t act without liaison?’ Lying buggers, I thought at the time! How interesting your girl has popped up again. So how does this German surgeon fit into the picture?”
“I have a very keen young sergeant on my team who has found out that another of Mr Kustensky’s toys – a private jet this time – left Farnborough on the night of McEwan’s disappearance with a sedated young woman on board. Said woman looks a bit like the girl we are interested in but the ‘official line’ is that the girl on the plane was a medical evacuation case. Very sore back after a riding accident.”
“And Hahn was involved?”
“He set up the evacuation.”
“Ah. OK Colin. Just leave that with me and I will see what I can find out.”
“Thanks Mick.”
“Cheers. That’s what mates are for, aren’t they?”
Its Tuesday morning or as I ought to say, ‘ftorneek zavtra.’ Joe is going in to work. Yesterday he spoke to his boss – Chris Parker – at the office to tell him about me. Mr Parker said he could have extra time for us to be together but today, Joe still wants to go into the office, to see what is going on. I am afraid to see him go. I will be alone. Perhaps for a few hours. What if Neena comes to collect me? I will have to go, of course but I do not want Joe to come back and find the house empty with no explanation.
Whilst he is in the bathroom, I go into the room he uses for an office and write a short note, just in case. “Dear Joe. I am sorry I am not here for you. Neena came for me this morning, so I had to go. Say goodbye to Mummy and Daddy for me. Thank you for everything.
Love, Vyera”
I can hear him coming. I quickly hide the note. I will leave it in our bedroom beneath the duvet when he has gone. Somewhere he will find it if Neena says I am not allowed to leave anything like that.
The doorbell rings!
“I’ll get it”, calls Joe.
Ahhh! She has come after all! And so soon, too. She is here for me. Joe will just have to hand me over. Oh, I did want to stay longer, though. To see Cathy and George again. To spend some time with my parents again. I can hear voices. Joe calls … “Jenny it's for both of us, it's Inspector Ackroyd and Dr Elba, again.”
In an instant, I go from being sad at leaving Joe again to feeling on edge and determined not to betray my Owners. What was it Neena said to me yesterday? ‘You do not have permission to talk about us’. That includes me! I am still us. I felt so pleased and proud and happy to hear her include me. To point out that I was us – and now I am anxious and fearful. Joseph says there are police here and the doctor lady. They will want me to talk about us and I have to remain silent and guard the privacy of my Owners. I feel so alone! So naked. How I wish Neena was here, standing with me. I slowly descend the stairs, to see a smallish man with an oval face. Standing beside him is the woman from the airport. She has pale skin, fuzzy long black hair and a denim skirt decorated with appliquéd flowers.
“You must be Mrs McEwan?”, says the man, shaking my hand.
“I’m Inspector Brian Ackroyd from Warwickshire Police and this is my colleague Annie Elba who is up from London. I am afraid your husband had to put up with quite a lot from me and my team just after you had gone away. I don’t think we actually took up all the floor boards looking for you but it came quite close!”
He says this in a thick West Midlands accent and a big smile on his face. He is trying to tease Joe but as I glance at Joe, there I can see a squall of unpleasant memories crossing Joseph’s face.
“and of course I am Annie Elba” says the woman. “I had a moment or two on Saturday with Mr McEwan and your parents and I wanted to see you as soon as I could after you had time to catch your breath! We’re sorry to call so early but we wanted to catch you before you went out.”
“… so”, Inspector Ackroyd is talking again, “when people come back from being away unexpectedly, we like to have a word,” Mr. Ackroyd shrugs and wrinkles his nose as if to indicate that is all a bit of a formality. Something he and his colleague can get out of the way in a few minutes. How can I make a short and concise account of all that happened to me during all the past terrifying months? Abducted, held against my will, trained as a slave, accepting my slavery, coming to love my Owners, writing a doctorate thesis, behaving like a complete slut, graduating PhD at a famous European University, being released, coming home; all of that? Yet there is more to it. Most of this is very private. I do not even know how my relationship with Joseph can be rebuilt now or even if I am expected to do that and I have to keep most of what happened to me private because I must be loyal to my Owners.
I suddenly feel very tired. Perhaps it is something showing in my face, but Inspector Ackroyd says, ″So do you think I can have a word with Mr McEwan while Annie and Mrs McEwan can have a few minutes together?”
Annie Elba is small, bright and comes with a fizzing energy. ″I tell you what,″ she says, ″I could murder a cup of tea. What about you? It needs to be strong, mind. Let's go into the kitchen?″
This seems to be safer. Ever since I had to see the lady detective in Stockholm, who told me she could send me to prison, I have felt very wary about police. They pry too much into things which are none of their business. They try to trick me into saying things I do not want to say. Silently I follow her.
″So where do you keep everything?″
Instantly I am transported back in time just a few weeks. It is in the middle of the night. Alana Sergeyevna is in labour in a clinic in Moscow, with Dr. Malyevitch in attendance. I am standing naked with my Owners who are also naked. We are going to drink tea together. Anatoly Sergeyevitch has asked me to help him. The master asking the slave for help. The memory dissolves. Now, I am in an unfamiliar small little kitchen with a woman I do not know with strengthening resolve to be loyal.
She looks around for the kettle and mugs.
“Here, let me help”, I say, “Chai s malakom ele chai byez malakom? Sacharam ele djam?”
Then I realize what I have just said. In the easy domestic surroundings of a kitchen I have asked this police person in Russian if she wants tea with or without milk and if she wants it with sugar or jam and the clever woman replies brightly.
“Tea with djam? I have not tried that before. May I have raspberry? If you have it?”
“Yes”, I say weakly. “I will get it for you.”
But inside I understand that in answering carelessly, I have been disloyal. Oh Neena! Please come and help me. Use your cane to remind me to be careful and help me to be loyal!
We are sitting opposite one another, on opposite sides of the kitchen table.
“This very good”, the woman says, pushing the hair off her face and taking another mouthful of her tea. I wish I could still do that. Play with my hair. Actually, I want to have the feeling of pulling my hair back and putting it into a tight bun. To enjoy the feeling of it pulling on my scalp. Alas, that is not for me anymore. Best not to dwell on what I cannot have. Being bald makes me easier to maintain. Easier and quicker for me to achieve a high standard of appearance. I must content myself with that.
“ … and I am what is called a Police Psychologist. I thought we ought to have a few moments together just to explain some ground rules. The first is that although I am on your side my job is to help people like Brian Ackroyd find out if anyone had committed a crime against you or any other sort of crime. You might have information which could help, even information you do not think you have. Also, I know you will have to come to terms with bad memories and some days will be easier for you than others, so when we are together, it is OK for you to tell me how much you can cope with. I gave your husband the name of another psychologist who could help you work through what has happened. That would be a therapeutic relationship and anything you said there would be confidential between you and the other psychologist. Neither I nor Brian Ackroyd would get to know anything you said unless you were happy for us to know. Lastly, I know this might take time, before you are easy about telling me about things which happened when you were away, so I am not in a hurry. Is that OK? I mean, do you think we will be able to work together?”
She pauses. Her head slightly on one side. Her eyebrows raised to emphasize her question to me.
“I have spoken to someone like you before.”
“Yes, I know. The police in Stockholm have been in touch.”
“Yes and there was another woman who spoke to me as well. She told me that if I did not cooperate she would send me to prison. I am half Swedish and I suppose she could have me sent back if she decides to.”
“Did she really? That is not very nice. Would you like to go back? To Sweden I mean, not to prison!”
“Yes, I have family in Stockholm and yes I would like to go back there but not to get into trouble.”
“No, of course not. How did you feel, when she was speaking to you?”
“I felt like I was something to be used. She wanted to use me to get information, like my Ow … like the people I was with when they needed me to do things for them.”
“Did you like doing things for the people you were with?”
“Not at first. I was cross with them. Later on I did.”
“Were they kind to you?”
“Yes.”
“All the time?”
“No, well I had to learn what I was.”
“What were you?”
“I was … I don’t want to say anymore just now thank you.”
“That’s OK. You are in the driving seat. Can you tell me about this tea? I have never had tea like this before. Is it Swedish?”
“No, its …”
“Russian? I only ask because you spoke a bit of Russian earlier. I learned a bit at school. Don’t ask me to get buy tickets on the Moscow Underground though! Actually have you ever seen pictures of that? It is absolutely bloody fantastic!”
I start to smile, broadly. It must be obvious that her innocent remark has sparked a memory. She says: “What is your favourite station?”
It slips out so easily. I say “Mayakovskaya”
She says “Mmmm?”
I say, “look, can we stop now? I am feeling very tired.” But inside I am angry and fearful. The way this clever woman is ferreting around in my mind, pushing open doors I want to keep closed. Pulling open draws and emptying their contents onto the floor, to see what is there, whether I want to or not. This slippery woman will have me telling her everything before long and then what will happen?
…..
Whilst Annie Elba is drinking tea with Jenny in the kitchen, Joe is in the lounge having a much more focused conversation with Brian Ackroyd …
“Well, Mr McEwan, my warmest congratulations! I was delighted to hear from Chief Inspector Grantby about Mrs McEwan. So it was completely out of the blue? You had no inkling that she was in Stockholm?”
“Actually, Mr Ackroyd, we were there to ay good-bye to Jennifer …”
“ I’m sorry?”
“The holiday was Inga Palmer’s idea. Well, you know they have a house there?”
“Er, I am not sure I did exactly but go on …”
“Inga phoned me one day in spring. Was it in May or April? I can’t properly remember. Anyway, she said that she and Andrew – that’s Jenny’s dad – were going to their house and did I want to come. As a matter of fact, I did not want to go at all. I had just reached the point where I felt that the best thing I could do was to accept the idea that Jenny was not coming back. Ever. I talked it over with a friend – Inga’s invitation – and she said I should go. I think her intuition was that this was a chance for us all to say goodbye as a family and then we would all move on …”
“Except that you came full circle?”
“Yes. We came full circle. Do you know that I did not recognise her at first?”
“Mrs McEwan?”
“Yes: she looked so different. Her colour. Her physique but especially, the way she came. We were sitting on the Quay after dinner. Just watching the world go by and then, there she was. Standing there in the water, saying she could always go back if I did not want her. Would you believe that?”
“Where did she mean?”
“Goodness only knows. Go back to where she had come from I suppose. We all stood there. Unable to believe what we were seeing.”
“Has she said anything more since? About where she was?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Oh … so what is it like? Being together again?”
“It's like it is just after you get married. You are sort of shy with each other. You don’t know exactly how each of you does things, even though you have been close for a while. We didn’t live together before we got married …”
“No?”
“No. I suppose I am a bit traditional.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Being traditional.”
“Anyway, it feels like we have just begun to live together, all over again.”
“Yes, but this time you will settle in with each other pretty quickly?”
“Do you think so?”
“Do you?”
“No, I don’t think we will.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I don’t know who she is anymore. She is such a strange mixture of the assertive and the completely submissive. That’s a bit of a technical word these days. I mean she is … the perfect wife. She seems to be obsessed with getting the house ‘just so’.”
“Meaning?”
“So, we are in the bathroom yesterday. I was shaving. She was in the shower. She gets washed, wipes the walls down with a squeegee and then dries out the shower with her towel before getting dry her self. I asked her what she was doing and she said something about … about… well this seems so embarrassing really. She said it was how things ought to be done. She had told someone else to behave like that and they had not done what she had told them and she – that is Jenny – she was frightened that she would be punished, for not teaching them properly.”
“So who was this other person?”
“I can’t remember properly. Something like Pa … Pav … I am sorry: its just gone.”
“Hmmm. What happened next?”
“She finished up and went into out bedroom and just sat waiting for me. Sat as if she was waiting to be told what to do next.”
“What did you do next?”
“I had a shower and when I was done, I cleaned and dried out the shower just like she had done. Out of respect, I suppose. It seems as if it would be rude and unkind not to and I did not want her to rush back into the bathroom and start cleaning up after me. Look, there was something else I wanted to ask you. Are we in danger?”
“Danger? How do you mean? Here?”
“Yes. Here. At home. If Jenny was abducted, are they going to come for her again? When the police in Stockholm had finished with us the morning after Jenny had come back, they brought us back to the Summer House. There seemed a lot going on when we arrived and they kept people on duty at the house all the time we were there. They even took us to the airport. As if it was dangerous for us to go on our own.”
“Hmmm. Mr McEwan, right now, the police would like to know if Mrs McEwan left home and went somewhere on her own – and maybe got quite a bit more than she was expecting or on the other hand, whether she was abducted. If we had a clear idea of the right answer, we would know what to do next. When we look at the information we have at the moment, quite frankly, you could argue it either way so I have to say that I would be interested to know what impression you form as you two get used to one another. I don’t want you to feel you are informing on your wife but we would like to know what sort of conclusions we should be drawing. The Swedish Police do think Mrs McEwan has been in the hands of a people trafficking gang but that is the sort of crime they have to deal with quite often. Your wife is nothing like the sort of woman who gets ensnared in that sort of thing in this country. Not by a million miles. I can also say that kidnaps are not a common crime in the UK and when we meet up with them, people prized out of the hands of their captors are very unlikely to be troubled ever again, mainly because we have brought the criminals to book or the criminals have taken flight never to return, but I am not being complacent. I am just trying to put this incident into context. Oh, erm – there is one slightly delicate matter …”
“Oh?”
“Did you have any colleagues in Stockholm at the same time you were there?”
“Yes. Actually it was the girl I spoke to about whether I should go on this holiday with Andrew and Inga in the first place. Gwenda said she might drop in and visit but in the event, I guess she was not able to. Why? What’s funny?”
“Well, Mr McEwan I have to tell you that she did pay you a surprise visit and she got herself arrested by the Swedish police and held in custody until they could be sure who she was. You might have a bit of ground to make up there. I would try flowers and a bottle of wine if I were you. Maybe throw in some chocolates, too – just to be on the safe side!”
Sergeant Borland gets back to her desk and thinks for a moment. Should she merely turn up at the Wellesley Hospital and ask to speak to the Chief Executive, or should she call first and ask for an appointment sometime that day? She does not want her enquiry to sound too urgent, but she doesn't want her enquires to be delayed either. Also, she does not want information about her enquires leaked to Dr Hahn.
After a moment, she decides to call for an appointment. “Wellesley Hospital? Can you put me through to Mr Bryant, your Chief Executive? Sergeant Borland Metropolitan Police Missing Persons Unit speaking.”
The Chief Executive’s secretary comes on the line quickly. “Christine Irving here, Mr Bryant’s secretary. Can I help you?”
“I am sure you can. I need to speak with Mr Bryant, reasonably urgently. I will need fifteen to thirty minutes of his time? I would be very pleased if he can see me today?”
“I am afraid Mr Bryant is rather committed today …”
“Thank you Ms Irving. I understand Mr Bryant will be busy but I do need to see him and I am sure it would be easiest on his time if I came to see him, rather than the other way round, don’t you?”
“Oh, of course.″ Christine Irving is protective of her boss’s time but she also knows when it is sensible to compromise. ″Let me speak with him and find a good time? Shall I call you back?”
“No, I will hold.” Borland knows that as long as she's on the line there's no risk that she'll be ‘forgotten’. She smiles. Her oblique implied threat that Mr Bryant might be taken to a local police station for questioning seems to have helped the secretary make arrangements. A moment later, she is back on the line.
“Mr Bryant will be pleased to make room for you in his diary any time today. He has a Clinical Governance Meeting at 4 this afternoon, which he really has to attend but apart from that, he will be happy to see you.”
“It's now 9:30. Say 10:30?”
“Of course. Ask for me at Main Reception and I will come to meet you.”
Sergeant Borland takes the Victoria Line Underground from Victoria, changes to the Bakerloo Line at Oxford Circus and arrives at Swiss Cottage. It's only a short walk to The Wellesley. Soon she can see the white stepped frontage of the Hospital. It is a large, impressive building but the main entrance is easy to find. Before long, she is seated in the Chief Executive’s office, with a view over the roofs and trees of this rather affluent part of North London.
“So how can I help, Sergeant?” Bryant speaks – rather incongruously Borland thinks – with a pronounced north of England accent. She expected to face some smooth, sophisticated, ex-army type, not a gritty sounding northerner. Northerners have a reputation for bluntness, so Borland gets down to business.
“I am investigating a disappearance and I'm trying to exclude a few ‘red herrings’ from my enquiries. There was a patient in your hospital around the 7th, 8th and 9th November 2009, under the care of an orthopaedic surgeon called Doctor Artur Hahn.”
“Ah”. Bryant suddenly sits more erect in his chair. “You'll forgive me if I am careful here, Sergeant. There may be issues of patient confidentiality, I am sure you understand.”
Borland looks straight back at Bryant. She understands barriers to cooperation when she sees them. “I realize that, Mr Bryant but if there is an on-going Police investigation.″ (She almost says ‘into people trafficking’ but decides to play her cards a little closer to her chest this stage) ″It's possibly related to a serious crime. I think the circumstances override the necessity for confidentiality.″ She pauses, inviting him to disagree with her. ″Don’t you?”
Bryant caves in surprisingly quickly, Borland feels. Maybe he is just used to puffing up his position in this way. “Yes, yes. Well, of course they do. Just this one patient?”
“Just this one. She was called Anna Tereshkova. Do you need to spell that?”
“Just the last name.”
“T-e-r-e-s-h-k-o-v-a.”
“I see. Well, I'll see if we have anything …”
Bryant calls his secretary and asks her to find any records that they might have. He is obviously discomforted by the presence of Borland. She's not sure if that is a usual reaction to a disturbance in his day's routine or because he has something to hide. Whilst the two of them wait, he says. “You've worried me, Sergeant. Do you think someone here was involved in a disappearance? I mean, is there some risk that clinical staff her may have been engaged in illegal activities? Is there anything that might affect the safe operation of my hospital?”
Borland is quietly satisfied at the discomfort she has generated. She certainly has no incentive to put him at ease, she is happy to keep up the tension she has generated in the interview. She does not go out of her way to reassure him. “I agree, Mr Bryant. It is serious. That’s exactly why I am keen to have a clear view of the evidence.”
The efficient Ms Irving is soon back with Anna Tereshkova's medical file. Bryant opens the pages and leaves through the pages. There are not many.
“So what is it that you were wanting to know, Sergeant?”
“Just some rather routine information … Date and time of admission, Date and time of discharge, UK address and home address, if there is one.″
″I can give you all that, Sergeant. I'd only be reticent to discuss details of her treatment…. I'm sure you can understand that.″
Borland knows she could get the details if necessary but they probably don't matter. ″I don't think I need the details but I would like to know if you think that treatment she had was right for her diagnosis.”
Borland notices that Bryant is shifting uncomfortably in his chair again. “Whether or not the patient's Management Plan – sorry that's just some of our jargon – fits with the diagnosis is a clinical matter. I couldn't possibly comment. I mean if there was any problem with something like that …. well, that would be Clinical Governance issue. I would be very concerned if there was any possibility that there could be a serious performance issue affecting one of the surgeons approved to work here.”
Borland still isn't sure if Bryant is being deliberately obstructive or is just defensive about any suggestion of problems within his hospital. As far as Borland is concerned though, it doesn't really matter. “Well, Mr Bryant, you seem to employ about twenty orthopaedic surgeons –perhaps one of them could glance through the file and let me know of any concerns?”
“What sort of concerns?”
“Does what was done for the patient correspond to the diagnosis, for example. Did Dr Hahn do what he would have done?”
“Normally we would really only have that sort of information as the end result of a formal performance review.”
“That's not where I'm trying to get to, Mr. Bryant. I don’t think this will ever come to that. I'm looking for a simple opinion at this stage. Just an assessment of,″ she pauses. ″the Management Plan, as you called it?″
Bryant nods.
″ … so is there anyone in the building who could help?”
Bryant inhales deeply. “I will see”, he says and phones through to his secretary.
Some minutes later Bernard Thomas, another of the hospital's panel of surgeons joins them. Borland recognizes his name from the lists of staff she has seen. He flicks through the file. He checks the diagnosis, test results, clinician’s notes, nursing observations, and management plan. Finally he looks through the correspondence.
“So what's the matter? This is all very much in order – exactly as I would expect from one of Artur’s cases, actually. He is very sharp. There doesn’t seem to have been much wrong with this girl. Mind you if she had what Artur thought she had it can be bloody painful.″ He flips over a few prints from some digital x-rays. ″Not much on those – well no surprise there. No big investigations done …”
“Big investigations?”
“CT and MR scanning. (3) Frankly as she was not going to be here for long and there were no nerve compression symptoms, it would have been a waste of time, money and radiation for the patient. If she had come to me, I would have done exactly what he did: put her in a bed, let her get over the worst of the discomfort after the injury, check there was nothing more significant and send her home.”
“So there is nothing in the records that seems … out of place … inappropriate … curious?”
“No. Nothing. There is really nothing to tell you.”
“Is that what you were looking for, Sergeant Borland?”
Borland pauses for a moment to reflect. Now was the best time to ask for more information. If she had to come back for more, Bryant and his colleagues would perhaps want a greater degree of formality and that would alert Hahn to their suspicions.
“No, I don’t think so – well, just one thing really. Could I show Ms Tereshkova’s photograph to the nursing staff, to see if they remember her?”
“You can but we are a very busy hospital and I would be surprised if they did,” replies Bryant. He continues, “But I would be much happier if I knew where this is leading?”
“I can tell you that we want to be sure that Ms Tereshkova was exactly who she said she was.”
“Ah, so it's not about Dr Hahn?”
“No, the enquiry is about his patient.”
Borland’s reply was not completely truthful but she can see Bryant and Thomas visibly relax. Bryant smiles. “Yes, well we can take you to the Orthopaedic Department on your way out. Would that be suitable?”
On the Orthopaedic Ward, the nurses don't seem concerned by the arrival of either Bryant or a police officer. “I don’t recall seeing her”, says the Sister. (4) “This person looks as if she has had chemotherapy. No hair. Just wait a minute, I will ask my colleague. I can’t remember if I was on duty that weekend. After all its 2009 you are asking about.″
Wendy, a staff nurse, joins them at the nursing station.
“Wendy, this is Sergeant Borland and she …”
“She wants to know”, says Borland taking charge of the conversation, ″if you recognize this girl?”
Wendy Smith’s brow furrows in the effort of recognition.
“She is Russian,” adds Borland
Immediately Wendy Smith smiles broadly: “Oh sure, I remember her. A nice girl. Not much wrong with her, though. She'd had some sort of minor accident. I remember because it made me think how the world has changed in recent years. Now there are rich Russians all over the place. I mean before, you never met any and they were all supposed to be terribly serious and critical about the West.”
Joan Borland walks away from the Hospital feeling pleased with her morning’s work. She looks again at the photograph she just showed to the staff. It's one of Jenny McEwan. They recognised her as the patient in the bed, the Russian called Anna Tereshkova. Both look very striking because they both had shaven heads. Were they really similar, or did they merely look similar because of their shaven heads? And it was also just the sort of thing that would help a disinterested nurse remember? If someone wanted to be noticed?
When Sergeant Borland gets back to her desk she leafs through her notebook and the data she now has on ‘Anna Tereshkova’. She was admitted to hospital before Jenny McEwan disappeared so she must be a real person, but who was she exactly? Suddenly, Borland is struck by inspiration. She switches on her computer and brings up Facebook. She logs in and then enters <Anna Tereshkova> into ‘Search’ and finds a long list of Anna Tereshkova’s. She refines the search by adding “Moscow’ and the amended and rather shorter list pops up. The problem is, most of the pages are in Russian. She scans through the list until she spots one entry with more English than most. There is a photograph of the page owner, who has a short spiky blond bob of hair. There is also a small map of Moscow with a little arrow pointing (presumably) to where this particular Anna lives. Sergeant Borland just manages to establish that the address from the Wellesley Hospital and the address on Facebook appear to be the same! Had she found her quarry? She goes to search for a colleague who can read the entries in more detail, to see what else this particular Anna has to say about herself.
Inspector Ackroyd is in his office taking stock of his many priorities when he takes the call. He usually gets calls from the public or from people connected with current cases filtered by a junior colleague but this call come straight through and catches him unawares.
“Brian Ackroyd?”
“Inspector Ackroyd?”
“Yes, that’s me, who’s this?”
“Colonel Andrew Palmer, father to Jenifer McEwan.”
“Oh, er Colonel Palmer? Well this is … an unexpected pleasure. Er … I think some congratulations are in order, about your Jennifer.”
“Perhaps that’s a bit premature, Inspector. Look: have you a few minutes?”
“Yes, er … yes of course. How can I help?”
“You have obviously heard about Jennifer?”
“About her turning up?”
“Exactly. I should like it to stay that way.”
“Well of course, we all would …”
“Have you heard about what went on in Stockholm?”
“Yes, I have been speaking to Chief Inspector Grantby.”
“Hmm, well I don’t know how much of the story he knows but when we got Jennifer back to our cottage and the Swedish police arrived they put armed officers on duty around the house, escorted us into Stockholm the next day to speak to them at greater length, maintained the guard on our home and took us to the airport on Saturday. If fact, their people were with us until the very moment we walked down the air-bridge into the aircraft. They obviously thought that Jennifer – and perhaps us as well – were in some danger of attack. Now that Jennifer is home, I would like you to tell me how you read the situation. Are Jennifer and Joseph as far as that goes, in danger here? And if you think they are, what are you going to do about it?”
“Erm, well I think that depends …”
“Oh? On what exactly?”
“Mr Palmer, the long and short of this is whether your Jennifer was abducted or whether she went off to Stockholm on her own accord. I am sorry to be blunt but if we could answer that question, I would know what to do about Mr and Mrs McEwan.”
“But surely it's obvious? Aren’t we wasting time with all this?”
“No I am afraid it's not obvious. There are arguments on either side and of course, your daughter can settle the whole question in a moment but perhaps she is not ready or able to do that just yet? I mean no one would like to get to the very bottom of this more than I would but before I can deploy the sort of resources needed to provide twenty four hour protection or move your daughter and son in law to a safe house or something like that I need a pretty good reason for doing it – and of course, DCI Grantby (5) and I would like to think that we had the guilty party in our sights so that the sort of measures we have been talking about would have some end-point. Just to go back to the situation in Stockholm for a moment. The Swedish police are routinely armed and in this country, the police are not. If the Swedish police come calling, you get an armed police presence automatically. In this country, we don’t make a habit of deploying armed officers. So the context in which armed police protection might be used is quite different.”
“Yes, well I understand that …”
“Mr Palmer, I am sure this will be uncomfortable, but while we are on the subject, can you tell me for a start if your daughter and Mr McEwan were getting on? Before she went missing?”
“Well, as far as I know they were. Look, didn’t we deal with all of this after Jennifer disappeared?”
“Yes, its ground we have been over before but we have had two years to reflect on the situation. It might be easier to be objective now. For example, what did you think of Joseph? Did you think he suited Jennifer or did you think they were quite different ‘types’? Is Jennifer the sort of person who gets bore quickly or once she sets mind to something, does she stick with it?”
“So you are suggesting that if Jennifer was bored with Joseph she might have left him – and Inga and me – to find some better situation? That’s a very selfish thing to do, don’t you think?”
“Well, these are questions we have to ask, to begin to know where we are with this thing …”
“Yes, I see … well … I have to say that Jennifer and Joseph are opposites. She tends to be a bit impulsive; he is thoughtful. She is self-assured; he is very ‘steady’. She has been a bit wild as a student and I think she saw him as a safe harbour. I think he did everything he should have done when he was at University and probably engages with Jennifer because she is a bit ‘exotic’ compared to his upbringing. Having said all that, Inga and I thought they were a good match. They always gave the impression of being very much at ease with one another and very much in love. Does that help?”
“Yes, it does, very much. Thank you. That can’t have been easy.”
“Hmmm. So what are you going to do?”
“I am going to put all these little pieces of information together and see what sort of pattern I can make. I believe Dr Elba – that’s the psychologist lady you met at Heathrow – has given Mr McEwan the name of a colleague of hers who has experience of caring for folk after the sort of psychological trauma we suspect your Jennifer has had to put up with. You could start by making sure that Mr McEwan makes sure that Jennifer gets proper care? That would be a good start.”
After Colonel Palmer has rung off, Ackroyd finds his mind ranging over the McEwan case – and the other case files on his desk. One robbery at a sub-post office, one robbery at a corner shop (including the assault on the shop-keeper), a case of grievous bodily harm, one allegation of rape. The main difference between them was that most of the cases stood a reasonable chance of coming to court and a final resolution. As for the Jennifer McEwan kidnap or may be not, well goodness knows … but if she had been abducted and transported out of the country … first, why her? And second, how was the whole thing set up? Had she been subjected to surveillance before hand and if she had, how was it done?
Harley Street is the traditional home to doctors, dentists, physicians and surgeons practicing privately in London. In fact, the private medicine enclave includes Wimpole Street, Queen Anne Street and Portland Place and retains the quaint air of Edwardian upper middle class residential streets, even though they are in Central London. (6)
Grantby takes a taxi from New Scotland Yard. He riffles through the pages of his Police Notebook. He much prefers it to iPads and smart phones. After all, who wants to pinch a small black notebook? It still works after being dropped on the floor and it also saves him from having to exchange gossip with the taxi driver.
As he flips over the pages, he reviews the information update he has from Borland, checks the name of the family where the Tereshkova girl stayed and looks at what they know about the time table for Anna Tereshkova’s day. There's her departure from the Wellesley Hospital; the arrival at Farnborough – as remembered by the airport staff and the medical officer – the departure from Farnborough Airport, according to the air-traffic control log. It's all fairly clear.
Grantby is keen to see Dr Hahn before the ending of the day. He's sure that the enquires at the Wellesley and at Farnborough will have made some ‘ripples’ and he would like to see Hahn before Hahn is alerted by gossip or by a friend picking up the phone and giving a warning. Even so, he had to phone Dr Hahn’s practice secretary and have her squeeze him into the Doctor’s appointment book, at the end of the afternoon. It's a warning of a kind, he supposes, but Hahn will have been busy, with any luck too busy to spend time revising or amending his account of the events under scrutiny
At six pm, Dr Hahn walks confidently into his waiting room – a large comfortable drawing room with comfortably firm chairs, calm blue walls, a luxurious carpet and quality magazines. It’s the first opportunity that Grantby has had to look at Hahn, the man. He sees a tall slim fit man, with short but elegantly cut hair and rimless spectacles. He wears a dark blue blazer and ivory slacks, a blue shirt and red tie. He's accompanied by a cloud of elegant, sweet-smelling cologne. There's a smoothness about him that Grantby instinctively distrusts.
Hahn holds out his hand to the rather down-at-heel, shabby-looking, Chief Inspector. “Artur Hahn. Pleased to meet you. ” His voice has a slight accent. Grantby notes that it give the Dr an extra veneer of the exotic. Hahn smiles, confidently. “Do come through to my office.”
Hahn’s office is just as attractive and elegant as his waiting room. It’s a room to give patients the confidence that they are in competent hands. There is a large desk. Grantby expects Hahn to sit behind it, so that they will be opposite one another, two dogs in a face-off. Surprisingly though, Hahn leads Grantby away to two other chairs placed not quite side to side, in a much less confrontational situation.
Grantby realises that some clever psychological games are being played. Hahn is deliberately avoiding easy direct eye contact and foiling the opportunity for aggression from Grantby. Aggression produces adrenalin. Adrenalin produces tension. Tension encourages mistakes. With just an easy turn of the hand, Hahn has chosen the ground for them to do battle over and reinforced his defences at the same time.
“So how can I help?”
Grantby’s instincts tell him that the Doctor is already is alert to the purpose of his visit. He decides to be blunt.
“I am interested in Anna Tereshkova?”
“Who?”
“A former patient of yours, Doctor.”
“Hmmm?”
“Surely you do not take many patients to Farnborough Airport to catch a private jet back to Moscow? I would have thought you would remember straight away?”
“No, I do not take many patients to airports, that is correct but I do see a lot of patients. When I was a trainee, I could remember all my patients. Now I am a Specialist, I remember the very difficult ones or the very eccentric ones best of all. Can I check my notes?”
“Handy are they, your notes?”
“Of course, on computer”. Hahn smiles. He gets up and returns with a laptop.
“So when was Anna my patient? I do remember her, now you have put it in mind but can you help me with dates?”
“Did I say her name was Anna?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector,″ Hahn is polite and completely calm, ″you did.”
“Try November 2009.”
Dr Hahn scrolls through a list of patients. ″Yes, here she is. Let me see.
Trauma. Fall from horse. Admitted to the Wellesley. No signs of significant or dangerous injury. Rest and pain control provided. Observation. Transferred home under sedation?”
“How was it that the family she was staying with called you and did not dial 999 like anyone else would?” (7)
“Because I had met them before. I also consult at the Baltic Medical Centre. (8) I had seen a member of the host family and they had my number.”
“Big number of Russian ex-pat patients, have you?”
“Actually I have. There is a significant population of them in London and of course, I speak Russian.”
“Oh you do?”
“Of course: I came from the East. I lived and trained in Liepzig. We all had to learn Russian in those days. After the Wall came down, I came to London. In London, the efforts I had made to be fluent in Russian when I was a teenager paid dividends. Is there an issue?”
“According to our information, you left the Wellesley at 1 pm and arrived at Farnborough at 6pm. It does not take five hours to cross London in a vehicle.”
“ No, it does not, even when moving a patient who is sedated to reduce pain. Your timings must be wrong. Are you sure you have the correct time for our arrival at the airport?”
“They say not.”
“Oh?”
“The nursing record.”
“Well, I have to say the nursing record must be incorrect on this occasion, or you have interpreted them incorrectly. I could put you in touch with the patient if you wish?”
“In Moscow?”
“Of course. It's not on the dark side of the moon. Not nowadays – and are you sure you have the correct time for our arrival at the airport?”
All through the interview Hahn has smiled and resisted each of Grantby's barbs. Grantby notes that none of his answers have been hesitant, diffident or tentative. He knows from experience this means that either Hahn is innocent or that he is a consummate actor, used to dealing with an interrogation with skill and aplomb. Grantby knows that there isn't much for him to do – for the moment. He smiles. “Thank you Doctor. You have been very helpful.”
“My pleasure. Would it help if I was to mention to Ms Tereshkova that you wish to speak with her?”
“Do I want to do that?”
“I thought you might – just to put your mind at rest.” Hahn smiles.
Grantby knows his bluff is being called. He says: “Thank you. Please let her know. Have you her details?”
A few days before, Dr Hahn had received a warning from Anatoly, with the news of Vyera’s release and Dr Hahn finds himself in a reflective mood after Chief Inspector Grantby has taken his leave.
Clearly, the policeman was trying to trick him into making a mistake in his story. Hahn knows precisely when they left the Wellesley (at 2:15) and when they arrived at Farnborough (just after 5pm) and the air traffic control log will give a precise time for the planned departure of Anatoly’s aircraft, although if Hahn remembers correctly, there was a departure delay.
If one started with the Abductee, there is no easy link to Anna or to Anatoly or to himself.
If one started with the medical repatriation of Anna Tereshkova, there is no particular link to Anatoly except that his company’s aircraft was used, but the aircraft is ‘for hire’, like many other commercial business jets so any linkage is very weak and also no link to the Abductee.
If one started with Anatoly, there is a link to Angela Dawney and on to the Abductee and to his yacht which was uncomfortably close to where the Abductee was found by her parents.
Anatoly is the cipher which unlocks the enigma which unfolds the mystery of who took McEwan.
Why have the Police begun to look at Anatoly? Has Little Vyera failed to keep confidences? Or have the Police decided, now the girl has reappeared, to treat the whole case with a degree of seriousness and are making progress? Hahn suspects Vyera’s training is holding up, otherwise he would have been arrested before now. As far as he is aware, there is no direct connection between himself and the Abductee, so the Police must have received evidence or advice from some other source, to begin looking for associations between Anatoly and the girl.
He reviews the details of the abduction plan in his mind. The police may have found out about the ‘repatriation’ of Anna Tereshkova but Anna would validate the story if the police went as far as requesting an interview with her in Moscow. Fortunately, relations between the British and the Russian authorities had not recovered from the Litvenenko Affair, so an interview was unlikely.
Surveillance? Anna has been carefully chosen so the British could do as much surveillance as they wished without endangering the integrity of the plot – but there was still something which caused Dr Hahn concern. The police man had put him in mind of it, when he had mentioned the journey time between The Wellesley Hospital and Farnborough. What was it?
Suddenly, Hahn realizes what the Achilles heel may be! Anna left the Wellesley fully conscious. The Abductee arrived at the airport sedated! Suddenly, Dr Hahn is sweating. Can the police discover this fact? Actually they could. The airport medical officer could have noted that the evacuee was sedated and the note will be there for the police to find. Anna’s case record at The Wellesley would show that she was not l under sedation when she left the hospital – well, it ought to. Damn! The only explanation he could offer was to state that Anna had begun to feel pain on the journey and he had asked the ambulance Crew to halt the vehicle whilst he re-established pain control – but what about the ambulance records? There were no ambulance records because the ‘ambulance’ was a masquerade. There was no invoice, either and his carefully organized office would usually keep such an invoice. His only option was to get hold of Anna’s records before the police had them copied and make an entry in the notes. Perhaps he had better start by checking the notes of another of his patients to see what was and what was not being written in the nursing notes and on the drug cardex and make firmer plans afterwards? Or maybe leave them absolutely alone to leave no trace or even suspicion that he had anything to hide?
What the hell was Anatoly playing at, letting the girl go? This release could cause untold damage. This was very uncharacteristic of Anatoly.
When Grantby gets back to his office there is a message from Borland and a message asking him to call Mick Lockwood.
Borland has found someone at New Scotland Yard who can read and understand Russian. Her Internet investigation has identified someone who might be the Anna Tereshkova they are interested in. Buried her Facebook blog, is an account of a trip to the UK ending in a fall from the horse she was riding, a spell in hospital and a trip home aboard a private Russian executive jet.
How neat and tidy! Written in a mixture of Russian and English. Just enough to attract the English speaking eye, to pique its interest and a few inches below the surface, a short account in easy Russian of the misadventure. But was the story actually true?
Grantby turns to his other message and calls Lockwood, “Mick?”
“Hi, Colin. I checked up on that Hahn bloke you mentioned to me.”
“Ah, thanks. Anything?”
“Well, not exactly ’yes’ and not exactly ‘no’.”
“That’s an interesting reply. It probably means …”
“Means that I have not got anything very concrete”, continues Lockwood.
Grantby sighs. ”Well, thanks for trying, Mick. ‘Nothing concrete’ seems to be a recurrent characteristic of this case! What have you got?”
“Hahn has been here for several years. He qualified in the old DDR but was able to move more freely in the EU after the Wall came down and the DDR and West Germany were unified.”
“Hmmm. Go on.”
“A lot of East German professionals, scientists and senior management types were communist party members merely a means to get on in their careers. It’s a bit like in the UK there was always the suspicion that if you wanted to reach the top in some organisations, you had to join The Masons ….” (9)
At that Grantby laughs out loud. The wonderful juxta-position of The Masons and The Communist Party!
… but Lockwood has not finished: “In the DDR, if you really really wanted to get on, Party Members would also work for the Stasi. A lot of Stasi records fell into Federal German Government hands after the old East German state collapsed, but not all and some were disposed of. Hahn was in The Party all right but the files which should contain his Stasi record – don’t forget that the Stasi had files on just about everyone, even Father Christmas – well Hahn does not have a Stasi record of any sort which is mildly surprising for someone who was in his position. I would have thought that there might at least have been something to say the Stasi felt he was ‘reliable’ at least. However we may be able to make some progress here in due course, because when the Stasi were busy shredding the records about their own people, they had to use East German shredders and these did not work very well and a lot of material was merely torn up into small pieces. There is a team of people trying to stick all this stuff back together to see what the records might say!”
“Crikey, Mick! You are not serious?”
“I absolutely am!” (10)
“Well, I am speechless. I mean, the Germans have a name for being thorough but that – it's priceless!”
“Well, as I said, something might emerge but don’t hold your breath. What you have to do right now I suppose is to choose between Hahn being a total innocent, in which case the missing Stasi File is neither here nor there or alternatively, the Stasi and their friends further east thought Hahn had serious potential and they made sure that nothing incriminating was left behind for the good guys to find.”
“All right, Mick. Here is something else. We have found – actually Sergeant Borland has found – a page of Facebook which seems to belong to the woman who was flown out of the UK under sedation”
“Ah, so that’s in your favour if you are trying to wrap up the case?”
“Well, maybe. I just have a feeling that we are, once again, having the wool pulled over our eyes. If this girl was living in the UK, for example I would send someone round to speak to her. Look at the whites of her eyes. You know? But she is in Moscow and there is absolutely no chance of making arrangements through official channels, to turn up on her doorstep unexpectedly and have a word …”
“Go on …”
“So I was wondering if you can see how difficult it would be for someone from our Embassy to make some very discrete enquires, see if she actually goes horse riding, for example. Just to test what is written against what is actually going on in the real world.”
“Hmmm. Well, the short answer is I don’t know. Maybe leave it with me?”
“Thanks Mick. I know it’s a bit of an ask and I don’t want to make it all too official at the moment. Just putting out a feeler.”
After he puts down the telephone receiver, Grantby reflects. The information from Lockwood was so typical of this case. Blurred images appear from the fog and as he moves to take hold of them, they dissolved back into the mist. And yet. If there was substance to his suspicions, if there were solid objects out there, sooner or later he would collide with them.
References:
1. For those of you interested in private hospitals in London, you could look at the Wellington Hospital's web site.
2. The Police Special Branch was the section of the Metropolitan Police that would amongst other things, provide liaison with the Security Services. In the UK, only the Police have powers of arrest and so if an arrest is warranted, a police officer must accompany the Security Services team on operations. The Metropolitan Police has been reorganised in recent years and the name ‘Special Branch’ is no longer current.
3. CT (Computed Tomography) and MR (magnetic Resonance Imaging) are the gold standard methods of investigating bone and joint injuries.
4. In British hospitals senior (female) nurses are referred to as ‘Sister’ and they would be in charge of a particular clinical area, such as the orthopaedic unit. The second in command would be referred to as a Staff Nurse. In the interests of removing the gender associations of job titles, this term is being replaced by the dreary but gender neutral description ‘Ward Manager’
5. DCI – Detective Chief Inspector
6. In Britain, most medical care is provided through the state organized National Health Service and medical care outside the state system is referred to as Private Practice. Medical people often refer to the location of their private practice, rather quaintly, as their ‘Rooms’.
7. In Britain, 999 is the general emergency telephone number, to summon the Police, an Ambulance or the Fire Brigade which are referred to as ‘The Emergency Services’.
8. The Baltic Medical Centre can be found on the web.
9. The Masons. A men’s fraternal organisation widespread through British Society.
10. Reconstruction of The Stasi Files. Details from the BBC web site.
Finally, Jenny is right to retain fond memories of the Moscow Metro. Go to Google Images and put Moscow Metro Art into the search bar. You will see what we mean!
7 days after Jennifer reappears
Wednesday morning finds Inspector Ackroyd making an early start. He is looking forward to his first call. He had not warmed to Professor Dawney when he interviewed her in the immediate aftermath of the Jennifer McEwan disappearance. It was a sort of love-at-first-sight but in reverse. In his opinion she was a self-obsessed woman with a surprisingly callous streak. He wonders if she has been mellowed by time? He spends several minutes travelling the corridors of the Department of Psychology before finds his target: the door marked Professor Angela Dawney.
He knocks. Silence answers him. He knows she is in the office because he saw her sat there as he walked past from the University garden. He knocks again and moments later receives a testy invitation, “Come”
Angela was not expecting company this morning and the interruption is an irritation – one among many. She looks up sharply. “Yes?”
“Professor Dawney?” The window behind Angela has cast a bright pool of light on her desk and as she cannot properly see the visitor who is in shadow. However, his voice is familiar, from somewhere.
“Yes, but I am really very busy this morning. Who are you? Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” replies the stranger. ″It's Detective Inspector Ackroyd again. You might remember our last little chat?”
“I said I am very busy: you will have to ….″The words tumble out but Angela’s voice dies away, stemmed by very unpleasant memories of her last encounter with Ackroyd.
Her memory brings the previous conversation back into all-too-sharp focus.
“…. I am sorry to interrupt”, he had begun, although Angela could tell immediately that he was not sorry in the least, ″but this is an important matter. Someone known to you, a Mrs Jennifer McEwan, disappeared in London in unexplained circumstances,″ It seemed to Angela as though Ackroyd had deliberately chosen the word ‘unexplained’ to increase the anxiety of the interview, ″and the police are anxious to speed her return. We thought you might be able to help?”
“How exactly? I’m not a detective?”
Ackroyd had noticed the barb and understood that Angela’s irritation was close to the surface. “Of course not but you are her boss and will no doubt have some helpful observations to share.″
“Observations? I do not spy on my staff if that’s what you mean?”
“No, that is not what I mean.” Ackroyd ploughed steadily on. “What I had in mind was some back ground information about the work she was doing, progress being made, difficulties in the office. Anything which might explain her absence and who knows? Even help us to find her.”
“Well as far as I was concerned Mrs McEwan was just another of my several″, Angela remembers emphasising the word, ″doctorate students. It's quite impossible for me to follow their individual circumstances. She was making reasonable progress. Nothing special. Pedestrian sometimes.”
“But she had an unusual subject to research?”.
“Inspector, it was just a convenient experimental model for our main work which is about psychological stress and how it gets modified. Now if that’s all I really do have to get back to work”
“Do students often fail to complete? Just walk off the job?”
“Well how should I know? In my department it's never happened before. Never. McEwan’s - absence – is a very big inconvenience.”
“That’s a surprising word?”
“Oh is it? Well it’s an honest word!”
“Professor, the police take the unexpected disappearance of an adult, particularly when it comes out of the blue like, this extremely seriously. Amongst the reasons for people to go missing is suicide, unhappiness at work, bullying, poor relationships, conflicts within relationships. It’s surprising how often a missing persons enquiry ends up as a murder enquiry.″ Ackroyd drawled out the word murder. ″Most people who get murdered are killed by people they know. You will understand now the motivation behind some of my questions?”
Angela recalls her complete dismay at Ackroyd’s suggestion all too clearly:
Murder? Surely, they did not think she had murdered the silly little bitch did they?
“Oh and one more thing”, Ackroyd had said leaning back in the chair, “routine catch all question really, but is there anything else you feel you can tell me which might shed some light on these events?”
Angela was keen to see the back of the Inspector, so she could collect her thoughts and martial some plan in her mind to deal with the situation.
Angela’s memory of the next exchange makes her squirm as she revisits her ill-considered reply to Ackroyd’s sly and calculated question: “No, I can’t think of anything but if you can give me some contact details I can get in touch if anything should come up.”
“And might that” continued Ackroyd, delivering the coup de gras, “and might that include some recollection of being arrested by the CIA?”
Angela still feels angry at falling headlong into the trap he had languidly set for her. His thick accent and ungrammatical turn of phrase grate on Angela’s nerves like squeaky chalk on a blackboard and detracted from two important facts about Ackroyd. First: he was an expert at what he did. Second: he was dangerous. This time Angela manages to change down into emotional neutral as the detective approaches her desk.
“Is there somewhere to sit?”
Ackroyd surveys the academic clutter of the office. Angela rather likes clutter and it means that her student visitors have to sit at her feet which pleases Angela very much but of course, this police man will have none of that she realises, so she has to rise from her desk and spend several moments moving books and files to make a space for him across the desk.
Ackroyd knows a psychological battle when he sees one and so far he has won four rounds before the main match has really started: arriving unexpectedly, forcing the Professor to stop what she was doing, gaining admittance to her office and making her accede to the basics of hospitality. That’s a good start, for him at least.
Angela resumes, politely, “I’m sorry, you rather caught me unawares. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Perhaps if she is polite she can get rid of him quickly?
Ackroyd however is determine to drive the interview along is second gear. If this irritable woman gets flustered, she might drop any guard she is holding; reveal more than she intends. He clears his throat and slowly, carefully he explains the reason for his visit.
″Some new facts have come to our attention about your former colleague, Jennifer McEwan, facts which I have to discuss with you. I recall from our last little chat that you are a very busy person and I just wondered if it would be more helpful to continue this conversation at the police station? Remove you from the distractions of your many responsibilities? I have brought a WPC with me if you would like to accompany us?”
Angela knows intimidation when she hears it and sensibly, she retreats. She offers patience and her full attention. “Inspector, I am more than ready to help is any way I can. Of course I can come to your office if that would help you but to get on to the business promptly I would be very glad to give you as much time as you need, here, right now.”
Ackroyd smiles in reply. “I am interested in the little episode when you and Mrs McEwan were asked to help the CIA with their enquires?″ 'Helping with enquires’. A cliché of the British police vocabulary and so obviously out of place in the same sentence as the phrase ‘CIA’.
Angela remembers the episode only too well. Every terrifying and humiliating moment of it. She had done all she could to put it behind her. Angela sighs. “What do you want me to tell you about it?”
“Well, try beginning from the beginning”
“McEwan was away doing some preliminary field work at an organisation called Inward Bound. I had a number for her and needed to get in touch. Shortly after, I had a call from an American who said he had a research proposal he wanted to discuss. This was unexpected but not exactly unusual for someone in my position. I mean I am often asked for operational advice about research projects or asked to review the results. Anyway, perhaps the day after, I had agreed to see the American and I was walking home from the building when a man came up to be. He said he was the man I had spoken to. He was standing in front of me and we were by a car and the door opened and they pushed me in and just took me away.”
The memory of these events begins to have an unusual effect on Angela: she begins to weep as she re-lives them. The surprise. The terror. The humiliation of her interrogation and the degradation of the way she was kept in confinement until her release.
“And what did they want?”
“They wanted to know about a man I knew, well still know actually.”
‘Oh. Who?”
“There – that’s his picture. He is called Anatoly Kustensky. He has sponsored a conference and some research meetings I have been to in Moscow.”
“And how did you come to meet?”
“I met him when I was younger. I think he worked at their Embassy. Anyway, now he is just a business man.”
“And what did you have to tell them?”
“Just that I was not 'working for' him, I suppose you could say. That I did not 'report' to him or anything like that. That he was just a friend and nothing more.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Was that the truth?”
“Yes”, Angela blows her nose, “Yes, that’s all.”
“Seems a bit of a sledge hammer to crack a nut if you ask me.”
“Yes” agrees Angela. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“And you have had no contact since?”
Angela looks up and Ackroyd sees her face is tear stained.
“No,” she replies, “none at all.”
“And Mr Kustensky?”
“None – well I met him for dinner in Moscow in the spring of 2009 I think it was, but it was just a social evening. That’s all. I was at a meeting and he was and, well he lives there so why shouldn’t he meet me?”
Ackroyd recognises the truth when he hears it and he is now reasonably sure that Professor Dawney has put her cards on the table at last – but not all of them.
“Now think carefully, Professor. It there anything else you can tell me. Anything – at – all?”
Angela is completely alert now and does not miss the implications in Ackroyd’s last remark. He knows something. Something which Angela knows, but what? She frowns in concentration and at last, a surprisingly long last, her brain computes.
“Oh, well there was something strange, recently.”
“Oh?”
“I read a thing called ‘Psychological Letters’, it’s a Russian journal and there was a preliminary research report in it. Their project was very similar to Mrs McEwan’s project. I was a bit disappointed really because I thought we had a lead in this research field. Still, Academia is an open country and ideas tend to circle round quite widely. There is no reason for this other group not to work on the same problem as us – but it's always disappointing, to lose your lead, don’t you think?”
“Did you know the people involved?”
“I know Mendeleyev and Romanova but not the last author, Kuznetsova. I expect she is a research student a bit like Mrs McEwan.”
“Ah … ” Ackroyd clears his throat. “Well, I have some happy and unexpected news for you.”
'Happy news' from Angela’s perspective would be seeing the last of Inspector Ackroyd and being able to forget Jennifer McEwan once and for all.
Ackroyd continues; “ … because Mrs McEwan has been found. In Sweden. I believe she may even be home now. If you do remember anything else which might help us understand what has happened, you will let me know?”
It is lunch time and Dr Hahn is eating a sandwich in Pret , in Upper Regent Street before he enjoys a walk in Regents Park. He wants to be easily seen, should the Metropolitan Police or their colleagues, wish to keep an eye on him. (1)
Meanwhile, Heidi Eisen his practice nurse is eating lunch in ‘The Place To Be’, the top floor restaurant day of John Lewis’s department store in Oxford Street. As she eats, she plays with her I-pad and notices that the wi-fi connection has become active. Her I-pad has been searching for a very particular signal and now the connection has been made and a small virtual private network has been established which allows the transfer of an e-mail to the laptop of another visitor to the restaurant. The other visitor’s laptop remains in their bag, apparently switched off, but in fact, it's not even sleeping. Meanwhile, its unseen owner drinks a leisurely coffee and busies themselves in the pages of Time Out. (2) (3)
In an office of the Russian embassy, later that afternoon, Dr Hahn’s email makes interesting reading:
Dr Artur Hahn to Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky.
Dear Tolya.
Yesterday, Chief inspector Grantby from the Metropolitan Police came to see me to ask about the medical evacuation of Anna Tereshkova. Another policeman has visited the Wellesley Hospital to ask about her diagnosis and treatment. The police investigator said they were anxious to know if Anna was who she claimed to be. Perhaps Anna should revise her account of her trip and also the family she stayed with?
I have one concern. When Anna left the hospital she was not sedated. When the abductee arrived at the airport, she was sedated. I can provide an explanation but there is weakness here.
My scheme was designed to satisfy the airport and UK Borders authorities and not to survive a rigorous police investigation.
Your friend, Artur.
Anatoly is still in his office. He has received the email sent by Doctor Hahn yesterday by way of the Russian Embassy in London. He is surprised and disquieted by the progress the British Police have made in their investigations after Vyera returned to the UK and Dr Hahn’s email increases the urgency of finding a solution to the Vyera problem. Tthe advice he had earlier from Mikhail Barisyevitch Antonov reduces the number of options he can consider. If Anatoly was starting with a ‘blank page’, the safest alternative would be to draw a line under the entire McEwan – Vyera exercise but there is the more difficult challenge of keeping his wife – especially in what seems to be a fragile mental state – content. Sveta has begun to pine for the loss of Vyera and keeps asking him how she might be enticed to return home.
It’s then that Anatoly’s mobile chimes the news of a message arriving. “A friend would like to see you in the vanya at The Resort,” is all it says. (4)
Anatoly tosses the phone to one side in irritation. “Friends” are his ex-colleagues in the state security services. He knows that there would be extreme difficulty in continuing his lifestyle if he was to incur their serious displeasure. He knows he has to go to the meeting and he has to go now.
The Resort is a small estate set aside for the use of senior members of the Security Services in the padmascovneye, the beautiful wooded countryside outside Moscow.
When he drives up to the entrance gate, the automatic gate guardian reads his number plate, checks his status against the list of people who have access to the facility and opens the outer gate. Two kilometres closer, he comes to a second security check point, built under a generous ‘port cochere’, to keep guests dry in times of inclement weather. He leaves his car and under the unblinking gaze of a security camera, swipes his pass through an electronic cared reader. The inner gate opens to admit him into the grounds.
The vanya (the Russian equivalent of the sauna) is installed in a small pine log cabin beside a lake. He approaches it warily. There’s another car parked outside, a small Volvo estate. He parks his own car a little way off and walks across to the Volvo. Two empty baby seats are fixed to the back seat. There’s the usual muddle of toys and comics always found in a family car, strewn around the inside.
The cabin door is unlocked as he expected. A small pin is fixed high up on the door frame, a signal that all is safe. He goes in slowly and shuts the door behind him. There seems to be no one there.
“In here,” a woman’s voice calls. He doesn’t recognise it. It has a Lithuanian accent rather than a Russian one. “The sauna. You’ll find towels on the bed.” (5)
Anatoly’s intrigued. His last meeting with a “friend” had been at a Kroshka Kartoshka cart. Roast potatoes on the Mira Prospect in the open air in March. (6) At least this seemed like an improvement. He strips off, grabs a towel and heads to where the voice was coming from.
The heavy wooden door swings open and steam billows out. Anatoly enters the sauna. It’s large, maybe four meters square. There’s room for six or seven people but there’s only one that he can see. On the far side, sitting with her back to him is the woman. It’s a naked back. She’s got a towel around her hips but it has slipped down so that, from where Anatoly is standing, he can see the start of the crease between her buttocks. She spoons another ladle full of water onto hot coals. The crackling of the water as it hits them sends a wave of heat across the room.
She turns around. Anatoly is surprised by how young she is, maybe twenty two, twenty three. If the children that the seats belong to are hers, her body shows no signs of them. She’s blonde with long pale hair piled loosely on her head. Blue eyes are smiling at him. He’s finding it hard to look at them. His attention keeps being drawn to her two unusually even and pert breasts. “Anatoly Sergeivitch,” she says. “Please sit down.” She follows his gaze down to her tits and laughs. “Poor boy. Always working!”
Anatoly shrugs. “Can I help it?”
The air is the sauna feels heavy. It’s the moisture of course but Anatoly isn’t fooled by the girl’s light hearted approach. His “friends” never want to talk unless it’s serious and this time they have sent someone relatively junior to see him. A sign of displeasure or exasperation at his failure to resolve the Vyera issue, perhaps? And perhaps a warning, that something definitive must be done.
“You’ve been very busy, Anatoly, I’m told.”
It’s like he’s being lectured by his school teacher. Except that she’s less than half his age.
“We notice that on your part, a reconnaissance is being undertaken and intelligence is being collected. We also note that a number of other organisations are also taking an interest in Vyera. So far, we are aware of The Stockholm County Police, The Swedish National Investigation Bureau, The Metropolitan Police in London, the British home security service and in Moscow, the British overseas intelligence service may be watching Anna Tereshkova. Finally in America, the CIA are taking an interest in an old friend of yours, Professor Dawney and we expect it will not be too long before they begin to wonder if you can help them find a certain Tracy Randolf, but of course now that she is Pavea, they will surely be thrown completely off the scent? She ladles more water onto the coals. A stinging cloud of vapour fills the room as if to underline the sarcasm of her last remarks. Anatoly feels the heat in his eyebrow ridges and across his shoulders and the rising irritation he is feeling in his mind.
She doesn’t seem to be interested in hearing what he has to say so he lets her continue. If he’s going to be chastised then having a slim, naked, firm-breasted blonde do it is probably as good a way as any. He’s also trying to work why most of the police and security apparatus of the western world is ranging itself against him, all over Vyera who has been restored to the bosom of her family unharmed – well relatively unharmed at any rate. Have they nothing better to do? Does the Clegg organisation have to put up with this from time to time, or do they have more friends than he does?
“We just want to let you know how, continues his naked companion, “how inconvenient this is becoming and how badly this sits with you as someone who has always been so valuable to the Motherland.
The girl reaches out and grabs a bunch of birch twigs that are laying on the next bench. She rolls onto her front, sliding the towel out beneath her as she does so. “Could you?” she says, offering the twigs to Anatoly.
It’s not the sort of circumstances in which he is used to beating girls with and he supposes that softer blows than usual are what are expected. Even so, he is happy to oblige, slapping her back and buttocks with the sticks and leaves, enjoying the soft curves of her body and the way that her pale skin with its soft downy blonde hair turns pink with his blows. He ladles more water onto the coals and slaps the twigs across his own back. He is wondering if there’s an opportunity for anything more than being lectured by this girl when she gets to her feet. Now she’s standing square on to him, the towel still on the bench. She reaches up and loosens her hair. She has the same soft blondeness under her arm as she does veiling her crotch. Small beads of sweat run down from her shoulders and across her breasts. Anatoly cannot help but watch as one slides across the aureola of her left tit and drips from the nipple. “I have to go,” she says, nodding towards a clock on the wall. “The nursery. You can stay. Can I tell your friends that you will provide a detailed plan to resolve this situation soon. A list of options, your preferred option and an outline of how you wish to proceed would be appreciated as a start. We wish to supervise your progress closely. I am sure you can understand? You are happy?”
Anatoly grunts. “Happy isn’t the word. It is a long time since the minutiae of my activities was of interest to Colleagues”
The girl is still standing in front of him. Naked. Sweating. Tempting. She replies; “ it is a long time since one of your operations has aroused such interest at home and abroad. I have been appointed to supervise your work in this matter and report to Mikhail Barisovitch himself. We think that lack of interest in your ‘special employment opportunities’ is always best. We think that your main line commercial activities are where you serve the Motherland best. We think your good commercial reputation is good for the reputation of the Nation. We do not wish to see any of that compromised.
She can tell he’s taken the point. “Good bye, Anatoly Sergeyevitch,” she says. She’s fully aware of the effect that her naked body has had on him. He’s not trying to hide the erection that’s pushing against his towel but sauna etiquette requires that she not remark on it either. “I will take a plunge in the lake. Perhaps you should too?”
It’s no sort of invitation. She simply picks up her towel, and heads for the door. Anatoly sits quietly in the steam, considering what to do next. He’s still thinking when he hears the sound of the Volvo starting up and driving off.
References:
1. Pret a Manger is an organic and ethical fast food outlet active on at least two continents.
2. Time Out. The magazine you read to find out what to do when you are taking ‘time out’. Another international enterprise.
3. Setting up a Virtual Private Network in a public place for the inconspicuous transfer of computer files was reported as one method used by the famous Russian sleeper agent Anna Chapman when she was working in the United States
4. Vanaya. The Russian equivalent of a sauna
5. Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia – the ‘Baltic Republics’ were absorbed into the Soviet Union at the end of the Second World War. In the years following, the Soviet Authorities resettled large numbers of ethnic Russians in the new territories to change the population mix and to more firmly anchor them into the Soviet Union. In the final days of the Soviet regime, all three Baltic Republics seceded from the Union. Many of their citizens of Russian origin suddenly felt themselves to be aliens in what had become their own home and some have chosen to emigrate back to Russia.
6. A well-known fast food outlet in Moscow
8 days after Vyera’s departure.
The Northern suburbs of Moscow are dominated with the soaring, graceful, heroic, Ostankino TV Tower. The Russian Government has long understood the usefulness of ‘statement’ architecture and the Tower was opened in 1967 to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the October Revolution. It stands just over 540 metres tall. It's the tallest free-standing structure in Europe. (1)
The Moscow Television Centre, a near neighbour, stands on Ostankinskaya Ulitsa. It's a large but undistinguished block of a building, the like of which could have been built in any European city at any time after the nineteen fifties. Recently the exterior had been decorated with coloured shapes. From a distance they merge to form abstract designs. The studio block has been adorned with strips of colour, so the whole building looks like a giant, coloured, bar code. The colours soften the severity of the original utilitarian design but the inherent ugliness of the structure means it will never be a jewel in Moscow’s architectural crown. Even the recent addition of the elevated Moscow Monorail track, which should have given the place some space-age pizazz, only seems to emphasise the need for some serious re-development. (2)
The Television Centre is where Sveta prepares and records the TV programme she produces and presents. On this particular morning, she has been involved with an editorial conference to discuss the next series but as she walks down the never-ending corridors of the building, impatiently stabbing at her phone to send a text message, her mind is actually much more occupied with what Vyera Anatolyevna might be doing. The time is 12:30 Moscow time, so subtract three hours, the time in the UK will be 9:30 What will Vyera be doing at 9:30? Cleaning her home? Exercising? Thinking about what to cook Joseph for their evening meal together?
Sveta misses Vyera a lot. She understands that pain can sometimes be the reward of the righteous, but Sveta is surprised at just how much she misses Vyera. It is strange; after all the pain Vyera had caused when she was with them in Moscow; after all the bad memories she had stirred, just by being there …
Andrei is waiting for Sveta in her car. He has been summoned by Sveta’s text and reverses her Jaguar XKR into the reserved parking space kept for senior officials and Stars of the Station. Svetlana Nikitechna is definitely a Star.
As Andrei gets out, a black BMW drives slowly past and brakes right in front of his space, blocking his exit. Immediately Andrei is on the alert. The front two doors of the BMW open. Two unpleasantly tough looking individuals rise from their seats and turn to fix him with their gaze. Andrei casts a glance over his shoulder. Sveta is out of the building and hurrying through the rain towards him. He quickly looks back: the rear door of the BMW has opened. An elegant figure is getting out. He holds up a rolled up newspaper and waves, calling: “Svetlana Nikitechna! Svetlana Nikitechna! Over here!”
Andrei feels he is losing control of the situation. He does not like the look of the driver and front seat passenger in the BMW one little bit. He looks back to Sveta and begins to raise his arm, to attract her attention, his voice ready to shout a warning, to send her back into the safety of the building, but then he sees her face break into a smile of recognition. She raises an arm of her own calling “Mikhail Barisovitch!” in return.
The elegant figure is now standing in the drizzle, wearing a pale Aquascutum trench coat and a trilby, almost a parody of an American movie star.
“Svetlana Nikitechna! How are you? Have you a few moments for one of your followers?”
Sveta walks straight up to the Visitor:
“Of course, Mikhail Baryseyevitch. For you I always have time. This is an unexpected pleasure!”
The two kiss, formally, once on each cheek.
The minders have now walked slowly over to Andrei to speak with him. There is a cocky surliness about them which spells ‘trouble’.
“Now listen sonny”, says the front seat passenger, “my Boss is taking your Boss out to lunch. Just you run along home and remember this is confidential. That is to say confidential from everyone. Can we trust you to keep your mouth shut?” He places his hands on his hips and his jacket opens to show his automatic. The message is very clear.
Meanwhile Sveta and Mikhail have settled in the back of his car. “We will take you back, Sveta my dear, when we are done. Let's just let the boys sort themselves out and they we can be on our way.”
Mikhail and Sveta enter the foyer of the Ukraina hotel. It’s a massive building on a bend in the Moskva River. It has been lavishly refurbished for the elite and whilst even the elite have to pass through a security barrier, the barrier does not delay Mikhail Baryseyevitch and Sveta his guest. As soon as the staff spot them entering the foyer, they are whisked through into the hotel proper. (4)
“Well, Sveta? What do you think of Moscow’s latest grand hotel?″ Mikhail gestures at the dome over the hotel's lobby. He looks across at the reception desk where staff wait patiently to deal with each guest's every wish. He nods towards an elegant looking uniformed receptionist and says, conspiratorially, ″Do you know that one condition of employment is that you must be attractive? Why, even the domestic team and the engineers must be beautiful! Alas, when I retire from government service, there will not be an opening for me here, not even to change light bulbs …”
“Perhaps not changing light bulbs Mikhail Baryseyevitch but surely a man of your experience will find a seat on the board of directors for himself?” Sveta is wondering why Mikhail has brought her here. Of course she is happy to see him but he rarely – never, if she is honest with herself – acts without some motive beyond that of mere social nicety.
“Well, perhaps so but will I be attractive enough? Will I be beautiful? Or must I be tucked far away from guests and kept well out of view?”
“Public Service is not always kind to us, Mikhail Baryseyevitch and yet, an old face is not an ugly face. These young people: what storms have they weathered? What campaigns have they fought? Their faces are like a blank page, still waiting for life to write upon them.”
“Ah, Svetlana Nikitechna! Such a wonderful way with words! You even find it in your heart to console an old crustacean like me!”
Mikhail Baryseyevitch actually does remind Sveta of a crustacean in several ways. There's something about him that's sinister, living concealed at the bottom of the sea, armoured against enemies and armed with large and terrible claws to seize and dismember his prey. Sveta is on her guard, despite all the flirtatious small talk and complements. Mikhail Baryseyevitch wants something. He wants something from her or wants to tell her something. Either way, he has not travelled all the way to Ostankino merely to pick up a lunch companion.
“I thought the Buono Restaurant would be a good place for us, Svetlana Nikitechna. There is something I like about Italian food. Refreshing and yet satisfying. A warm breeze from the South to warm our Northern faces!” Mikhail Baryseyevitch chuckles at his own good humour.
Presently Sveta finds herself seated at a table on the terrace, looking out at a stunning view of Moscow and across the table at a more intimidating view: her old colleague from the Security Service. She notes that he is very well-dressed now and has obviously caught the habit of taking trouble over his appearance: his silver hair is carefully cut and styled, his pale blue shirt and silver grey tie enhanced by contrast against his slightly tanned skin. In the past years, Mikhail has obviously absorbed refinement from somewhere.
“So how are you Sveta?” (Sveta notices at once that Mikhail Baryseyevitch is using the informal familiar form of her name. He is claiming some intimacy) “You know, I always watch your programme. You have such a clear presentation of events and I do enjoy the way you manage to place then in such sharp historical context.”
“Why thank you Mikhail Baryseyevitch, (Sveta chooses to reply with respectful formality) but I have a team to help me.”
“So it is not exclusively your own efforts,″ he teases, ″but then credit comes for astutely assembling your team.”
Sveta is beginning to tire of Mikhail's elegant verbal dance. He hasn't brought her to lunch to discuss her TV programme, she is sure. She decides to try to move things forward. “How can I help Mikhail Baryseyevitch?”
“No, no my dear this is not an occasion for me to lay any requests before you, rather how can I help you? Anatoly Sergeyevitch has difficult – slippery – issues on his mind just now.”
“Yes and I am afraid I am mostly responsible for his difficulties.” She isn't surprised that Mikhail knows about the problems with Vyera. There is a circle in Moscow – especially those of the service – that just knows.
“Now, now Sveta,″ the Crustacean stretches his hand over the table to grasp Sveta’s forearm, ″do not be too severe with yourself.”
“Thank you Mikhail Baryseyevitch, but it is true: I lost objectivity.”
“Over Verochka?”
“Yes, over little Vyerochka. I had forgotten why Anatoly acquired her and what her training was aimed at. Actually I still find it hard to imagine her as merely a slave.” Somehow Sveta finds it easy to talk to Mikhail, easy to be candid, easy to open up, easy to say things she wouldn't imagine saying to anyone else. Something about the intentness of his gaze, his very evident effort to listen, encourages her to talk. It’s an aspect of his personality that many others have found impossible to resist, to their great misfortune.
“Why is she different for you, do you think?”
“Well … well … you see … it was when I learned her date … her … her birthdate. It reminded me …”
“Aha, yes, I understand … she reminded you of a child you never had, because of Popova.”
“Yes, because of Popova.” (5)
“We understand Sveta, we understand. Did you know Popova had cancer? She was trying to build her own memorial, so to speak. I think she lost objectivity, too. Vyera was a very unlucky coincidence and …”
“And when Vyera proved to be such a nice person, I suppose I began to think of her as much more than … well much more than just another of Anatoly’s ‘special employees’.”
“I know, I know.”
“So I decided I had to do something good. Just for the sake of someone else. To make them happy first before I thought of my own interests. To actually show that I was grateful for all life had given me, in the end. Anatoly. Alana. Dmitry. All the material blessings we enjoy. How strange it is that in being good, I seem to have caused so much chaos!”
“Now Svetlana Nikitechna: courage. Out of chaos came creation. A creative approach. Is what we require. I think the key here is to be yet more generous. Did you know that I had discussed matters with Anatoly Sergeyevitch?″
Sveta isn't surprised but Anatoly hadn't mentioned it. Mikhail goes on as a waiter appears to present a dish of anti-pasto. Sveta doesn't remember ordering and she doesn't remember Mikhail ordering but that is often the way with him. Things just happen around him. ″I wonder if the key to the whole situation could be found in a redefinition of terms, so to speak.″ Sveta smiles to herself. Mikhail specialises in redefinition; it was his stock in trade. Not confession but acknowledgement, not disclosure but description, not betrayal but a recognition of where ones best interests lay. ″Instead of puzzling over how to entice Vyera back into slavery, why not merely offer young Joseph McEwan a better employment opportunity? His wife wishes to be with him. That is normal, who would want otherwise? That need not conflict with your goals. If he is with you and she is with you, this would be easier for you, I think. His company is merging with a competitor. None of them know whose position has a future? What if young Joseph McEwan were to loose his job. That would be sad for him and for poor Vyera. Perhaps this points to a way forward? To bring the McEwans back into your orbit and under the influence of gravity once again and if gravity is strong enough – as I am sure it will be – they will be unable generate an escape velocity?”
Sveta takes a fork full of paper thin Parma ham. It is soft and limp but it has a strong, salty taste. The contrast between the smooth and the sharp seems to mirror Mikhail's quiet words.
“And how are you and Tolya? Are you still happy?”
“Of course I am Mikhail Baryseyevitch. Tolya is the only man I ever have wanted.” Sveta notices that the intimacy of the conversation has increased two notches: the use of Anatoly’s diminutive name and of course the shift in the topic of discussion.
“And are you the only girl for him?”
“Well of course it can be different for a man but he is always honest.”
“Yes, I am aware that he sometimes has to pay a price. I see you have not allowed him to regrow his hair yet!”
“Yes, well I do get a bit,″ Sveta pauses, unusually uncertain for a moment of the word to describe her feelings, ″disappointed in his … interest … in the British professor! The way she seems to think that every time she is in Moscow, she can get her hands on Tolya. I suppose I do feel jealous of her. Tolya had to pay with rather more than his hair, because that was for something else, anyway. He had tried out one of his ‘special employees’ so I thought it would be nicely symmetrical if they both had to pay a price and I decided they would face the world with shaven heads. She looks wonderful. I think her new Owners have kept her that way.”
“Ah, for give my curiosity about the Professor but did you …”
“I birched him!”
“Did you, indeed? Well, Anatoly met her when he was at our Embassy in London, did you know that?”
“Yes, I think I did.”
“In those days she was a student radical and interesting to us because she was an articulate opponent of the American cruise missile deployment in Britain. Anatoly kept us up to date with developments.”
“Yes, I suppose he did, but those days are gone now and she knows we are together. She must know that she is stealing him, even if only for a little time.″
Mikhail Baryseyevitch once again leans across the table and pats Sveta’s arm. Sveta is concerned. She worries that she has said too much, something that is very easy in Mikhail's company. “I know, I know. Let me consider her case. Perhaps there is one final opportunity for her to serve us. One final mission which will keep Anatoly forever out of her reach?”
The words disturb Sveta. She is wary for two reasons. Firstly because of what his words suggest and secondly because it has long been Sveta's experience that you only want Mikail to do you a favour if you are prepared for that favour to be called in at some future point in time. She responds with characteristic bluntness. “Mikhail Baryseyevitch, I do not want her killed. There has been too much of that in our recent past. Moscow is too full of mass graves and surely I should be able to deal with this myself? Ourselves? Just me and Tolya?”
“Killed? Of course not! Nothing of the sort crossed my mind. Just … well, let me put my thinking cap on, as they say. I do not want to see you upset. For a start, it would be easy enough to ban her entry to the Russian Federation. That is a bureaucratic trifle. It can be accomplished by lifting the telephone. Then, when Tolya travels to Great Britain, well I believe there are …”
“Mikhail Baryseyevitch, this is an interesting conversation and I thank you for your concern for our relationship but my decision to release Vyera was not precipitated by any reflections about Professor Dawney!”
“I am sorry Sveta. Forgive the teasing inquisitiveness of an old man. However, Svetlana Nikitechna you must know that Anatoly Sergeyevitch is very important to us. To The Motherland. He does much to raise our profile abroad and does it merely by being himself. In western eyes, he appears to be articulate, rational, outward looking, self-confident, scrupulously honest in all his transactions and he is someone who is careful to obey the law in the countries he visits and operates his business in. This Vyera business is a danger to all that but there is worse. Getting involved with Tracy Randolf was a serious error of judgment …”
Sveta wonders if Mikhail is finally getting to the heart of his concerns. Of course he is not worried about Vyera, or her or Anatoly or Angela in the final event. This is driven by some consideration of the State. “But Mikhail Baryseyevitch, I believe he was repaying a favour …”
“Yes, I am very well aware of that and those who ask for favours to be repaid should have a care to what they are asking. Accepting a favour does not present the other party with a blank cheque which they can cash at any time of their choosing for any amount they choose. You were always highly regarded as a strategist, Svetlana. I am sure those abilities have not left you. I need you to understand that we need Anatoly Sergeyevitch to keep his reputation, particularly in the United States and Great Britain – which some would say is virtually part of the United States anyway. We need him to be able to contract for some important civil engineering work. The Interconnector project? I am sure you will understand our concerns, I this context. Just make sure circumstances do not repeat themselves with other ‘special employees’?″ Mikhail breathes deeply. He looks Sveta directly in the eyes. ″And keep in touch with me?″
A waiter is at Sveta’s elbow, clearing plates ….
″Now!″ concludes Mikhail Baryseyevitch, his manner suddenly relaxed and affable once more, ″Coffee! The espresso here is really first class. Coffee and perhaps some limoncello?″
Alone in his office later that afternoon, Mikhail Baryseyevitch Antonov reviews the information he has to hand on Professor Angela Dawney.
He calls a colleague in the department responsible for cyber intelligence. It is time to get up to date about the Professor. To keep track of her activities in a more organized way. He, Mikhail Baryseyevitch, must take a more active part in events. The State does not want to lose Anatoly to some tawdry scandal over slave girls and love triangles.
He must take better care to manage the balls in play, he tells himself. Goodness knows, there were so many of them and more begin to roll every day.
Whilst Tracy was the subject of discussion at the Buono Restaurant, she herself was being interviewed by Neena.
“Stand up!”
“OK, but what d’ya want? This is supposed to be my ‘downtime’.”
“Ah Pavia! When will you learn? Slaves do not have any downtime. There will be occasions when downtime is given as a reward but mostly, when you are awake you are on duty! Now you were going to stand up?”
Pavia shuffles to her feet and faces Neena.
“Stand tall, arms by your sides, feet together. Better. Now, close your eyes.”
Tracy is now alert to the idea that Neena has not merely come to dole out more routine work of the cleaning floors variety. This is going to be something special. Almost certainly sexual. Tracy finds herself looking forward to what might be in store. She was finding herself feeling hornier and hornier with the passing of days. Curious. She used to be so angry about everything and especially with Vyera, that she did not have much of a sexual itch to scratch. Now … well now, things seemed different, somehow.
Neena is standing behind her. Tracy can tell because of the little drafts of air on her skin Neena causes as she moves. There is a hand on her shoulder and then she feels Neena squeezing some sort of hood over her head. It is leather, Tracy can tell from the smell. It is soft-ish. The hood covers her eyes and most of her head, but leaves her mouth and her nose uncovered. She can feel Neena lacing the hood at the back of her head, tightening its grasp. When Neena has finished, she pulls a zip down to cover the lacing and passes a small padlock through the zipper tab and a couple of rings sewn into the hood at its base. Tracy can feel the push – snap! As the lock closes. Now she is a prisoner inside the hood even if she had her hands free. Somewhere between her legs, she can feel a small bead of moisture running out of her vulva and down her leg.
Shit! That Neena bitch is bound to see that! She will know that I am getting aroused. She will put this thing on me regularly. Shit! Shit! Shit!
The hood has gaps by Tracie’s ears. She can clearly hear Neena’s instructions. “Arms behind you, little one. Well done!”
‘Huh?’ muses Tracy. ‘Might as well.’ With the hood on tight, there was nothing she could do anyway and it is almost certain that Neena has had the foresight to leave the key somewhere else, outside her cell.
Tracy feels the cool of a leather sheath around her forearms and Neena carefully fastening a wrist cuff around her right, then her left wrist. The cuffs are part of the sheath, so as Neena closes the sheath and straps it shut, any opportunity Tracy might have to shake herself free of the arm muff is systematically removed. Lastly, Tracy feels Neena strapping another cuff around her arms , just above the elbows, so her arms are now perfectly useless, fused into a single unit at the wrists, and elbows and with the two crucial cuffs safe inside the outer leather sheath. She was helpless!
“Open your mouth, Pavia! Wider!”
Tracy is expecting some sort of gag but is momentarily caught off guard by the taste and feel of a rubber bar between her teeth. In addition, there is a short rubber tab which seems to project backwards from the bar, pushing downwards on her tongue. It is not long. Not long enough to make her queasy but it is quite long enough to stop her talking. Also, something from either end of the bar between her teeth is resting on her cheeks – at least as much as is not covered by the hood. Tracy feels Neena strap the gag - actually, the bit – firmly behind her neck. It is not so tight that head movements are prevented or become uncomfortable, but it's quite tight enough not to be going anywhere until Neena removes it.
Neena’s hand is on Tracy’s shoulder again – and then another hand. Neena says, “We don’t want you to fall”.
A broad belt is passed around Tracy’s waist and buckled shut. Her arm muff is connected to the belt. Steadily, Tracy is becoming more and more at Neena’s mercy, Neena and - who? The bitch had said ‘we don’t want you to fall’ so there must be two of them at least.
Tracy is beginning to wonder about the third party. Is he a guy or a girl? Is she going to be licked, or fucked? Either way, in her present condition, she is not going to be able to use her own lips or tongue, so she is going to be the passive victim of whoever it is.
A thin strap is clipped to the rear of her belt. It tickles the back of Tracy’s thighs as she stands.
Suddenly, Neena’s hand is on her vagina – or is it Neena? It is, because Tracy immediately hears Neena’s laugh.
“Well, well little one! You are very wet! Did you know? I think we must be helping you to empathise with your past! You are – were – from Texas. I know this because you used to keep telling us over and over again and in Texas they are always riding horses. Wonderful horses. Now here Anna, we have a little red pony but do be careful because she has not been broken yet. A few encouraging signs but there is so much work still to do.”
Neena’s voice is coming to Tracy from below somewhere – and suddenly Tracy realises why as her lips are parted by something smooth, roundish, fat and knobbly!
Neena settles the generous dildo inside Tracy, she threads the thin strap through a ring at the end of the dildo and cinches up the strap at the front of the belt Tracy now wears, neatly and snugly trapping the dildo inside her.
Tracy can feel Neena’s breath on her ear: “now little one, the dildo has been coated with something to keep you nice and warm and interested – and it has a couple of other surprises for you too. Just wait and see. Enjoy!”
“Bitch!” Thinks Tracy. “One day, Neena ya bas! One day!”
The third party, Anna whoever she is, is sliding her hand down Tracy’s thigh She is treating Tracy just as Tracy used to treat her own horses, at home on the family ranch. A gentle touch to tell the creature where you are. Everything done at a comfortable unhurried pace to allow the creature to understand what is happening. It lets them process the information. Everything is done to discourage panic and encourage co-operation.
“Bitches! Treating me exactly like some goddam horse!”
Anna’s hand has reaches Tracy’s ankle. She grips more firmly and sweeps Tracy’s lower leg backwards, flexing her knee. It's now difficult for Tracy to refuse cooperation. She only has a single leg to stand on after all.
Anna guides her foot into a soft but firm boot (It's really quite an odd combination of sensations) and begins to lace the boot up at the rear. Presently, she lets go but not before Neena has said:
“Pavia: your hoof boot will feel very strange. There are no heels so you must always keep on your toes. Quite literally!″
The boot makes Pavia’s left leg taller than the right and the mysterious Anna takes a firm hold of Tracy as Tracy regains her footing – but then her right foot is no longer on properly on the ground and it is easy for Neena to sweep it off the ground and into the second boot.
Eventually Tracy stands all tacked up, with Neena’s hand on her shoulder.
“Pavia: Anna is a keen horse mistress and you are very lucky she has agreed to train you. Now we are going to walk carefully into the Arena through the stables and you are going to have your first practice at walking in reigns. Anna is behind you, controlling and I will be on your left to steady you. I have a whip to help you find your way. Now: walk on!”
Tracy feels Anna take up the slack in the reigns and a bright flash of pain as Neena swipes the whip over her thigh. Tracy is blinded by the hood so all she can do is dumbly obey the commands of Anna and Neena. Tracy walks on and as she does, she notices a heavy plop! Plop! From the two large ball bearings which live inside the dildo. This was going to be a tough session. Walking in the boots was odd. Walking forwards with no forwards vision was odd and the rhythmic plop! Plop! Of the dildo balls, each time she took a step was very odd.
“That Neena bitch”, thinks Tracy, “one day she will pay …”
8 days after Jennifer reappears
At Joe's office there have been rumours over the last few weeks. Unexpected comings and goings. Regular meetings cancelled and rearranged. Now, there's been an email announcing a staff meeting for everyone in the restaurant at 10 o'clock. Joe has been given compassionate leave to help him look after his wife, Jennifer, after her unexpected reappearance but yesterday, he took a call from Chris Parker, his immediate superior, asking him to come into the office to attend this particular meeting.
Joe takes a seat with a colleague. There's a small group of people at the front of the room. Joe can see his Divisional Director with the Head of UK operations and Helen, their personnel manager. There's a tall blonde-haired man that Joe doesn't recognise. They all look pretty relaxed. They're smiling and joking together as they get ready for whatever they're going to say. Joe takes that as a good sign.
The Head of UK operations kicks things off. ″Thanks for coming in, everyone. Sorry to have to interrupt the day's work, but we wanted to tell you about this as soon as we could. I know there has been plenty of speculation about how the business is going to respond to some of the bigger opportunities that we are seeing and that, frankly, we haven't been big enough to bid for. We are also in a period of recession when contracts are fewer and harder to secure. This is a problem for all the companies in our sector. Also, we have to look for new ways to build on our strengths and cement, if you will excuse the phrase″ (this school boy humour is greeted by a few sycophantic sniggers) ″cement relationships with other companies. The Board has come to the conclusion that the best opportunity for the business is to combine operations with another complementary organisation and I'm delighted to be able to tell you that we intend to merge with Skandia Konkret or, as we would say, Scandia Concrete. Some of you will know Skandia from some of the projects we have worked alongside them on. One or two of you will have worked on the discussions and I know that everyone that has been involved feels there is a good fit both business-wise and culturally….″
Joe's colleague leans over. ″So that's what they've been up to. Did you know Gwenda had been out in Stockholm? That's what it must have been about.″
Joe shakes his head. Gwenda hadn't mentioned it to him — but Joe guesses that there would have been a pretty strong non-disclosure agreement for everyone involved and, besides, it must have been difficult for Gwenda, what with their embryonic relationship beginning to form. He remembers only too well inviting her out to meet up with him in Sweden with Jenny's parents and he is still reeling from the story told to him by Inspector Ackroyd, about Gwenda’s arrest and detention by the Swedish Police. Joe squirms at the very thought of it! What should he do? Phone her at the office? Phone her at home? Ask to see Gwenda personally? Now Jenny is back, it will be difficult to bring a peace offering for Gwenda into the office. That would provoke comment and gossip whatever his personal circumstances had been. Writing a letter and sending flowers to Gwenda at home is probably the best plan, but he would have so much preferred to have been in touch before this meeting. Now, there is every chance that he will have to see her face to face with the extraordinary events still raw in her mind.
″I'm pleased to introduce Arne Westermark, who is in charge of SkanKon's activities in Europe, the Middle East and Africa. He'll be saying a few words about the reason why they are so keen on this merger. And we have Helen here if any of you have any HR concerns. There's not too much to say at this point but we wanted to tell all the staff as soon as possible after we made the announcement to the Stock Exchange. There will be a staff consultation programme — Helen will be posting details of that on the Intranet — but the proposal seems to have been given a ‘thumbs up’ by the shareholders. Those of you in the company share scheme might like to know that the price is up 5% since the announcement.″
A grunt of approval runs around the room. Most of the audience are in the scheme. The price rise boost will have gone some way to compensating for the slide in share values over the last year.
″Anyway, Arne is keen to say a few words about SkanKon. Nothing is going to change here in the short term. We'll be running the businesses in parallel. But there will be more details about how we'll work together over the next few weeks. Arne…″
Arne Westermark comes to the front and launches into a death-by-PowerPoint presentation that has his audience bemused by numbers after the first five slides. He is very thorough and speaks with a half-smile on his face that has his audience waiting for the joke which never quite comes.
″Interesting stuff,″ Joe's colleague remarks. ″Should be some good opportunities for you with all your background in concrete structures. I would not be surprised to see you sent over there — I mean, isn’t your wife Swedish?″
As Joe drives home, he ponders the merger. Will it be an opportunity for him? A new start for him and Jenny? Joe isn't so sure. He's feeling it’s a glass half empty rather than half full at the moment and he is also wondering how things will be with Jenny when he gets home. When you get married, he muses, you get married ‘for better for worse, in sickness and in health.’ He has had plenty of ‘for worse’ over the last couple of years and, now Jenny is back, there seems to be plenty of ‘in sickness’ to deal with. But then, that is what makes marriage more than merely a friendship. In a marriage, the partners declare that they will stand by each other come what may. This is his time to ‘stand’ — actually, to continue to stand, because the whole thing has been going on for — well, it will soon be three years. (1)
By the time Joe parks his car in the road outside their home, he is feeling better.
He takes his mobile, opens the Phone application and goes to Contacts. He does not have to scroll very far down before he finds what he wants. He launches the call and in a second or two a voice answers.
“Cranford. How may I help?”
“I’m looking for a table for two, this evening.”
“This evening … what time did you have in mind?”
“Not too late, please, what about …”
“I can do six-thirty?”
“Perfect!”
“So, that’s two for six-thirty and the name is?”
In two and a half hours, Joe and Jenny are facing each other across a table. It’s a much better atmosphere than last time. They came in a taxi, so they can both enjoy wine with their food, without having to worry about traffic police. Joe is now feeling up-beat about the new developments at work. Jenny is relaxed and happy, much more like the person she used to be. ‘Can it possibly be?’ wonders Joe, ‘can it possibly be that we are beginning, really beginning, to get out from under this thing?’
“So, Joe McEwan. What’s all the mystery? This (Jenny indicated the rest of the room with a nod of her head) feels like a celebration?”
“Well! I think it might be. NHCE have merged with Skandia Konkret. We will be bigger. Can bid for larger contracts and the prospects should be brighter!”
“Oh!” says Jenny. “Do we get to stay here?”
“At the moment we do. They said both businesses would be run in parallel for the time being, but all new contracts we go for will be contracts for the new company.”
There is an empty table to their right and, deep in conversation, they do not notice another couple sitting down beside them. The other couple, however, notice them immediately.
“Joseph! Jennifer! How nice to see you again!”
Joe looks sharply up to see Andrew and Philippa Edwards in the act of settling into their seats. Philippa adds: “Are you OK with us here, or are you after some peace and quiet?”
Jennifer takes up the thread. “No, please join us.”
“I don’t think we met properly last time? Andrew Edwards,” says Andrew, stretching out his hand to Jennifer, “and I am Philippa,” says the small, happy, attractive woman next to him
“Hi, Andrew and Philippa”, says Jenny with a smile. Jennifer is very aware that she has good days and bad bays and today, for whatever reason, is a good day. She can relax. She can be Jennifer. Vyera is away somewhere else, sent on some errand, no doubt, by Gaspazha Neena.
“Look, there is a canyon between these tables”, says Philippa. “Let's ask the waiter to put the tables together?”
Joe gazes across at his wife. She is happy, at ease in company, just as she used to be. Well, almost. Is this another sign that Jenny is really back at home with him at last?
They order. Food. Wine. Pre-prandial drinks.
“Is that OK?” asks Andrew. “I mean, we have come by taxi. You, too?”
In the space between small talk and eating, Jenny gets to look at Andrew. There is something interesting about him, but what is it? She noticed there was a ‘something’ straight away but, for a moment, she cannot capture the detail of it — and then she smiles as recognition crystallizes. He is wearing a collar! An understated, elegant, brushed metal collar but it's still a slave collar. It would still be a slave collar, even without the ring which has been slipped onto it and sits quiet and understated against the root of Andrew's neck. Jenny — but actually Vyera — knows all about collars. Until so very recently, she wore one herself all day, every day for months. It was her constant companion. The ‘friend’ which was supposed to keep her safe and remind her who she was and, even more specifically, what she was. If her ‘friend’ had not let her down, she would not be here, now, with Joe, with Joe’s friends. Jenny can feel Vyera quickly coming close to her, so she deliberately averts her eyes from Andrew’s collar and looks at the rest of him.
She smiles again and catches in her glance the smiling eyes of Philippa. There is an instant, unspoken, yet perfectly understood communication between the two of them. “Yes,” Philippa says. “He is a slave. My slave. My self-confident, self-assured, successful-in-business, materially prosperous slave. My slave. Mine!’”
Jenny smiles back. In this subliminal conversation without words, she says, “I know. I noticed. I understand.”
Slave Andrew is speaking. Spreading the conventional pleasantries of conversation between friends (well, perhaps acquaintances might be a better word) like a plasterer covers exposed brickwork, especially the exposed brickwork of his relationship with his wife, Philippa, when she becomes his Mistress (or is it his Owner?) now publicly visible to all those who see and can understand.
Jenny has also picked up an edge to his voice which betrays anxiety. Andrew is not completely comfortable. Why? Why is this man anxious? Surely not because of finding her and Joe at the restaurant? And then, Jenny notices another token of slavery on display. Andrew is wearing a close fitting metal cuff around his wrist. It matches his collar. It is on his right wrist whilst Andrew wears his watch on his left, so there is no distraction from it. Now, Jenny’s curiosity is fully aroused (and not just curiosity). Jenny feigns to drop her napkin on the floor so she can bend down to retrieve it and, in doing so, can get a view beneath the table. She is not disappointed by what she sees.
Andrew is wearing cut off summer trousers which leave his ankles on show. Between the cut-offs and his smart slip-on sandals, each ankle is surrounded by a metal anklet, the same design as his collar and cuff. A matching set!
Philippa had made him wear his collar and cuff and anklets in public. Is this a punishment or merely an ordeal, to test his obedience?
There is something Jenny finds instantly likeable about the small, vivacious, graceful, laughing, ingenious and dominant Philippa!
“Andrew has been building a playground”, says Philippa. “Joe came to help – well, has been helping quite a bit actually. I have no idea how we would have managed without him.”
“Spent much more money,” adds Andrew, to be more specific.
“We had an opening event recently. Would you two like to come one weekend? Just the four of us?″
Joe starts to clear his throat. He thinks this might be a bit much for Jenny just at the moment. Well, one never knows how she is going to be from day to day …
Jennifer says, “Thank you, Philippa. I would like that very much. I would like to know what Joe has been up to!”
“It's very private”, adds Philippa reassuringly (or is it entirely reassuring?). “You can go around in the nip if you would like to. All day!”
That teasing remark awakens other memories for Vyera, of when she would run naked through the parkland, the gardens and the woodland plantations of the Dacha Kustensky, with Neena to keep her company and to keep her secure. The breeze playing across her naked body and the sun warming her skin. It is actually a very pleasant memory and in reply to Philippa, Vyera — but actually it is mostly Jennifer — is able to say: “ Hmmm. I would like that!”
References:
1. ‘For better, for worse, in sickness and in health’ — words from the marriage service used by the Church of England set out in the 1662 Prayer Book
Nine Days After Jenny returns
The firm has given me time off work to spend with my wife again! In the aftermath of the merger announcement, there is part of me that thinks I ought to be back at my desk, showing I am keen to get up to speed with the ‘new situation;’ making sure they see I am keen to do what I can to make the new business a success. However, compassionate leave is compassionate leave and I worked well beyond the call of duty and beyond what I was being paid for when Jenny was away. After all, it filled the void she had left. It gave me things to do. It helped me forget that there would be no one at home when I got back. Now, there is a new situation at home. Now I have some time for us. Now I have time to get to know her all over again. To be the couple we once were and most of all, I want to start doing normal things. The sort of things any young couple like us might do, so, as a start, we are going to the Gym.
When Jenny left — well, that’s not right, is it? I mean, I just don’t believe she ‘left.’ I know she does not want to be — maybe is not able to be — completely frank just at the moment. Anyway, when she disappeared, I joined a local gym, to get myself ready for when she came back, to be a reasonable piece of ‘eye candy’ for her. Now, we can go together and here we are, walking from the car, holding hands, just like normal people.
I have a membership card. Jenny does not, so we stop at Reception.
“Hi, I am Joe McEwan. I’m a member, but my wife isn’t. Can I sign Jenny in as a guest today?”
The receptionist looks up and smiles; smiles at me and smiles at Jenny but for her, the smile is ever so slightly quizzical. Of course, Jenny is very striking. Beautiful and deeply tanned with her smooth head. I suppose I am not the sort of bloke the receptionist expects to see with a girl like Jenny?
“Yes, of course. That will be £12. It would be cheaper if you both had joint membership. You know that?”
Jenny helps out: “Yes,” she says, “but I have just come back from being away. It's something we will have to fix.”
I am surprised by the easy and confident way Jenny has just said that. Almost as if it was a response she had made ready and kept handy, just waiting for the moment when it might be useful. Jenny always used to be ‘clever with words,’ so, is this Jenny getting back to the person she was, or is this someone who has to be careful with what they say? Someone who must be able to quickly play the right cards and get themselves out of trouble?
All the while, the receptionist has been busy filling out a guest pass.
“Joe?” she says, “You just go through the turnstile as normal and I will let Jenny through the gate, here.” She presses some switch behind her counter and a glass partition between the turnstile and the counter opens for Jenny to walk through.
“Just follow Joe to the Changing Rooms. The Girls are next to the Boys. If you haven’t used a gym before, one of the instructors on the gym floor will show you what to do. It's Gary, Paul and Melissa today …”
“Thanks,” calls Jenny over her shoulder. I laugh to myself. I have seen Jenny naked. If there is anyone who needs to be shown how to use a gym, it's not her!
When we reach the gym, it is immediately clear who is the expert in this environment. Jenny mounts one of the treadmills and begins a warm-up routine. Soon, she's walking briskly, then jogging, running, sprinting and, for the next half hour, she repeats five-minute intervals of jogging, running, sprinting, jogging, running, sprinting. She seems to move without effort, gliding strongly along with only a growing bloom of perspiration on her face and back, as a sign of the physical effort she is making. I can’t keep up. I am nowhere even close. By the end of it, I am exhausted and Jenny is merely glowing.
She asks, “Have we time to use the weights? It's time I did my upper body programme. It must be weeks since I …” but I never find out because she stops her sentence abruptly and moves off to another part of the floor.
As she walks away from me, I see her set against the equipment and the other members. Thin girls and muscly young blokes. Older men and women showing the effects of too much food and wine over the years — and Jenny. I had almost been at the point of disposing of her clothes, but I never quite got around to it because I could not finally admit she was never coming back. Her shorts (she always used to wear lycras) and a white sports bra top she wore were still in the wardrobe. Before, they were maybe a little loose. Now, she fills them perfectly, but not just ‘fills them.’ They stretch taught across a taught statuesque figure. Her bum is perfectly outlined by them. The white bra over her brown skin is wonderful and when she turns to smile back at me, I see she comes complete with a six pack — or is it even an eight pack?
With the confidence of a pro, Jenny takes the ‘Olympic’ free weights bar and places it on the horns of the ‘supine chest press’ bench. She slips two 20 kilogramme plates onto the bar, one each side and then pauses for a moment before adding two 5 kilo plates. The whole thing, bar and plates, now weighs 65 kg. She slides into position, takes a wide grip, inhales deeply and drives the bar, all 65 kg of it, smoothly upwards. She pauses and lowers carefully until her upper arms are parallel with the floor and then drives upwards again. She does this ten times and then, after a rest of a minute or so, she does another set of ten, and another set of ten after that. On a good day, when I am rested, I can do three sets of six repeats. But, that's with only forty kilos, bar and plates together. Jenny has not finished. She moves on. I can see she's going to do an inclined shoulder press. She's got a twenty-two kilo dumbbell in each hand. She powers through three sets of ten lifts. She moves to the arm curl bar (twenty-five kilos, three sets of ten) the vertical pull down machine (three sets of ten repeats, sixty-five kilos on the weight stack) and rounds off with three sets of triceps dips with twenty repeats in each set.
Whilst this body-building tour de force has been going on, I have been trying to carry out my own programme, but I can hardly keep my eyes off her. I am not being possessive. I am just fascinated at what my wife, the slim, almost delicate girl I married, has become. When Dr Elba told us at Heathrow — that she thought Jenny had been well looked after, where ever she had been — I thought it was a fatuous thing to say but now I am forced to agree. Completely agree. Jenny’s body is magnificent. Strong. Toned. Sculpted. There's something else, though, about how she looks. Isn't it just a bit sinister?
As I struggle through my own programme, I see her talking to one of the instructors. It's Gary. I can overhear snatches of their conversation against the background of pop music videos being played on the TV screens suspended from the gym ceiling.
“Hi, I am Gary.”
“Gar ee? Prevyet! Ya Vyera.”
“Huh?”
“Menya … sorry! I have been living abroad. Getting used to English again.”
“That’s why I have not seen you before! So, new member?”
“Er, well, Joe signed me in. He is my husband.”
She turns to find me and waves.
I acknowledge her wave and Gary waves back. He looks disappointed. Was he thinking of approaching Jenny with something more than professional interest? He knows me but I can tell that he had no idea I had married this Amazon of a woman. But then, I didn’t, did I? One day I kissed Jenny ‘goodbye’ and months and months and months later, an Amazon returned and diffidently claimed to be my wife.
Despite superficial appearances, she is Jennifer. But, I still wonder who she is; I mean, who she really is, now? She has marks on her skin. Neat, careful, precise. Clear rows of numbers and letters tattooed on her. At the back of her neck. Peeping out from above her left bra cup. At the bottom of her back. Above her right ankle. And there is one more that only I have seen, above her mons. They all say the same thing:
836-906-368 Ê ÀÍ 101109 ÐÆ.
I am embarrassed and resentful about these little strings of numbers and letters. I want to drag Jenny along to see Ros Buchanan or someone like her, to have them covered up or, better still, removed altogether. Wiping the page clean and restoring Jenny to how she was before. I am angry at them and at whoever did them to her. They look like marks to signify membership or maybe belonging, or perhaps ownership — but no one owns Jennifer. She is my wife and I am her husband. That’s how it is. That is how it is going to stay. Then, I am hit by the idea that, if these are membership or ‘belonging’ marks, which she asked for, then she is excluding me. She never asked if it would be OK. She has not told me what they mean. Am I just supposed to look at them and draw my own conclusions?
We have finished our session. After getting washed and changed, we are sitting in the gym café, looking at swimmers in the pool. I have a black Americano. She has only water and I wonder again, who is she now?
Joe and I are going to Cathy and George Corbins' home. Going out for dinner to friends! How long ago is it since I was able to do that? Just to go out because I wanted to? To go with Joe. Just him and me?
Living in England again feels so strange. It’s the small things which make it so. Joe drives ‘on the wrong side of the road,’ so to speak, and all the road signs look wrong. It takes me several seconds to understand which language it is in. Russian? Swedish? English?
Cathy and George live a few miles away from us. Before, I would sometimes jog over to Cathy’s and she would give me a lift back and then have coffee at our house. Then another day, she would do it the other way round. I would actually prefer to walk if I could. Cars — my recent memory of cars — always took me to places other people wanted me to go, not places I wanted to go. This is our car and Joe is driving and we are going to friends, but part of me still expects to see Neena in the driving seat and hear her giving me instructions about what I have to do next. Without noticing, I have closed my eyes. Joe’s voice says,
“We’re here.”
I have a sudden and overwhelming feeling that we have driven back to the Dacha! I gasp and open my eyes wide and look around frantically. Why has Joe taken me back? Does he not really want me, after all? We were supposed to be going out to friends and now I am going back into slavery! Why has he done this to me?
Joe says, “Jenny? Are you all right?”
My eyes focus on what is actually before me. A country lane in England in late summer. The rather overgrown hedge around a garden and soft summer rain.
“Yes, I am OK. Just went to sleep for a moment, that’s all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. What have we brought? Of course, we brought champanskoye. (1) ”
“What?”
“Champagne.”
“But what did you say before?”
“Champagne. I said champagne, in a sort of a way.”
Joe leans over and squeezes my hand and looks into my eyes and smiles and I smile at him. His eyes are full of concern. My face tries to hide the fear I often feel now because I am not where I should be. I am not doing what I have been told. I have not been given my instructions. I am not wearing my collar. The collar which is my friend. Which will keep me safe. I am no longer safe anymore.
We lean towards each other and just touch our lips together. Just to reassure one another that we are actually here together and that we are not dreaming.
Cathy and George’s house is very comfortable. You might expect their home to be rather stark and minimalist: she is a psychologist and he, a pure mathematician. In fact, the house is very cosy. Very English. It is what I need now.
We spend a while in their sitting room. The summer rain has left a chill in the air and a wood fire crackles and spits in the grate, creating a very re-assuring sense of everything being in its right place and everything being just as it should be.
A large glass of pre-prandial sherry is nicely smouldering in my tummy. I can feel the alcohol begin to weave its pharmacological magic. I relax. My muscles feel less tense. I smile and begin to join the conversation. My mouth begins to water when Cathy says, “OK, people. It's ready. Let's eat!”
George and Cathy’s house is very traditional. There is the sitting room. The hall. Across the hall, there is the dining room and, next to that, there is the kitchen. As I sit down at the table, I feel as if a small dark cloud of anxiety is being blown across a blue sky. The sun dims as the cloud passes in front of it, taking away my happy mood. There is a smell in the air and the smell brings a warning.
The first course is fruits in season with a lemon sorbet. The taste is sharp, clean, refreshing. Cathy has chosen a perfect combination of sweet and sharp, soft and crunchy and then the cool lemon sorbet to finish the dish.
The course ends. George gets up to pour wine. It’s a German white. I can see the label on the bottle. It's partly obscured by the napkin he uses to wipe the bottle as he pours but I can see enough to read ‘Trocken.’
Cathy begins to bring in the plates. She has already served out in the kitchen. My plate arrives. Salad. Warm vegetables. Baked salmon. I can feel my throat begin to tighten. Perspiration is forming on my forehead and behind my knees. As unobtrusively as I can, I begin to breathe deeply, doing all I can to calm my nerves.
Joe and Cathy and George are all beginning to eat. The conversation flows happily around the table. It passes me by. I feel I am slipping out of the circle of company. As if I am being drawn backwards into a secret invagination of the room where no one can see me. I begin to eat. Gingerly. I try the salad. Then the vegetables. I take a sip of wine. It tastes very bitter. I try the fish. It has been beautifully cooked. Soft. Moist. Baked on salt. I try another piece. I should not be eating this. I have not been given permission. I try another. My throat begins to tighten. I drink more wine, to make it relax, but the wine betrays me. I can feel my stomach tighten. A wave of nausea begins to rise inside me. I stand. I have just time to say, “I am sorry, Cathy. I need the toilet!”
I rush from the room. I have just enough time to get onto my knees in front of the toilet bowl before I start to vomit and retch. Everything I have just eaten pours into the toilet. The vomit fills my mouth and nose. My eyes are streaming. I am hit by another wave of nausea and I retch and retch on an empty stomach.
Somewhere behind me, I can hear Cathy say, “Joe, leave me to see to Jenny. You keep George company. Jenny and I need some girl time.”
Cathy’s hand is holding my forehead. It is cool and firm and safe. ″Come on, Jenny. Just get it all up. Is that it? You sure?”
I nod. The food is gone. My stomach is empty. All is now as it should be. After all, I did not have permission to eat the food. Neena had not told me that it was mine to eat. If I am not told it is mine, I must not eat. That would be stealing, wouldn’t it?
“Here, Jenny. Come into the sitting room again. Do you want tell me about it. Would that help?”
I follow Cathy unsteadily. She holds my hand. We sit together on the soft, comforting sofa. Close. Her arm around me. My tear-stained head on her shoulder.
“One night, I took food which was not mine. I had worked all day in the kitchen helping to get it ready. Then, I had to stay and clear up. There was food left. It was exactly what you had cooked, Cathy, and the wine, too. Just the same. I was angry with them. I kept thinking they had stolen me. I kept feeling angry about them stealing me. I wanted to pay them back, but I was caught. Neena made me drink something which made me sick. It was a test, you see? A test to show if I could be trusted. It showed I couldn’t. Then, the next day, I got whipped and Pavea was there to see it all. She hates me. She said I have given in and that Americans never gave in. And Andrei was there. All of them watching me get whipped for being a little thief who stole things that were not hers. And it hurt so much and then I wet myself and I had to lick it all up. I am sorry, Cathy. I am so sorry for ruining all your hard work. But it served me right, didn’t it?”
I am wracked with sobs as the memories pour out of me; Cathy just cuddles me and says, ‘there, there’ as if she was comforting a small child.
Then, George is standing by the door. “Coffee or tea?” he asks.
“Jenny, can you manage …?” asks Cathy.
“I’ll have tea, thanks, George,” I reply. “I am sorry for making a scene.”
“Scene? No. I haven’t had the chance to pour whiskey into Joe for ages. Did him good. Milk and sugar? Hot sweet tea; works on all people from England.”
“Just tea, thanks.”
As Cathy and I wait for her coffee and my tea to arrive, Cathy and I sit holding hands, staring into the little flames of the fire as they lick the last pieces of wood. I feel exhausted. The way Neena burst into my mind, along with Pavea. I shouldn't have said anything about them, but they were just there. So sudden. So real. How strange, the way they can stretch out from amongst everyday things and situations and take complete hold of me again. But, why not? They did not give me my freedom. They merely sent me back to Joe. One day, she will be there. Beckoning me and I will obediently go back with her. Best work hard to please Joe as much as I can. Whilst I can still be with him.
Cathy and George Corbin are lying in bed together, reflecting on the night's activities and the explosive outcome of a meal which included baked salmon and Trocken.
“Jenny is still in a bad way?” offers George.
“Yes, she is. She has been badly damaged. It’s going to take a long time for her to get back to the place she was before she disappeared,” replies Cathy.
She turns to him and props herself up on her elbow, “George, I have an ethical problem.”
“Ethics? At this time of night? You should have read maths. Equations don’t have ethics.”
“Very funny but, look, this is serious.”
“It's about Jenny and Joe? I am sorry for being flippant. What's the issue?”
“A policeman came to see me, about Jenny.”
“Oh?”
“He asked if I could let him know if Jenny said anything about how things were when she was away.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I thought he should ask Jenny and that it was not ethical of me to betray any confidences she shared with me, unless she gave her permission.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He said Jenny had found it difficult to say much about what had gone on. That she was almost protecting the people who had taken her. That sometimes people drop odd remarks which can shed light on the whole case and not realize what they have done.”
“It sounds to me like he is asking you to be an informer.”
“Yes, that is what I thought, but tonight Jenny did say a bit about how it had been for her. She had helped herself to some leftover food and had been caught. They gave her an emetic to make her sick it up and then whipped her. Imagine! Then, she mentioned an American girl who was with her. I keep thinking about that other girl. Jenny is back, but what about her? Isn’t it my duty to let the Police know about her?”
“There might be good reasons why Jenny does not want to say too much at the moment. I think the best thing to do might be to persuade Jenny to speak to the Police again? See what she says and then take your own decision afterwards.”
“In other words, we have to tell. It's better if Jenny tells but, if she can’t, then we have to tell. Right?”
“Right …”
References:
1. Champanskoye is, of course, Russian for ‘Champagne.’ The verbal stress is in bold type.
Tuesday, 13 days after Jennifer reappears.
The next morning, Cathy gives me a lift to the University so Joe can go into the office for ‘half an hour.’ I am trying to pick up the threads of the life I used to have. Just now, I am sitting in an office in the University administration building.
“Hello”, says the woman in front of me, “My name is Sandra Thornton. I don’t think I met you before? I work for Human Resources. I have heard a bit about your adventures recently! I understand you are trying to find your feet again?”
“Yes”, I say. I don’t feel confident here. I don’t know what I ought to say, but I do know that I have to be loyal to my Owners and not betray them.
The Sandra Thornton woman is talking again. It's hard to follow what she is saying. I can concentrate when I am told to do something but, with no specific instructions, my mind starts to wander — to what the office looks like, what she is wearing, her glasses, the rings on her fingers …
“… is that all right?”
My head is starting to hurt again. I say, “I am sorry, can you just say that last bit again?”
“I said, when we have employees who have been on long term sick leave, and that’s the nearest experience we have for you, we get you to see Occupational Health and then get you to see your Head of Department to try and agree on a ‘back to work’ plan. Probably start you part time. Maybe half-days, two days a week, something like that and build up from there. Would that be OK?”
Inside, I don’t know. Provided someone can tell me what to do, I can work properly, but what if they don’t tell me? What I actually say is; “Yes, I am sure I can manage that. That’s sounds like a very practical approach.”
Where are these words coming from? I don’t know who is speaking. This is not what Vyera says and I can’t remember how to be this other person I am trying to be. The more I try to be ‘Jennifer,’ the harder it is.
The Thornton woman is starting to speak to me again …
“So I ‘phoned your old boss, Professor Dawney, and she said she could give you a couple of minutes this morning. Just to touch base. Do you remember where to go?”
I am standing outside the door of Angela’s office. There are butterflies of anxiety in my stomach. What will she say? What will I say?
Should I tell her about completing the project in Moscow? Should I keep quiet and see if I can take up the reins of the project at home once again? After all, I cannot be Dr Kuznetsova in the UK without admitting to all the things which have happened to me and I do not have the permission from my Owners. I ought to have asked Neena for her advice. There is time. It is 10:30 here but in Russia, it is 1:30. Everyone there has been awake and busy for hours.
I have stood in front of so many significant doors: The door to Angela’s flat, when we were having an affair. The door to Angela’s office, when I began my project. The door of Ylena’s studio at Inward Bound. The door of the study at the Dacha, before I met Dr Mendeleyev. The door of the dining room in the Dacha, before the viva examination for my Thesis, when I was Vyera. The door of my cell which would never open to let me go but would only open to let me do the bidding of my Owners. These closed doors still cause me anxiety, when I stand before them in memory and the feeling is just as sharp as I wrestle with what to do.
I have made my decision! I will ‘phone Neena and ask her what I have to do.
I reach into my handbag and fumble for my mobile. Without warning, the door to Angela’s office opens and there is Angela, standing in front of me, on her way somewhere.
“Did you want me? Because I have someone else coming to see me soon,” she says
“Yes, er, I wanted to see you, Professor.”
“Do you have an appointment? There was no name in my diary and I am very busy and I have just told you: I am expecting someone. Who are you …?”
Angela is looking at me with a mixture of irritation and interest. She obviously does not recognise me anymore.
“Professor, it is Jenny McEwan.”
“Jennifer McEwan? But you can’t be … I mean you don’t look … are you sure?”
“Yes, Professor Dawney. It's me. Jennifer McEwan. I was able to re-join my husband in Stockholm the week before last week. I have been back in the UK just over a week. The HR people said they would let you know and I thought I should come to see you.”
“But you can’t be Jennifer McEwan. You look so different. Your skin and your body… are you?”
“Yes, I am afraid so. It's me, Professor.”
“I suppose you had better come in. It was you I was expecting anyway. HR ‘phoned me, too — as if I have not enough to do.” Irritation has got the upper hand over interest. Angela sweeps back into her office and throws the pile of papers she had in her hand down into a chair. She resumes her seat behind her desk which now reminds me of a gun battery, behind which she is safe from others and from which she can fire the ammunition of her ambition and her anger at her enemies, whoever they may be at the time.
“Well, I don’t know what the hell you think you have been playing at or where the hell you have been, but life has had to go on here.”
“Professor, I was wondering if …”
“And as far as your project is concerned, you will be interested to know that another research group have managed to publish ahead of us. Almost an identical piece of work, I may add. I don’t know how you have been occupying your time, whether you abandoned your responsibilities to dig holes in the road or something (Angela gestures towards my chest and arms) but academic research is a perishable entity and your project is now hardly worth prosecuting. As I said, the lead position I gave you, the position you could have had, has been taken up by others.” All the time she is delivering this bitter speech, she is riffling through some papers. She finally thrusts a reprinted article from an academic journal across her desk and into my hands. I glance down at it. It is all in Russian.
It says: ″BDSM Games: How Adults Relieve the Stress of Daily Life During Adult Play Behaviour. A Strategy For Investigation.”
But I know what it says because I can read it and I also read: ‘II Mendeleyev. JV Romanova. VA Kuznetsova.’
It is my paper! Recognition floods across my face — and joy! Dr Mendeleyev published my research under my name! I never thought they would do that!
I can’t help myself: I let out a cry of recognition and happiness which crumples into sadness at being separated from people I have almost grown to love.
I rapidly leaf through it. Everything is just as I had written it, except it has been translated into Russian, but that is no obstacle to me now.
Angela recognises the new situation! “Ah, so it was you, was it? I thought so. Well, how dare you take my research ideas to other people and just walk out of this institution into the arms of our rivals? This is the sort of thing that … that … footballers do!”
“Look, Professor, I did not walk out. I was …”
Angela turns her face from me, squeezing her eyes tight shut. She carries on as if I had made no reply at all: “Just walked out on all your responsibilities! Well, Mrs McEwan, you will not get any future help from me and if you were going to ask if you could resume your project, the answer is a flat No! The University has had to employ another postgraduate to cover your duties. I do not see why I should waste another of my research ideas on someone so duplicitous and disloyal as you obviously are. I do not think there is anything else we have to say to each other, so I will wish you Good Morning. Perhaps you can leave my office now?”
There is a diffident knock at Cathy Corbin’s office door.
“Come in,” she calls. The door opens. Jenny is standing on the threshold.
Cathy gets up and welcomes her in. She knew that Jenny was going to talk to HR and possibly to see Professor Dawney. Cathy can see from Jenny’s face that she hasn't had a good time. She puts her arms around Jenny. There is a sofa in the office. It adds a touch of informality to the bland institutional décor. Cathy guides her friend across to it and they both sit down.
″So, Angela was her usual charming, helpful self?” Cathy knows Angela's mean side every bit as well as Jenny does.
Jenny nods her head. There is nothing she needs to say. Cathy does not need to know the details of Angela’s unpleasantness. Jenny knows Cathy can imagine that for herself.
Cathy squeezes Jenny’s hands in encouragement. She feels she has to provide some explanation for Angela’s bitterness and aggression. “Jenny, when you were away, Angela called me in to speak with her and showed me a paper from a Russian journal which she thought meant that another research group was getting ahead with the problem you were working on. Did Angela say anything about it?”
“Yes”, replies Jenny. “She did. She told me that I had given her ideas away.”
“When Angela called me in,” continues Cathy, “she just wanted someone to shout at, but I remembered some work you had asked me to review. Jenny, the thing is, I offered to read the article and let Angela know if I thought it really was like your work. There was an English translation of it which I could use.”
Cathy turns towards Jenny. She is almost square on to her, almost confronting her. In a way she is. It is no surprise to Jenny when she says:
“… because when I laid out the work you gave me and the Russian paper side by side, it was your words. Paragraph after paragraph. You are not Mendeleyev or Romanova because I know who they are, so you must be Kuznetsova? That’s right, isn’t it?”
The room feels very hot to Jenny. She stands up, abruptly. She goes to the window. She stares out for a long time. Cathy has found out, through the agency of Dr Mendeleyev. Surely, Dr Mendeleyev could not have meant this to happen?
“Jenny? What really happened to you?”
“Cathy, it's really dangerous for me to tell you,” replies Jenny. She's almost panicking, barely keeping her voice under control. It's as though every wall around her is crumbling and tides of fear are rushing in. “It's better that you do not know. Did you tell Angela what you thought? Because I accidently admitted it was me. She showed me the paper and guessed from my reaction that I must be Kuznetsova.”
Cathy can see Jenny is scared. “I am sorry, Jenny. I told the police. There was this man who seemed to be in charge of your case. I told him. I think he was called Ackroyd?”
Jenny turns towards her friend, aghast at what Cathy has just said. It's even worse than she thought. She buries her head in her hands. “Oh Cathy, Cathy. You should not have done that. You should have left well alone. They will find out. The more people discover the truth, the more they will need to have me back.”
“Jenny, truth is supposed to bring freedom. The Truth will set you free!”
“Cathy,” Jenny replies, “truth is dangerous. You must be very careful with Truth.″ She turns away and looks towards the window. It's almost as though she expects someone to be standing there, watching her.
″Jenny, why not try to tell me what happened?″
“Because I can’t really remember! I know I am Jenny because when I saw Mummy and Daddy and Joe in Stockholm, I knew who they were. I had tried so hard to forget them because I was never going to see them again but when they were there I began to remember I used to be someone else. Now, I am trying to be Jennifer again but it's much easier for me to be Vyera Anatolyevna, That is really who I am now. I am a Russian citizen and my name is Vyera Anatolyevna Kuznetsova.″ As Jenny repeats her new name, Vyera emerges with full force from the amygdala. She remembers that Vyera does what she is told and, then, nice things happen to her. Then, her Supervisor and her Owners are pleased with her. Then, they call her Vyerochka. What could Vyera do now to please this other woman?
When Jenny turns back to Cathy, it is Vyera who asks, “Gaspazha? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Jenny, what are you saying?” Cathy gazes at her friend. She cannot understand the plain meaning of the words her friend is using. Then, it dawns on Cathy what is happening. She is not a therapeutic psychologist, but she knows enough about trauma psychology to know that survivors should not be asked too early to probe too deeply into memory for fear of provoking flashback behaviour.
All Jenny can feel now is Vyera rushing over her like an in-coming tide. Immediately, she knows what she has to do to make the woman happy! She says, “Gaspazha, Vyera is really good with her tongue. She has to be or she is punished. She gets the cane! Let me show you.”
To Cathy’s complete dismay, Jenny, but really Vyera, grasps Cathy’s thighs and spins her round until she is sitting reclined on the sofa. Cathy is only wearing a dress and sandals and, when Vyera flips up her skirt, she only has some very tiny panties to protect herself.
″Jenny, stop! What on earth are you doing? Stop! Now!″ Cathy's protests don't bring any reaction from Jenny except that she presses her hand down over Cathy's mouth and pushes her down on the couch.
Vyera knows what she has to do now and Cathy is nowhere near strong enough to stop her. Cathy has begun to struggle but Vyera knows that this is merely token resistance. She has been given to this woman and this woman wants to be licked! Vyera knows she is very good at licking. She reaches between the woman’s thighs and pulls the gusset of her panties out of the way until her lips are in full view. Vyera leans forward and start to lick. The woman squirms. Oh! How she squirms. Actually, this is a bit naughty of her. Vyera knows this woman should just let nice things like this happen. Vyera sucks at her clit to raise it up and then oh, so gently but firmly grasps Cathy's clit with her teeth.
As soon as Cathy feels Jennifer’s teeth close on the nub of her clit, she freezes. The involuntary sexual arousal Jenny is provoking is replaced by the horror of what Jenny might do next. She could just bite her clit right off!
Cathy’s mind fills with images of pain and injury and blood! She stops squirming then! She is suddenly covered in a cold sweat. She just lays and pants. Vyera starts to swirl the tip of her tongue across the nub of Cathy’s clit. The more she swirls, the more Cathy pants. She can feel herself getting wet, as sexual pleasure begins to overcome her outrage at Jenny's behaviour.
Vyera notices Cathy is juicing, too. She knew the woman wanted to be licked! To be served. That’s what slaves do. They serve the people they are sent to.
The woman is really enjoying her service now. Vyera releases her clit and rubs along her labia with her tongue, making sure the stud rolls up … and down … and back across the clit. Time and again and again and again. The woman has relaxed. She has even started to mew.
Clarity at last invades Cathy’s mind. She has to stop Jennifer’s flashback. She has to bring her psychotic behaviour to an end. God! The girl is dangerous — or is she only dangerous after inquisitive, impatient provocation, such as Cathy has so carelessly provided? Cathy says — gasps actually — “Thank you, Vyera. That is so nice, but there are things I must do today. Can we finish another time?”
Of course they can stop! After all, Gaspazha gives the instructions and Vyera does what she is told. Vyera pauses her assault. She wipes up all the mucus with her tongue and plants a sucking kiss right in the middle of the woman’s pussy. She says, “Of course, Gaspazha,” and as Vyera looks up, she sees the horrified face of the woman and begins to feel disappointed and sad and afraid. Vyerka must have not performed well and when she performs badly, she feels Neena’s cane. Tears start to form in her eyes and run down her cheeks.
As she contemplates the inevitable critical appraisal from her Supervisor, the person she now always tries so hard to please, she becomes conscious of a throbbing pain in her head. Images of the Dacha fade and, once again, she is Jenny, on her knees, on the floor of an office in a university building, her upper body wedged between the thighs of her terrified friend. Jennifer’s head really starts to hurt and, as her tears roll, she becomes fully Jennifer once more.
“Oh, Cathy, I am so sorry! But, you see, that’s what I do now. It's who I have become …”
…………………………………………………………..
Cathy has just dropped me at home. We drove home in an awkward silence. Finally, we stop at our house and Cathy takes my hand. It’s a long moment. She says, “Look, Jenny. I am very sorry. That was really all my fault. Asking too many questions too soon. Have you got someone you can work things out with?”
I shake my head. “No. Not yet. I am going to have to, aren’t I?”
Cathy smiles and slowly nods.
We part and I walk up to our door. Before I reach it, Joe is there, holding out his arms to me.
“So, how did you get on?”
“Not well. Joe, I have raped Cathy.
“What?”
Joe looks over Jennifer’s shoulder to see Cathy driving away. She does not turn. She does not wave. She just leaves.
“Cathy was asking me what had happened to me and I started to do … I mean, I started to behave … Joe, when I was Vyera, they used to get me to do things, often to girls, and I thought Cathy wanted me to do her, so I started to make love to her, in her office. She couldn’t stop me because I was too strong for her.”
“Oh, Jenny. Oh … How is …?”
“She says I need to get proper help. I don’t suppose she will want me as a friend anymore, will she?”
Joe takes Jenny in his arms and hugs her close. Cathy has delivered Jenny back home and, without a further word, has left the two of them to survey the wreckage of the morning. But, what was there for Joe to say, in any case? Some confused and inappropriate thoughts swirl across Joe’s mind: what did the Human Resources people say? What did Angela Dawney say? Will Jenny have to go back to work? How can she go back if she … if she has attacked her friend? Does he have to report Jenny’s behaviour to the Police? Will Cathy? Will they come to take Jennifer away? Will he lose her all over again, this time in disgraceful and humiliating circumstances? Has she become insane? Will she have to be confined in hospital? But, Joe is the practical son of a farmer and he resorts to practical things. He takes Jenny inside to the safety of her home.
“Is that George?”
“Uh-huh.”
“George, It's Joseph McEwan. Look, I am phoning to ask how Cathy is … did she tell you about what happened?”
“Yes, Joe, she did. I think you had better speak to her. Here she is …”
“ … Cathy?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Joseph. I am just ringing to ask how you are and to say how sorry I am … Jenny has just told me … well, she has just said … she attacked you? I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I mean, is there anything I can do?”
“No. Joe, there is nothing you can do. Did Jenny tell you what happened?”
“Well, not exactly. I mean she said she had … oh dear … she said … she said she had raped you? I don’t see how … what exactly she meant … Cathy, I am so sorry … I just … Cathy, what happens now? I suppose you will have to go to the police?”
“No, Joe, I am not going to the police. I suppose I share some of the blame for this because, thanks to some rather inopportune and nosey questions, I pitched Jenny into a full-blown flashback attack and she started to do some of the things I think she had been forced to do when she was away. But look, Joe, Jenny is seriously ill. She needs help. I want to know what you are going to do?”
“Jenny has been seen by a police psychiatrist, but I think she, that is to say the police person, is more interested in anything Jenny can remember which will help the police. She is not really interested in doing anything which might help Jenny get over what has happened to her.”
“I am sure that is exactly right.”
“She left us the name of someone we could call ... is Jenny dangerous?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean will she … could she …”
“Go after you with the bread knife?”
“Well, … oh … oh dear …well, yes?”
“No, Joe, I don’t think you are in any danger of that kind, but you do need to get help for her. You must follow up that name the police psychologist gave you. I think that you were actually supposed to do that? The only other thing I thought of is contacting the people at IWB. They might have experience or have made contingency plans for the care of one of their ‘house guests’ if they have an emotional melt-down, but if the police psychologist has given you the name of someone, you need to call them and explain what is happening. You have to do it right away. I am happy to speak with them, too, if they want to hear from me. I will say just one thing, by the way. Don’t do what I did. Don’t you go taxing Jenny with questions about what happened to her when she was away. Just take care of her. Right?”
“Cathy, did you get hurt?”
“No, only my pride, and I did not realise how good Jenny has got to be with her tongue. But, I am not going to say any more. I am sure you can piece the rest together.”
“Cathy, this is just dreadful. I am so very sorry.”
“Joe, it’s not your fault and, if I had not been so inquisitive, I am sure the morning would have turned out differently. Oh, one other thing. I don’t think Jenny is ready to go back to work and she is definitely not ready for Angela. OK?”
“Yes, I understand … we … will … I will contact the psychologist we were told about.”
After Cathy rings off, Joe picks up the business card from the table in the hall by the telephone. On one side, there are the details of Dr Anne Elba and on the other side is the name and number of the therapeutic psychiatrist Annie Elba suggested. Joe looks at the number for some moments. Why on earth had he not contacted this person before? He has done nothing constructive to care for his wife for over a week, but then, it is only now that Jenny’s dangerous state of mind had come centre stage? But surely, he should have done something after the disastrous meal at Cathy and George’s the week before? But, that was Friday and today is only the next Tuesday. He goes upstairs to find Jenny. She is on her mobile in floods of tears recounting some of the day’s horrible events to her mother but not, so far as Joe has overheard, Jenny’s assault on Cathy. Joe wastes no more time. He goes into the office and picks up the telephone.
Thursday and Friday, 15 & 16 days after Jennifer reappears
I am looking at Dr Laura Malvern, the psychologist who I hope, will be able to help my wife change back into the person she used to be.
We have come to Edgbaston, to her ‘trauma practice,’ which sounds as if it should be part of some Accident and Emergency Department in a hospital next to a motorway (1) but the practice occupies an Edwardian detached house in a leafy street in Birmingham.
The building has been decorated to make people feel at ease. It’s decorated in lemons and pale blues with fawn carpets and it smells of lavender or something like that. We are sitting in an upstairs room. There is a desk in one part of the room but we are in easy chairs near the window. There is Jenny, me, Dr Malvern and a female colleague of hers taking notes. She is and she isn’t present. An oddly invisible third party to our conversation.
Malvern has a quiet un-accented voice. She manages to give the impression that she has all the time in the world …
“ Let me begin by saying that it is a pleasure to meet you and thank you for contacting me. I had heard about you from Dr Elba and I have been expecting you to call.
“When people have experienced a big trauma in their lives, I think you need to know that getting better takes time. Just as it would if you had broken a leg bone, except that this will take longer to heal so you have to be patient and have to be prepared move at your own pace.”
“As far as treatment is concerned, I try to deal with things in threes.”
“First, it is very important for you to feel safe and you should start by making yourself safe at home. Be practical. Change the locks on the doors. Fit a burglar alarm. Have locks put on the windows. Don’t make your home into a fortress but on the other hand, I do think that you have to feel that you are physically safe when you are there.”
“If you venture out to work, you should make sure you are safe at work, too. You may not actually be ready to go to work and I could write to the HR Department of your University to tell them that they really need to give you more time off. Alternatively, if you are really keen to feel back in control of your life and you want to be occupied with something, then the something, whatever it is, should be something you can cope with easily. Library research rather than teaching. Hosting a tutorial, rather than lecturing to hundreds of students, and so on.”
“I should also mention that it’s a good idea to avoid people who are difficult to deal with, such as a demanding colleague.”
“Nowadays, people reach us in all sorts of ways, by phone and email for example, so think about arranging a new email address and get a new phone with a new number. You do not have to cut all your old connections but if you have a new phone and a new email, you can review any messages reaching you along old channels and respond to them when you want and if you want, instead of having to deal with them as soon as they arrive. It’s a bit like setting up your own border post. Also, if you think the people you were with might have your contact details, it breaks their hold on you.
“Keep yourself safe physically. Get exercise. Do things you enjoy. Wake up and think what you would like to do and not what other people think you ought to do. In fact, that’s such a good idea, I might organize a bit of that for myself!
“The second phase is to work through some of the memories which are hurting you. This is the hard work and can’t be done quickly. Mainly, that means not before you are psychologically strong enough. Not before you feel there is enough distance between you and the recent past events. We cannot erase memories. We cannot rub out what has gone by but we can break its hold over us, we can take the sting out of the memories we carry and we can start over, to be the people we actually are once more, not the people others want to make us.
“The last phase is to pick up our lives again and start living. In practice, it is best to do this bit by bit instead of waiting until every single painful memory had been put to rest. So for example, when you are ready, you go to the shops. At first with Joseph then later, on your own. You pick up with friends. Get used to going out to the gym. You go back to work. When you are at work, you resume your duties bit by bit. Thinking about recovering from physical injury: it is a good picture of what is happening. The bone mends. Physiotherapy softens tight tendons and painful muscles. You resume an exercise programme. Eventually, you are back running.”
Not long after Joe and Jenny reach the safety of home, Joe’s mobile rings. It's Andrew Palmer.
“Joseph? It's Andrew. I was just ringing to see how you and Jenny got on today? I do not have to tell you how worried Inga and I are after what happened the other day?”
“No Andrew, you don’t and yes, Jenny saw the psychologist today.”
“So how did things go?”
“I think that by and large, things went as well as they could. The Practice is easy to get to. The psychologist — who is called Laura Malvern, by the way — gave us as much time as we, I mean as Jenny, needed. There was no rush and … well … I thought … I thought Laura Malvern was someone who could help. She gave me confidence that she knew what she was doing. She started by explaining how she approached people who have had the sort of experiences that Jenny must have had, told us that recovery would take time, dealt issues like going back to work, offered to speak to the HR Department if Jenny needed her to do that, and rounded off with some very down-to-earth practical things we could do.”
“Such as?”
“Such as doing things to feel safe at home. Changing the locks and the phone number for example.”
″Ah. Hmmm. That is practical. Look, do you need Inga and me to come over? We haven’t wanted you to feel crowded by anxious parents and we thought you needed time on your own together but if you need us now, you know you just have to say?”
“Thanks, Andrew. You know you can come any time you like. I am on compassionate leave from work just now but maybe when I have to go back? For example, I would feel happier if I knew there would be someone round, so Jenny was not all alone …”
“When do they want you back?”
“When I called Chris Parker, three weeks was spoken of. That’s up a week on Monday”.
“Why don’t we come over this weekend, just for the day? We could stay in a hotel locally so we are not on top of you both and then we can ask Jenny if she would like us to be there when you go back. Does that sound all right?″
″Thanks, Andrew. That sounds more than all right. We’ll look forward to seeing you both.”
The next day, Cathy Corbin makes a call. She knows it's time, high time, this call was made, but she is not sure how she will be received.
“Good Morning. Inward Bound, How can I help?” asks an educated confident, self-assured voice.
“Dr Catherine Corbin from the Department of Psychology, University of Warwick calling to speak to Dr Corinne Aimes.”
“Speaking.”
“Dr Aimes, have you a few moments? I have to bring you up to date on the Jennifer McEwan project you were involved with some months ago.”
“Ah … !” The voice has shifted gear. It is speaking slower and firmer. It is saying ‘Why have I not heard from you before?’ without even articulating the words. “Yes, I have a few moments for that. Are you the person Professor Dawney told me was to take over the data analysis in the event that Jennifer McEwan was … unable … to do so herself? I have to say you have left it rather a long time to contact me, or should I say that to Professor Dawney herself?”
“Dr Aimes, I think you should definitely say that to Professor Dawney herself because I am ringing to give you some news about Jennifer …”
“Oh …”
“Jennifer and I are friends, actually very good friends. I am pleased to say that she was found in Stockholm and arrived home just recently.”
Cathy is pleased to see (or rather, to hear) her little bombshell has taken Corinne Aimes completely by surprise because for a satisfyingly long moment there is silence on the line.
“Oh … I see … can you tell me anything more?”
“Well, there is probably a lot to tell but Jennifer is not is a position to say much at the moment. From what I have heard from her husband, she swam ashore in Stockholm harbour when he and her parents (they had gone there on holiday) were sitting on the quay watching the sun set.”
There is an astonished gasp from Corinne.
“The Swedish police and the UK police are re-investigation her disappearance and are treating it as a case of abduction and people trafficking.”
Another silence on the line.
“My assessment — although I am not trained as a psychotherapist — nevertheless, my assessment is that she is suffering from acute post-traumatic stress disorder and there is no doubt at all that she is significantly unwell at the moment.”
“I see …”
“The other thing I have to tell you is that there has been a breach in the security of the data Jennifer collected at Inward Bound.”
“How?”
“Because a few weeks ago, Professor Dawney showed me a preliminary research report in a Russian journal called Psychological Letters. There was a report about how to investigate the sort of problem Jennifer was working on. No data but a detailed strategy for investigation, written by Mendeleyev, Romanova and Kuznetsova. The work written up is very similar to some work Jenny showed me before she disappeared. I think Jenny is Kuznetsova or was forced to write as Kuznetsova.”
“Oh … Dr Corbin, this is … well, I don’t know what to say. Er …”
“Astonishing?”
“Yes, that will definitely do for a start.”
“Look, we are clearly going to have to spend some time with each other but, where to begin? ”
“Well, let's be practical. Can I call you Catherine? It seems as if my displeasure at the way Jenny McEwan’s research investigation has been handled should not be directed at you.”
“I agree, it should be directed upwards, you might say, and it's Cathy, not Catherine.”
“Good to speak with you, Cathy. I am Corinne. Well, about Jenny. She was very easy to like and we were all horrified when she vanished. Did you know that her husband came to see us?”
“Joe?”
“Mr McEwan was looking for Jenny, not literally, but trying to find out more about the girl he had lost.”
“Yes, that is typical Joe. Very careful and thorough.”
“Do we know what Jenny thinks about her ... what shall I call it? … her ‘time away’?”
“I think it's rather too early to ask that sort of question. She is prone to suffer flashbacks and the behaviour she exhibits shows the psychological pressure she must have been placed under. My sense is that she had a very hard time but, if you see her, she is in many ways looking very well. For a start, she has a fantastic physique so on one level, she was extremely well treated. On another level, there is the research work. She seems to have been made to use her mind. It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing you would normally expect from a kidnap gang?”
“No, it does not. It would be more understandable if she had been working on something which was very commercially sensitive. Computer software or something.”
Or something … and at Corinne’s words a ‘something’ starts to wriggle in Cathy’s mind. As she tries to grasp the idea, it moves deeper into the darkness from where ideas emerge. Cathy tries to go back a few steps to the words which provoked the idea into the light, but with no success. She decides to let it be. Give the self-effacing idea some space and quietness to move into consciousness on another occasion.
“Corinne,” Cathy continues, “I really can’t explain about your data. The article — it is a translation from the Russian, by the way — just deals with research strategy, but you get the impression that there is data behind it. It does not read like speculation. I remember Joe telling George and I (George is my husband) that the police took Jenny and Joe’s computers away for examination and later on, he parcelled up the work Jenny had been doing and sent it to Angela Dawney. To have it sitting there in his home was a constant reminder that Jenny was not there.”
“Yes, I can understand. Tell me, was Professor Dawney surprised or disappointed to read the Mendeleyev article?”
“Angry would be the word I would use. Angry and surprised that another research group were working on this idea. Corinne, your work at Inward Bound, is that commercially sensitive?”
“Inward Bound? No, not at all. We advertise ourselves and we do not do anything beyond what you find anywhere in the ‘Fetish Kingdom.’ Our ‘differentiator’ is the way we put it together and the ‘package’ we make out of it. The ‘product,’ so to speak, works because of us. We are like actors in a play. The script and the stage set has to be good, but it only comes to life with the right cast. We are the right cast — well, we seem to be.”
Cathy has been listening to Corinne with a mounting sense of impatience. She has to make her point before she forgets it once more. “But, Corinne, Jenny’s research work was to look at the psychological changes which took place in the people who took your course. Is that the point? Her research into the effectiveness of your questionnaire screening and the changes in the people you trained?”
“You mean the way we identified certain personality traits and how the people changed afterwards? Do you mean there might be a commercial competitor for what we do?”
“Not quite. I mean that, if your business was people trafficking, would your questionnaires identify people who might be easier to manipulate? Could that be important enough to abduct someone and copy the data?”
“It would have to be pretty ‘high end’ people trafficking! I thought most of the people who were sucked into this predicament were subject to some very grubby exploitation?”
“Yes I agree, but perhaps not everyone. Perhaps Jenny has been identified by people who actually are into the top end of the trafficking business?”
“Angela?”
“Yes, Arnold. How can I help?”
“Angela, Human Resources have been in touch with me.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Well, you will, of course, recall Jennifer McEwan, your student who disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Well, it seems she has come back to life, as it were. She has contacted HR and had a preliminary discussion about coming back to work. What do you think about that?”
“Do we have any explanation of her absence?”
“Not in detail. You will remember the police investigation?”
“Yes, I can remember something about that. Actually, one of their people has already been to see me again.”
“Have they?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I was ringing to ask if you would consider taking Mrs McEwan under your wing once again, to help her find her feet, see what she feels she can do?”
“Arnold! You know the pressure we are under to maintain our research ranking. I cannot carry passengers and it's not fair of you to ask me.”
“I don’t think I am asking that, Angela. After all, who knows how she might perform once she is more herself again?”
“Also, Arnold, I am not a therapeutic psychologist and I cannot provide that sort of support.”
“Of course. That’s understood. It's just that the institution has to be seen to be a caring organisation aware of the needs of its staff. As things stand, it does not seem as if Mrs McEwan went AWOL on a whim.”
“No, I agree, Arnold, it doesn’t. But that does not mean I can take her back at the drop of a hat and design a re-introduction programme, holding her hand until she is fully fit and well. If you want my opinion …”
“Of course I do, Angela. Of course I do …”
“ if you want my opinion you need to run this past Frank. He has taken on the administrative burden of the Department and is in charge of Undergraduate teaching at the moment. Why don’t you ask him if he can slot her in somewhere?”
“Well, I asked you first because wasn’t she supposed to be registered for a PhD under your supervision?”
“She was and the work is still there to be done, but the question is, is she fit to do it at the moment? If there is doubt over that, the right course is to organise a ‘phased return to work’ or whatever it is the HR people call it. That’s puts her in Frank’s orbit at the moment.”
“I see. I see. Well, if you think that is the right way forward, Angela?”
“Arnold, do you know that quotation from Richard Feynman?”
“The physicist?”
“The physicist.”
“No, well, which on? There were so many.”
“A PhD is research carried on by the Professor under particularly trying circumstances!”
“Ah … meaning what, in this context?”
“Meaning that when McEwan is herself again, there might be something to talk about, but there is very little to talk about at the moment.”
“I see. I see. Well, I will speak to Frank then?”
“Yes, Arnold. Speak to Frank.”
Not long after, Angela's phone rings again.
“Professor Dawney?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Professor Dawney, this is Dr Corinne Aimes speaking.”
“Who?”
“Dr Aimes. We have a joint research project.”
“What? Have we? I don’t think we have?”
“Well I think we definitely do have. Let me remind you. At one time, you were very keen for one of your doctorate students to collect data — extremely sensitive personal data — at my organization. The student concerned, Jennifer McEwan, was unable to complete her research and you promised that another of your students would complete the project. Several, in fact many months have passed and I have heard nothing from you and there has been no student.”
Angela is now well aware of exactly who she is talking to. This is the McEwan project again. Will the futilities of this irritating young woman never leave her alone?
“Dr Aimes”, she begins, “doctorate students do not grow on trees.”
“Let me be rightly understood,” says Corinne, cutting brutally across Angela’s obfuscations. “Jennifer McEwan collected some very sensitive data. You have failed to give me any reassurance about its continuing security. If you cannot care for it, I shall take it back and look after it myself.”
“But … but you can’t. It's part of a research project.”
“What project? A minute ago, you told me that the replacement for Ms McEwan had not been identified. Something about trees?”
At this point in the conversation, Angela begins to realise that she is fast losing ground. The university would expect her to treat sensitive personal data with care. Touching base with Corinne Aimes to tell her what was intended would have been important. Angela opens her mouth to try and recover, but Corinne has not finished.
“I believe there is a suggestion that this data might have leaked abroad. To Russia? Something about a report in Psychological Letters?”
“Er, well, Dr Aimes, I can assure you that your data has not been passed to any third party. There has been a report of a similar project but, as far as I know, McEwan is not connected with it in any way. I mean, I would surely have heard. I know two of the authors of this report.”
“And, do you know anything of Mrs McEwan?”
“What? Well, no … well, I mean, yes. I believe she has just come home from abroad, although I can’t begin to explain what she has actually been doing or what possessed her to go away in the first place.”
“I see,” says Corinne, being deliberately testy. “So, can I leave it that you will soon be in touch either to return the data or explain how you intend to have the project completed? If you have no further confidence in Mrs McEwan, my colleagues and I have the expertise to undertake her academic supervision here by agreement with the Faculty and University Court at Warwick but then I expect you know that?”
Angela gratefully replaces the receiver. Blast the McEwan girl! She has spelled trouble the whole time Angela has known her. What a sweet day it will be when she will no longer have any responsibility for her!
Jenny and I are lying down together on our bed. The evening is drawing in. It is good just to be close to one another after all these months. The television holds no attractions. It all seems so raucous or bland nowadays. Food and drink have lost their appeal. What I want is to be close to my wife again, to smell the scent of her body and to feel her near me. But, how she has changed! Her colour, her body, her appearance, and what about her mind? I keep hearing her muttering to herself in a language I cannot understand and flipping through the TV channels to find a station called ‘Pyervi Kanal’ (2), which seems to be mainly news in Russian and I only know that because of the white, blue and red stripy flag that is on the background and the funny writing.
She turns to look at me — and smiles. And I smile back. I stretch out my hand and stroke her nipple. It's ringed and I can’t remember if it was ringed before she went or not. So much has taken place! She giggles and shudders, just a little. I continue to rub and she licks her lips. She smiles again and changes position. I still have access to her nipples, but now she can stroke my cock. She turns her head and looks at me slightly sideways through eyes just closed a little. It’s a gesture which seems to say ‘I know what you are doing and I want you to carry on,’ so that's what I do. Gently rubbing and enjoying her squirming response.
Suddenly, she leans forwards and takes my cock in her mouth. She has such a muscular physique nowadays that it feels like being taken by a fierce animal. As if to acknowledge my thoughts, she glances up, smiles — as much as you can with a mouthful of cock — and continues to suck. She does rather more than that. As I get bigger, she starts to rub the underside of my cock head with her teeth and, as I get bigger still, she takes my balls in her hand and squeezes, just a little, just to let me know that I am being played with by someone or something more powerful but Jenny has been damaged. Jenny is unpredictable. Reading my thoughts again, she – the predator – lets me out of her maw (as it seems) and slithers down the bed, sliding her arms beneath my thighs and pulls me flat onto the sheets.
In a flash, she plants her hand on my chest and spins herself round so her mouth is back around my cock and her smooth bald pussy is over my mouth. She looks back at me and pauses just for a moment. I collect my thoughts and start to tongue her vagina. She is warm. Wet. Her arousal is obvious from her smell. My tentative exploration becomes bolder. My tongue parts her and I explore the valley between her inner and outer lips. It is territory I ought to know well but it has changed. There are now metal eyelets inserted in each lip. When she first came back, before she was examined by the police medical people in Stockholm, rings passed through each of them and closed her off. A sign that even in this intimate area, she belonged to others and not to me. Eventually, the tip of my tongue is circling and crossing and circling a very erect clitoris. She likes this. I can tell by the increasing sucking force she is applying to my cock. By the way she wriggles and rubs her tongue stud under my glans and grazes the underside of the head with her teeth again, working harder and harder.
Suddenly, I realize that I am starting to climb to orgasm. I have the absurd image in my mind of Mission Control saying ‘ignition sequence start’ and a view upwards towards the gaping ends of rocket engines. The more she sucks and works my cock head with her teeth and tongue, the closer to ejaculation I get. It will not be long before she gets me all the way. Small currents of itchy electricity start to run around the head of my cock. I am more and more thinking about cumming except that I want to be inside her vagina. I want to feel her around me. I want to take her. Fuck her.
I stop. Very deliberately. I stop and set my hand onto her pelvis. I push upwards and Jenny rolls over. She is smiling broadly. This brown and bald muscular creature is smiling and the smile is beckoning me inside. Better not disappoint! Better not disobey! I mount her, slide my cock into her.
Wow! She is hot. Wet. Firm. Slippery. I embrace her with my arms and she raises her mouth to mine. My tongue is hot inside her, just as my cock is inside her. I press my pelvis down on hers and, suddenly, I am deep inside her and she is squeezing me and this is ecstasy! Together, we start to fuck. Slowly, then faster, our rhythm is building. With each stroke, I seem to sink deeper inside her and she seems to open wider around me. She is so hot. So peppery. Little itches of pleasure are once more running up the head of my cock. I want her. I want to leave myself inside her. She really is mine!
Jenny is rolling her hips in perfect unison with my own efforts, sucking on my cock, not with her mouth but with her vagina. Greedily devouring me. I feel a fountain of sensation deep within. I am going to cum. Is she protected? I don’t care! I just want her. Want to take her. Leave my sperm inside her! Seconds later, I erupt. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ahhhhhhhh! Ah, the sweet pain of orgasm! My ejaculation seems to go on and on. Will it never stop? And finally, as it wanes, I can feel her shudder, grinding her clit against my pubic bone. She orgasms, too, and together, we collapse, our bodies wet with perspiration. Our lust for one another is fed, but desire is not slaked.
She opens her eyes and says: “Now Eoosef. I will suck you clean and you will lick me clean. It's what I am used to!”
Lying head to toe once again, following instructions as I jink and gasp as her tongue and teeth glide across my tender other head, I find myself thinking about her last teasing remark.
‘You will lick me clean. It's what I am used to.’ Used to. Used … to. How? Who was he? Who were they? How many were they? How often were they? And whilst Jenny basks in post-coital bliss and whilst my mouth is full of our mixed flavours, I feel a shadow pass over the face of ecstasy.
References:
1. A Motorway is the British equivalent of ‘Freeway’ or ‘Autobahn’
2. ‘Pyervi Kanal’ in Russian means ‘Channel One’.
Three weeks after Jennifer reappears Edgbaston and Warwick
Today I have another appointment with Dr Malvern, Laura, as she likes me to call her, but I prefer ‘Dr Malvern.’ I think it might make it easier to tell her … things. Things I might not want Joe and Mummy and Daddy and friends to know. About who I am now. ‘Dr Malvern’ puts them in a neat and tidy place. A clean place. Somewhere not full of all sorts of bits of me. So, I begin to talk about what I did yesterday and how it was for me.
“Yesterday, Joe had to go in to work early; he was out by 6:30 and I was left alone. In bed. I drifted into and out of sleep and then, when I looked, it was almost 8am. Now that I am home, I find it difficult to motivate myself. It's hard to do things in the way that I feel I ought to. Actually, it's hard to do things in the way that I have been trained to. I suppose my motivation will come back. Eventually.”
“So, what did you do then?”
“I could not bear to stay in bed any longer. I got up and began to wash. I started by cleaning my teeth. I was caught by surprise at the colour of the toothpaste. It was white, not pink. The taste was minty, not sweet. The tube had the brand name and details printed brightly. It carried all sorts of technical claims. It's very different from what I used, well, back then.”
“Oh? So tell me how it felt, yesterday? Maybe take me back there with you. I will stand by you, to keep you safe.”
“The toothpaste I got used to was pink and sweet. It comes in a tube decorated with a picture of Cheburashka. Cheburashka is a small brown furry happy creature with large ears. (1)
″When I was given this toothpaste, at first I was so angry. It was obviously toothpaste designed for a child. The colour. The smell. The taste. All carefully contrived to appeal to little children.″
As she begins to explain her feelings to Laura Malvern, in the privacy of her mind, Jennifer is suddenly Vyera again and back at the Dacha. Perhaps back where she belongs? The trigger of the toothpaste is all it has taken. Gaspazha Neena is standing over her and Jennifer is on her knees looking up at Neena.
Jennifer feels so frightened. After she was examined by the doctor, she thought they would let her go, but they haven’t! The woman who calls herself Gaspazha Neena is now standing right over her. When she came into the cell, Jennifer stood up. Neena slashed Vyera across her thigh with a riding crop. Once. Again. Again. It stings horribly. Neena really meant the blows to hurt and they do. Jennifer jumps back with alarm, but there is nowhere to go.
Neena advances towards her and points to the floor and says “Kneel.” Jennifer’s thigh is still burning. Neena points to the floor once more. Jennifer hesitates. Neena raises her arm to hit Vyera again, but now she kneels. And waits. And Neena smiles. The tension of the moment begins to evaporate.
″Vyera,″ she says, ″as part of looking after yourself, you have to pay careful attention to your teeth. How often do you brush?″
This is bizarre beyond belief. Nightmarish, even. Jennifer has just been assaulted. By raising her arm, Neena makes it clear that she will do it again if Jennifer does not kneel in front of her, and now Neena starts an interrogation about oral hygiene.
″Twice, each day,″ replies Jennifer.
″When?″
″After breakfast and last thing at night.″
″Anything else?″
″No. Look, what is this to you? That’s my business, thank you.″ The bullying girl takes a step towards Jennifer. She is wearing tall black boots and the sound of her step echoes in the small room.
″Everything about you is my business. I am your Trainer and your Supervisor. At this moment, I am going to teach you how to look after your teeth.″
″There is nothing wrong with the way I look after my teeth, thank you. The Hygienist at my Dentist’s said so.″ Jennifer is beginning to cry. She is desperate to hold on to something that she has always done.
″Did she?″
″Yes.″ By now, Jennifer is really weeping. The tears are streaming down her cheeks.
″Well, she is wrong, or your memory is playing tricks with you. Either way, it does not matter anymore because you are not achieving my standards for you. This is what you are to do: you will brush just before you sleep at night; you will brush as soon as you awake; you will brush after your breakfast. Each day, before you sleep you will use these inter-dental brushes. Push them gently into the spaces between your teeth at gum level. They will slide in between. Each day after breakfast, you will use a fluoride mouthwash. If you do not work at this to my satisfaction, I will whip you. Do you understand?″
For a moment — it's such a long moment — Jennifer is left with no words to say. She is astonished at the way she has been spoken to, dismayed at the instructions handed out to her as if she was a little child. She begins to feel cold and begins to shake with fear at the situation she is in. She stares up at her and opens her mouth. From somewhere, she manages to say, ″Yes.”
″That’s better,″ replies Neena. ″Here is a brush, the inter-dental brush. You will receive a new one each week. Here is zoobnaya pasta; that is the proper name for toothpaste and it is the name you will use from now on. Your mouthwash will come with your breakfast.″
The toothpaste is obviously intended for a child. The tube has a picture of a little furry cartoon animal on it. Anger begins to bubble up inside Jennifer again. ″This is children’s toothpaste!″
″Yes. The little creature is Cheburashka.″
″But I am an adult.″
″NO, you are a slave and slaves are treated like small children. Now, you will use it and I will watch you. Do it now.″ The girl Neena is close to Vyera now. She rubs her crop along Vyera’s thigh. It reignites in Jennifer the stinging memory of the strokes she laid onto her and the message is clear: ″Do as you are told or I will hit you again.″
The details of the memory are too painful for Jennifer to articulate and, in any case, she is too frightened to do so because she has not been given permission. Instead, she continues to talk about her feelings.
“I pop open the cap and squeeze out the toothpaste onto the brush. It is a baby pink colour.
“I can hear someone telling me: ’Open your mouth and brush your teeth.’″
“I hesitatingly open my mouth. I feel embarrassed to do it. Humiliated. For some reason, it feels like a sexual violation. As I slide the brush into my cheek, it touches my tongue. It feels as if they are reaching right inside me.
“I begin to brush, with their brush and their toothpaste in my mouth. The paste is sweet, and actually pleasant in a little child sort of way. It's always going to feel like this. Every time I do this, I will feel them putting themselves inside my body. Leaving their after-taste in my mouth, a constant reminder of being violated.
“Suddenly, I am back home. Staring at the wash hand basin. Looking at the drool of white, sharp-tasting, minty toothpaste from my mouth. This taste tells me I am home. The taste tells me I am not where I should be. Each time I go through the routine, it reminds me I am still following orders. Still the obedient … (Jennifer searches for the right word. She was going to say ‘slave,’ but that is too precise. She has, after all, not been given permission to say who she is and exactly what she is now) … person they made me. I may be Jennifer again, but will I ever escape from who I became, even in these innocent, intimate moments?”
“Well done!”
“What?”
“I said ‘well done,’ for reliving that memory for me.”
“Oh.”
“How do you feel now?”
“About brushing?”
“Well, all right, start with that. About brushing?”
“I am still doing as I have been told.”
“Does this memory make you want to change?”
“Not really, because it's obviously the right way it should be done and, when I do it in the way I was told, I know I am doing the right technical thing, but I also know that I am still following instructions. If I do the right thing, I always end up following orders I have been given before. They were always doing this sort of thing to me. Whichever way I turned, it was always another step down the road they were taking me and the road always led to the submission of my will to theirs. In the end, I realised there would never be anywhere to run. Whichever turn I took, the road always took me to where other people wanted me to go.”
“Like a nightmare?”
“At first, it was like a nightmare. I used to get panicked. I used to try desperately to assert myself, but however hard I tried to find something I could do, there were other people always there, correcting me, punishing me, making me into the person they wanted me to be. Eventually, it became reassuring. If I did what I was told, I would not be punished. So, as time went on, I stopped fighting. I used to say to myself, ‘Don’t think, just do. Nice things will happen to you if you just do what you have been told.’ So, that’s what I did and, then, I really seemed to be rushing headlong towards the person they wanted me to be. When I was alone, at night, when I had the chance to look back, Joe and Mummy and Daddy were getting smaller and smaller and I knew that before long, they would be so small that I would not be able to see them anymore and I would be totally alone.”
“How did that make you feel?”
″At first, I just could not believe what was happening. I used to think it was some sort of horrible dream and soon I would wake up. But I never did wake up and it just went on and on and on and then I became desperate and sad that I had not been able to explain to Joe, and Mummy and Daddy, what had happened to me. Actually ‘sad’ is not a big enough word. Later, I used to feel storms of anger coming over me …”
(but Jennifer remembers all too clearly, in the secrecy of her mind, you shouldn’t give in to anger when your Supervisor has a cane she enjoys using and there is a collar around your neck which will deliver an electric shock if you get out of hand).
“… The anger used to get mixed up with fear of what was eventually going to happen to me and a desire to resist what was happening and assert myself. Finally, I just accepted that was how it was going to be, and then (and I just feel so ashamed about this) I got to love it. Do you know, I would not have come home if I had not been given a direct instruction to return to Joe?”
“And now?”
“Now, I am just wearied. I went so far. I have not got the energy to come all the way back. You are all still so far away.”
“But, you are home, with your husband.”
“Yes, this is where I am geographically, but I am not talking about that. I am talking about the person I have become.”
“You mean ‘became,’ surely?”
“No. I mean the person I have become. Look at me. My colour. My physique. But most of all, my mind. The easiest way to be is to be the way they made me.”
“Hmmm. You know, I think we have done enough for today.”
“Yes, I think so too.”
“What are you going to do now? How are you getting home?”
″Joe is picking me up and then taking me home. Maybe we will stop somewhere for something to eat.”
“Good. I like that, going out. Let's meet again …next week? Will you be strong enough?”
“I think so. Can I cancel if I can’t manage?”
“Of course, you have my number.”
“Yes, I have your number.”
Joe has brought me home. It's early afternoon. I have closed our front door on the world, to try and feel safe inside our home, like Dr Malvern says, when there is a ring at the door. A man is standing there with flowers. He says, “For a lady called Vera, care of Jennifer McEwan,” and smiles. Vera is a rather old-fashioned, awkward, unattractive name in English, but what he really means is Vyera, which is quite different. I say, “You mean Vyera and yes, I will take them for her.” He hands me a large beautiful bouquet of flowers in white and red and blue. Of course. The colours of the Russian flag. My new flag. The man has left and Joe stands beside me.
“Who are they from?”
“There is a card here,” I reply.
“Let me see,” he says. All the card says is ‘With Love’ and maybe it is with love, but it is also a reminder who also loves me, apart from Joe. It’s a tug on the invisible chain which runs from me to my Owners. It’s a remembrance that they have not forgotten me.
As the evening draws on, Jennifer starts to feel very tired and, even though it's not even 8pm, she retreats to the safely of the bedroom whilst Joe spends time with the television downstairs. Out of the window, Jenny can hear the sound of horses coming up the road. She goes to the window and watches.
There are three ponies. Two of them are being ridden. The third one is being led. The front pony is a beautiful palomino. The girl riding her is sat on a pale tan saddle and is wearing black riding boots. She has white jodhpurs and a stripy rugby shirt. She guides her mount with reins and encourages him forward with taps on his rump from her crop. It’s a very satisfying scene. It’s a very English country scene. Jenny watches them until they vanish round a bend in the road, and then she goes to bed.
During the night, Jenny is visited again by a vision of horses but horses of a very different nature.
She stands in front of the closed door of her cell. She is naked apart from her running shoes and socks. The door opens and Neena is standing before her. Neena is wearing a rugby shirt, white jodhpurs and black boots. She has her crop in her hand. Vyera knows the crop. She has tasted it many times on her thighs and bottom. Sometimes, to encourage. Sometimes, to reward. Sometimes, to punish. Neena points to the floor. Vyera drops to her knees. Neena turns and glances over her shoulder. Vyera follows behind on her knees. Neena has Vyera crawl along the basement corridor, further than she has ever been before. So far that the journey seems to take hours. Vyera understands that she is being taken somewhere new. She can see Neena’s boots in front of her. She begins to get wet, looking at the boots. Thinking about the crop. Thinking about being spanked by a beautiful girl who wears boots and carries a riding crop.
Presently, the boots come to a stop outside a very solid looking door. It looks like the sort of door which might lead outside.
“Vyera, stand. Close your eyes. Keep your eyes closed. Wait.”
Orders. Vyera has come to like orders like these. Simple. Precise. Clear. She has learned that nice things can happen when you follow orders. Follow them exactly. She stands and feels Neena’s hand on her shoulder. Neena turns and pushes Vyera forwards by a hand on her bottom. Vyera notices that the air is colder and smells — different. She cannot place the aroma, but it reminds her of her childhood. A sweet, musty, tangy smell. Neena’s hand on her shoulder stops and steadies her again. They are not alone. Vyera can hear other people. Once, she would have been embarrassed, but not now. After all, she is merely a slave and how can slaves be embarrassed? Embarrassment only comes when one does inappropriate things, but a slave must do anything that is demanded of it, so everything is appropriate.
“Open your mouth, Vyera.”
Vyera opens her mouth.
A hard rubbery bar is pressed in. It fits perfectly across her first molars, stretching her cheeks, just a little. Swallowing is possible — she can just bring her lips together over the bar — but not speech, for the bar presses down on her tongue.
Straps are being passed over and around her head and tightened, until her head and the bar are firmly held in their embrace.
Neena says “open your eyes” and for the first time, Vyera can see where she is. It is a stable and she is wearing a horse’s bit and bridle, except it is one designed for a human.
“Vyera, you will do as you are told. Nod your head to show you understand.”
Vyera nods.
“Arms behind your back.”
Vyera obeys.
Her arms are strapped together, wrist to forearm, forearm to wrist, and doubly secured by a broad strap running around the two forearms. Vyera is now without her arms. She is totally dependent on and controlled by Neena and another girl Vyera has not seen before, also dressed like Neena.
“Legs apart.”
Vyera spreads her legs.
A body harness is draped over her head. It passes over each shoulder and there are openings for each breast. It passes down across her tummy and its free end dangles between her legs.
A wide leather belt is passed around her waist and secured over the harness. The harness is then brought up between her legs and attached to the belt at her rear. The leather is thick and soft and smooth and its edges are rounded. There is no opportunity for chafing.
“Vyera, forward.”
Vyera passes out of the tack room, into the stable area proper and on into a carriage room. She is guided between the shafts of a sulky and the shafts are clipped onto the side of her waist belt. She and the sulky are now one.
Neena stands in front of her. She takes Vyera’s chin into her hands.
“Vyera, Anna Symeonova has come to help me. She will climb into the sulky and you will pull her. I will walk with you and you will learn to pull, like the animal you are. Anna Symeonova will guide you left and right with reins attached to the bit between your teeth. Your bit. The bit made especially for you. I will help you with my crop. Today, you will learn to feel the sulky and to respond to the reins. You will not need your eyes.”
Neena applies a blindfold. It passes across Vyera’s eyes and fastens behind her head. It is made from leather, soft and completely effective. She puts her lips close to Vyera’s ear and Vyera can feel the soft tickly caress of Neena’s voice upon her skin.
“The signal to go is one tap from my crop on your thigh. The signal to stop is two taps and a pull back on your reins. Now, walk on!”
“Jenny? Are you all right?”
Jenny wakes up. She stares bleary-eyed at her surroundings: a domestic bedroom and, beside her, a man she can’t quite remember.
Although she cannot speak because of the bit she wears, she says “What?” and finds that the bit and bridle have vanished. Neena and Anna Symeonovna have dissolved into memory. She is still naked, but in bed with Joe, her husband.
“Bad dream?”
“No, not bad. Just — things I did.”
“Do you want tea?”
“No, just sleep. Lie down with me, please.”
Joe lies down next to his wife, who is soon asleep, once more.
References:
(1) Cheburashka: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheburashka. There really is Cheburashka toothpaste although neither Phil nor Freddie has ever tried it. However, the toothpaste enterprise is not how it was in Soviet times:
(2) Tsveti is Russian for ‘flowers’
Four weeks after Jennifer Reappears
We're driving into Birmingham. It's not far, usually about half an hour to get into the centre. The worst bit is always finding somewhere to park if you're shopping, but we're heading to the University.
As we get close to the Bull Ring (1), I'm suddenly conscious that I'm starting to feel really horny. Horny for Joe.
I watch him as he drives. I imagine stripping him. Looking into his eyes. Running my hand over his cock and balls. Scratching him just behind his sack. Joe is wonderfully tickly! It means I can torture him with just the tip of my finger! Make him wriggle and squeal!
It’s a warm sunny day. I am wearing just a T shirt, a pair of light slacks and some thong sandals. I curl my toes up and stretch them out again. They slip across the smooth brown leather. The sensation just adds to my desire.
We cut around behind Moor Street Station and head towards Aston. Joe is looking for a parking space close to one of the 1960's concrete and brick buildings (2).
“How long are you going to be?” We haven't really thought this through. It just seemed like a good idea for me to tag along, do some shopping, maybe grab some lunch later.
Joe is characteristically distracted. It's often the same when he's focused on something for work. “Er, I don’t know. It’s an exploratory meeting to see if there is any opportunity for a co-operation. A group in the Civil Engineering Department are trying to improve the mechanical properties of concrete by adding nano-particles to it, so maybe we could make lighter, stronger structures.”
I feel a tight, tickly sensation somewhere inside my armpits. I curl my wrists and stretch my arms. “I’m a light strong structure, did you know?”
Joe glances quickly across at me. He smiles. His smile broadens into a laugh. “I know,” he says.
I glance down. My body is very built-up for a woman. The T shirt is tight across my chest. My breasts look more like a guy’s pecs, but my nipples give away their true nature — that and the outline of the rings which pass through them. I am going to have to be careful, I think. Better not make a public exhibition of myself!
“What are you thinking?”
“That I had better not make an exhibition of myself.”
“OK, shame though.”
“So, you would like me to be on show, would you?”
“Maybe!” He chuckles. He has got a lot more relaxed about sex. His escapades while I was … away … seem to have made a real difference.
“Joe McEwan, you need a spanking for that! These sandals would be very good to use. Spanked by your wife with her sandals. Nice! Alternatively … maybe you need to be on show as well? Do you know, I rather like the idea of taking a week or two away. Going to some naturist resort. Putting you on show as well as me. Getting to rub you with oil all over, and I mean all over you.”
“You are putting me off driving! How am I supposed to find somewhere to park?”
I smile back at him. “Well, I will have time today to lay plans. Would you like that?”
“I like everything you do, Jenny,” he says.
“Hmmm. That sounds like a ‘yes’ to me!” I reply, and giggle.
Finally, he finds a space and parks the car. Joe says, “Look, I think this meeting is going to last about a couple of hours. Three, at the most. I could text you when I get a better idea of when I will be finished?”
“And I can walk back into the city centre and enjoy the shops?”
“Sounds good. Don’t get into mischief.”
“That sounds like a challenge! You will just have to wait and see, Joe McEwan. The idea of you naked on a beach for all the world to see is very appealing. Do you think there are travel agents in Birmingham?”
I exit the shop onto the street. The sunlight is very bright and for a moment I am dazzled by the brightness of the day. It seems to take a few seconds to re-focus my gaze and then … where am I? I turn round to see where I have come from. It’s a dress shop. I have never been given instructions to visit a dress shop! I do not have any dresses. When I get back to the Dacha, I will be naked again. For goodness sake, what have I been doing?
I can’t remember the instructions I have been given: where to go, what shop to visit, what to buy, when to return, what Metro station to use, how much money to spend, what change to arrive back with. In panic, I look wildly up and down the street. My sense of panic deepens. There is no Metro station to be seen. No bright red, unmistakable ‘M’ (3).
Fear is beginning to creep right over me. Perhaps I have ‘regressed’? Forgotten all they have carefully taught me? Perhaps I will become like Pavea? Will I have to go through all my basic training all over again? Will they put Pavea in charge of me as part of my punishment?
I try to calm myself. Try to get control of the rising panic. I deliberately slow down my breathing, make every cycle slower, deeper to give me room to think.
First: Instructions. What were they likely to send me for? Obviously, not for a dress. What about Gaspazha Alana’s baby? It must be something for Dmitry. So, that would mean a baby shop or an Apotek (4). I open my eyes to look around me. All the names of the shops are unrecognizable! There are letters I hardly seem to recognize, like ‘S’. Some of the ‘M’s have been written upside down so they look like W. The ÿ has been written the wrong way round so it looks like R. Even the people look different: there are so many who have tanned skins — like me and yet not like me.
I am starting to perspire again. I feel increasingly sick and unwell. My head begins to hurt. I still cannot remember what they sent me for!
There is only one thing I can do now: to confess and accept the consequences. I feel for the mobile ‘phone I was given. It's an iPhone. How odd. I am sure I never had one of those? Gaspazha Neena has one, of course, and Gaspazha Alana and Dr Romanova. But there it is, in my pocket.
Can I work it? Do I know what to do? Tentatively, I switch on. I pick out the ‘phone’ icon and bring up the key pad. So far, so good. I dial the only number I have been given. The number I am to use in an emergency. The phone rings and rings. I can feel panic rising again inside me. I feel as if I am going to lose complete control this time. If only they would answer quickly!
“Neena Alexandrovna.”
It's Gaspazha Neena! Thank goodness! Relief pours over me. It almost feels as if I have been in the shower.
“Gaspazha Neena, It is Vyera! I am so sorry. I am lost! I don't know where I am and I cannot remember the instructions you gave to me. I am so sorry. Can you tell me again, please? I know I deserve punishment. I am so sorry.″
″Vyerka?″ She seems surprised that I have called, but I can't think why that should be. I babble something apologetic. She interrupts me. “Vyerka! Calm down. Tell me where you are. Tell me now.”
“I do not know! All the letters on the shop names look wrong. I just do not remember anything.”
“What sort of mobile are you using?”
“It's an iPhone.”
“Ah … can you remember your mac ID? The mac ID you were given? Give it to me now.”
“I am … er … I am ZhehKarMak at me.com”
“I don’t think you are Zheh. You might have to use one of the funny letters you were talking about.”
“Oh … er … erm …”
″Vyerka! Keep hold of your emotions. What about Jen?″
″Da, Gaspazha, that’s right: JenKarMac at me.com.″
″And the password?″
″Er … er… its … Svenska82″
″Uh huh. Wait patiently, Vyerka …″
Neena peels herself from Pavea’s tongue and gets up to pick up her own ‘phone. Slaves! Why do they always seem to need active attention at such awkward moments? This is what it must be like to have little children, Neena muses.
Pavea is looking sulkily up at her, obviously irritated at being subverted by the phone call. Neena ignores her. It's good for slaves to know that they cannot ever be the centre of attention and besides, why on earth is Vyera back in contact now and like this?
She launches the ‘find my iPhone’ app (5) and enters Vyera’s details. Shortly, a map of Birmingham City Centre appears on screen with an iPhone icon inside a little circle. The bubble has a tail which is pointing to Vyera’s position. Neena smiles. That, at least, is manageable. She isn't far from home and it should be easy enough to get someone to help her. Neena makes a guess that Vyera’s husband will be in the city himself, probably not too far away. Perhaps Joseph might be the answer to the slave’s problems?
Despite the inconvenience of the call, Neena is pleased. Vyera is appealing to her Supervisor for help when she gets lost. Not her husband. Not her parents. Not her work colleagues. Instead, she called Neena!
Neena zooms in on the map and looks for somewhere suitable to ‘park’ Vyera until she can resolve the crisis. Perhaps a café might do the trick?
″Vyerka?″
″Da. Gaspazha?″ Vyera is beginning to sound uncertain, as if she isn't really sure why she called.
Now it is Neena’s turn to feel the sting of anxiety in addition to the thrill of excitement. She does not want to waste the opportunity to reassert control, especially as Vyera presented the opportunity herself. Perhaps she is starting to revert, to become Jennifer McEwan once more? Neena’s only option is to be gently firm and decisive. If Vyera is uncertain, she needs certainty. ″Vyera, listen to me. Here are your instructions. Turn left. Walk to the next junction. Turn right, then fifty metres on your right, look for a café called Ñòàðáàêñ. You have seen Ñòàðáàêñ in Moscow. It has a black, green and white sign which shows a smiling girl wearing a crown. Do not look for the writing because the name will not be spelt correctly where you are. Look for the sign. Go to into the café and buy a large latte and a biscotti. Wait there. I will send someone to collect you. Do you understand?″ (6)
″Da Gaspazha. Will they recognize me?″
″Oh, yes, Vyera!,″ Neena is certain of this. Absolutely certain. ″They will recognize you! I will send them your picture. Now listen to me. Listen to me. Go to Starbucks. Buy the coffee and the biscuit and phone me again, to confirm you have got there. Do it now!″
Vyera says, ″Spaseeba, Gaspazha.″ and closes the call. As soon as she is off the line, Neena picks up her ‘phone extension and calls Yevgeny.
Vasili Nikolievitch answers. ″Yes?″
″Where is Yevgeny?″
″He is off duty today. Can I help? Who is this?″
″This is Neena Alexandrovna. I have a situation on my hands.″
″Is this an authorized operation? I can’t help if it is not.″
Vasili is Yevgeny’s ‘understudy’ and, consequently, he is always a little unsure of his position. Neena understands Vasili's excessively formal approach, but she has no time for it now. She is used to training slaves. An obstructive operative is hardly a challenge. ″For goodness sake, Vasili Nikolievitch! This is Neena Alexandrovna speaking! Do you want me to call Svetlana Nikitechna or Anatoly Sergeyevitch and ask them to speak to you?″
″Oh, er, no. No, do not do that.″ Confronted by Neena's threat, Vasili caves in. ″What do you want me to do?″
“I want you to locate a man called Joseph McEwan. He is the husband of Vyera, the slave we ‘lost.’ I think he is in Birmingham. It is a city in the UK. Then report to me at once. Let me point out again that this has to be done now and has to be done quickly. It is important!”
As Neena speaks to Vasili, she is also gazing at the map showing Vyera’s position and then Neena notices what she has done. She has a directed Vyera to a branch of Ñòàðáàêñ right opposite the main railway terminus in the city: New Street Station! The possibilities inherent in the situation begin to crystallize rapidly in Neena’s mind.
Vyera is not with her husband.
Vyera has become disorientated and has appealed to her Supervisor for help.
Vyera has money.
Vyera is close to a railway station where she could catch a train to London.
London is a place where Vyera could be taken into custody once more before her repatriation to Russia!
On his part, Vasili is relieved. It's not actually a difficult task — and McEwan is on the 'watch list,' so he knows where to start. He tries to regain the initiative. ″I can tell you feel this is important, Neena Alexandrovna. I am sure I can help. I will call you right back.″
Neena shakes her head as she puts the phone down. She stares out of the window for a moment and considers. If Vyera is in Birmingham, her husband will almost certainly be close at hand. If only they can snatch Vyera back from out of his hand!
Is this wise? Is it practical? Today? At this moment?
And then, Neena’s mind fills with practical questions: how often do trains run to London and how much will the fare be? Is Vyera likely to have enough money? When she reaches London, is there anyone available and suitable to take charge of her? If there was someone Vyera knew — Neena for example — that would be reassuring to Vyera and make the slave easier to handle. Is there anywhere in London for her to be kept in custody until her repatriation was arranged? There is Anatoly Sergeyevitch’s mansion in Regents Park, but what of the risk? Associating him directly with an abduction should the authorities manage to follow the trail Vyera would leave on security cameras and in the memories of passers-by, her shaven head marking her out as unusual everywhere she went and to everyone she saw? And how exactly would the repatriation, the absolutely crucial step in the plan, how would it be done? And yet! And yet! Here was such an opportunity …
Neena goes to her laptop and calls up yandex.ru, the Russian search engine, and enters ‘ðîåçä áèðìèíãåì ëîíäîí’ (7). As she scrolls down the results page, amongst the tourist sites, Neena sees ‘railsaver.co.uk.’ She clicks the link. Success! The page is in Russian and details the services provided by a company called London Midland. There is even a ‘Journey Planner’ utility which promises to provide ticket prices in addition to journey times. Frantically, Neena enters data. The time is 15:00, so 12:00 ‘Vyera time.’ There are departures at 12:05 (far too soon and also the most expensive), 12:10 (still too soon) 12:30, and 12:50 (surely too late? Vyera’s husband might come looking for her at any moment) — so a train at 12:30 with a standard cheap single at £20 seems the best bet … although the First Class fare is only £23.50? That might be a kindness. To entice Vyera back into slavery on a First Class ticket?
Her anxious thoughts are interrupted by the room extension telephone. It is Vasili, with news of Joseph McEwan …
Shortly after, Neena’s mobile rings. It is Vyera, reporting that she has arrived at Starbucks …
Presently, Neena turns to face the helpless girl stretched out on her bed. Pavea raises her head from the mattress to gaze back to her.
″What did the bitch want? I mean, is there anything I could do to persuade her to get her ass back here?″
″I think,″ replies Neena, ″I think you should get back to what you were doing before we were interrupted and not worry about things that are not your concern. Business has to come before pleasure sometimes, my small and humble one. Now, some humility is required.″
Neena picks up her crop and brings it down smartly across Pavea’s thigh. It brings a sharp intake of breath from Pavea and leaves a thin white trail which gradually develops a pink bloom.
″I am sure I have told you before, Pavea. Slaves should treat each other with patience and generosity. You should not refer to Vyera as that (whack) s! O! O! K! A!″ Neena uses the Russian word for ‘bitch,’ punctuating each letter with a blow from the crop. ″Hmmmm. How nice your thighs look after that! How much better will your tongue perform now?″
Pavea’s only reply is to breathe deeply and quickly as she tries to process the pain of her punishment — or was it a punishment? Perhaps more of a goad, to help her pay better and more abject attention to Neena’s vagina?
Pavea smiles. ″Spaseeba, Gaspazha,″ she says, and licks her own lips at the prospect of licking Neena's.
I am sitting anxiously in the café, waiting. I'm waiting to be collected by the man Neena is sending for me. The minutes drag by. Presently, my coffee is finished and so is the biscotti. I wonder about buying another drink. I have enough money, but I have not been given permission. I will be in enough trouble when I get back. Best not make it worse. Best not to seem ‘casual’ about all the mistakes I have made today. I know Gaspazha Neena will cane me and I will deserve it.
What a stupid bitch I am, just like Pavea says. I am sure she would not get lost and forget how to read and forget what she had been sent for. I expect I will be restricted to working indoors after this and Pavea will get to go on errands in Moscow.
At the thought of having to stay inside all the time, I start to weep quietly. I dab my eyes and look furtively around, in case anyone has seen me. I had better not make a scene. Not draw attention to myself. I blink the tears away and look up, so the man who will collect me and take me back will be able to find me easily. It is all I can do to redeem myself after my stupid behaviour.
Without warning, he arrives. He is standing right in front of me. The man — it’s Joe! I stand up, out of respect.
“Zdrastvoitye, Gaspadeen”, I say. “Ya Vyera” (8).
The man — Joe — looks at me. He seems baffled, un-comprehending, for a moment. Then, he smiles and holds out his hand. “Jenny, are you all right? What is going on? Speak English, please, and let's go home.″
I take his hand and he puts one arm around my shoulder. He picks up my bags and we start to move towards the exit. ″Who was the woman who phoned me? Was it that girl behind the counter? I had better go and thank her for calling?”
“No, no, it was not her.”
“Oh, well, who was it then — I mean, why didn’t you just call me? You have got my number?”
“Yes, but there was only one number I could remember, so I called it. They must have called you …”
Joe looks at me. It's as though he wants to think before talking anymore. We walk out of the café and back along the street. It all still looks unfamiliar, but at least I have Joe to guide me.
We get back to Joe’s car and soon we are driving. I see a sign saying ″Birmingham International.″ We must be going to the airport. I suppose he must be taking me back. Back to Russia. I never thought Joe worked for Anatoly Sergeyevitch. I wonder if it was Joe who proposed me for abduction? But, if he made the suggestion to Anatoly Sergeyevitch and Svetlana Nikitechna, I could not have been ‘stolen,’ could I? I must have been just ‘given.’ Given up. I suppose this means that he does not want me anymore. Because I became someone he no longer felt he loved. So, he found me someone else. Someone who would make me live in the way he thought I wanted. But all the time, I wanted him. I wanted Joe. And now, he is going to give me away again. But, I have been trained to be a slave now, and slaves follow the orders of their Owners and Supervisors. I have learned that things go well when I do what I am told and things go badly when I try to think for myself. So I will not think. I will just do.
Jennifer is sitting beside me in the car, staring out of the window, not saying a word. Every so often, she sighs. A sad sort of resigned sigh. She seems tense at first, agitated as we pass the airport turn-off, but when we get to the motorway she seems to calm down a little and her nervousness gives way to a puzzled expression.
Gradually we leave the southern edge of Birmingham behind and reach rural Warwickshire. The closer to home we get, the easier I feel.
Perhaps she has had another flash-back? Maybe she just simply got lost. Why didn’t she call me? My number is right there on her ‘phone. I suppose she must have had another flash- back. Both the police psychologist and Dr Malvern warned me that I should expect this to happen. They told me they could come unexpectedly, that unfamiliar situations could trigger them. Perhaps that is what happened.
Poor Jenny. All alone in Birmingham City Centre, not knowing where she was, or who to ask for help.
But, who was the woman who called me, who told me Jenny was not well and where I had to go to find her? Whoever she was, she did not seem like a random passer-by.
We are almost home.
“Jenny?”
“Yes?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Shall we get something to eat here? The Rose and Crown is quite nice now. It was all done up after … after … after you … when you were away.”
“Joseph?”
“What?”
“You have gone the wrong way.”
“What?”
“Shouldn’t you be taking me to the airport?”
“Airport? We have passed the airport. Why should I take you to the airport?”
“To send me back. You are sending me back — aren’t you?”
“No, of course not. What on earth gave you that idea? And, where could I send you, anyway?”
“Gaspazha Neena said she would send someone to collect me. Someone who would know who I was. Then, you came. Was it you, Joe? Did she send you?”
“Jenny, I was in the meeting and my mobile went off. There was some foreign woman who wanted to speak to me and went on to tell me that you were not well and that I had to go collect you and take you home. Jenny, do you know who the woman was?”
“Yes.”
“So, how did she know my number and how did she know about you?”
“I came out of a dress shop and they never send me to dress shops and I could no longer read the shop signs and I couldn’t find the Metro station and I could not remember what I had been sent for, so I called Gaspazha Neena to ask for help. She is my Trainer and my Supervisor. She always knows what I have to do.”
I'm puzzled. How could she not read the shop signs and why would she want a Metro station? In Birmingham, The Metro is a tram system and there is only one line and it goes nowhere near where Jenny would need to go — and ″is″? Jenny says ″is my Trainer,″ not ″was.″
I try to tease out some more details, trying to work out what is actually going on and what is the result of Jenny's flash-back or black-out or whatever it is. “But, how did she know my number? Did you give her my number, Jenny?”
“Of course not, Joseph.″ Jenny has a confident look on her face. She seems to feel she is on firm ground and is calmer as a result. ″They know all our numbers. They watch us all the time. Gaspazha called you because she had your number already — and she sent you for me. That was kind of her, wasn’t it?”
Jenny looks at me and smiles. It's clear that she feels better inside.
I look at Jenny. I'm completely taken aback by what she has just said and at the way she has said it. She's obviously talking about her abductors, but it is frightening to imagine that they ‘know all our numbers’ and ‘constantly watch us.’ Why should Jenny’s kidnappers be kindly disposed to Jenny and me?
I'm relieved that I was able to rescue Jenny, but why should it have been organized by one of her erstwhile captors? And, who is this mysterious Neena woman who could just reach into my life and issue orders? How dare she manipulate me into doing just as she wants?
I feel cold. I feel as though I should look over my shoulder, to see if there is someone there, watching.
We sit for a few more seconds gazing at each other. I want to draw a line under the day’s events. A thick line. A line we cannot re-cross. I want, more than ever, to do something that reassures her that we are both safe. At home. In England.
“Come on,” I say. “Let's go get something to eat.”
I get out of the car and walk round to Jenny’s side to open the door for her. I take her by her hand. Hand in hand, we walk towards the calm normality of a half-timbered, thatch-roofed English pub: the Rose and Crown.
Jenny is reassured. Perhaps her Owners do not want her back in service — not just yet — but they have taken good care of her by sending Joseph to collect her. He must know now, how much they care for her — and perhaps him, too.
Dr Mendeleyev is in his office, preparing a lecture for the undergraduates. He has spent his life lecturing, but still feels that he has not yet mastered the art. He is contemptuous of his younger colleagues whose imagination is limited to plunging the lecture room into darkness and projecting an unending series of images. He remembers one of his superiors, from years gone by, who would enter the room with a handful of coloured chalk, or perhaps no chalk at all, and unfold the topic with the aplomb of someone unwrapping a parcel. Now, that is the example to follow. Erudite. Accomplished. Confident and completely proof against a blue screen with the forlorn message ‘No Input on RGB 1.’
His telephone rings in the middle of his train of thought. It takes him a moment to re-orientate his thoughts and stifle a thrill of irritation at the interruption. For goodness sake! One of the advantages of working late is to avoid interruptions!
“Igor Ivanovitch speaking.”
“Zdrastvoitye, Igor Ivanovitch. Eta Neena Alexandrovna.”
His irritation is reduced. “Neena Alexandrovna! An unexpected pleasure!”
“Today, I had a call from Vyera.”
“Vyera?” Mendeleyev is now sitting forward in his chair. Neena has his full attention now.
“She telephoned me from Birmingham. She must have been shopping and experienced a dis-orientation, or perhaps I should say she experienced a correct re-orientation. She was speaking Russian, completely ‘in-role,’ confessed she was lost, confessed she had forgotten her instructions, told me she could not read the street and shop signs, and told me that she deserved punishment.”
“Ah — now, that is very interesting. How encouraging to know that all the programming she had still exerts such a powerful grip on her. Had she contacted or tried to contact anyone else? Her husband, for example?”
“Apparently not. She told me that my number was the only number she could remember — so she called me before she thought of calling her husband.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent her to a branch of Ñòàðáàêñ and …”
“Ñòàðáàêñ?” interrupts Mendeleyev. “Ñòàðáàêñ? I did not know they had reached Great Britain? So, Ñòàðáàêñ in Great Britain. Well, well!”
“Yes, it seems so,”, continues Neena., “Vyera was using an iPhone, so I was able to locate her. I sent her to Ñòàðáàêñ to wait for someone to collect her.”
“Who did you send?”
“Unfortunately, we had no-one in the area. The Ñòàðáàêñ was close to Birmingham’s main railway station, so I considered instructing Vyera to catch a train to London. There was one scheduled in just a short time. But, there were just too many uncontrolled variables. For example, I was not sure who would be able to meet her when she arrived in London and where she could be safely detained before returning to Russia. Also, if I could find her with my iPhone, so could her husband — who was close by. It seemed that she was almost within our grasp and yet just out of reach.”
“Ah, how unfortunate.”
“So, I had to settle for her husband. I called him, told him that his wife was unwell, and instructed him where to find her and to take her home.”
Dr Mendeleyev is considerably encouraged by Neena's words. Vyera is still potentially under control and Joseph has been made complicit in the management of his wife. Seeds of doubt may have been sown in Vyera’s mind about whether Joseph might have been involved her abduction and training because Joseph would be seen to be acting as Neena's agent, sent to ‘collect her.’ It will certainly have helped to reinforce their control over Vyera.
“Neena Alexandrovna, I have to say that was an excellent piece of work. Congratulations. I believe you were right to be cautious. However, this was perhaps a little like a successful weapons test. Now, we know how Vyera can be persuaded to return to us. On the next occasion Jennifer McEwan reverts to being Vyera Anatolyevna, we must be ready to give her instructions. Ready with people in place who can take charge of her. Ready with a repatriation plan. When the opportunity arises again, we will be able to act decisively and, when we finish, Jennifer McEwan will vanish forever from the earth and in her place will be Vyera Anatolyevna Kuznetsova!”
Neena and her associates are not the only ones interested in Jenny's telephone conversations. Without asking his wife, Joe has contacted the police again and now, the following day, he is facing Inspector Ackroyd across the desk in Ackroyd’s office.
″So, who was this woman? Or, who do you think it was?”
“She didn’t give me a name. She just told me that Jenny was not well, she said where she was, and that I should go to her — but she seemed to know exactly who I was and where to find me.”
“So, she didn’t give you a name, just told you what to do. And she said, 'go to her,' not 'come to get her' or something like that?”
“That’s right.”
“What did your wife have to say about it?”
“Not much, except she thought I had been given the job of sending her back.”
“Really? Why did she think that?”
“Because, whoever the woman was, she had told Jenny to wait in Starbucks until she was collected.”
“And so your wife waited obediently for someone to arrive, which was going to be you, all the time.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So, tell me again how this woman knew to call you?”
“When Jenny had her — breakdown, let's call it — she called this woman to ask what to do.”
“And she had the number on her phone?”
“No, in her head.”
“But, it must still be on the phone, in the register of outgoing calls?”
“No, I checked. Actually, all the factory defaults have been reapplied, so there was nothing to find.”
“Really? Did Jenny reset the ‘phone?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so.”
“Oh?”
“I looked at it when she was in the shower after we got back home.”
“So, I suppose it must have been reset remotely ….” Ackroyd pauses to stare out the window for a moment before continuing. “And, by the way, what about your phone?″
“My phone?”
“Yes. You said this woman called you on your phone. Her number should have been recorded.”
Joe quickly feels for his handset, switches on and goes to ‘Recents.’
Sure enough, on the morning of the previous day, there is an incoming call he does not recognise: the call list merely says ’12:02 Incoming Call 58 seconds No Caller ID.’
He hands the phone across the desk to Ackroyd who looks for a moment, then smiles, “So, they have not entirely lost their touch, have they? Did Jenny,” he continues, “did Jenny give any clues about who the woman was? How she came to know her. Things like that?”
“She said she was Gaspazha Neena and she was her Trainer and her Supervisor. She said ‘Gaspazha Neena always knows what I have to do.’ ”
“Did she indeed? That’s rather helpful.”
“Helpful?”
“Yes. Well, it tells us the actual name of one of the people who Jenny was with. It tells us that your wife was probably not alone. You don’t need a supervisor for just one person. It rather confirms — well, very strongly suggests — that Jenny was an abductee, for the same reason. You don’t need to supervise people who are willing guests? And, Jenny always had to be told what to do. Like a slave.”
“Yes, that's what I thought. I find that really creepy. To begin to know what actually happened. To know that these people ‘know all our numbers,’ as Jenny put it. To think they can reach out from wherever they are and make us do things. Make me do things.”
“Cocky little buggers, aren’t they? Creeping out from under stones when our backs are turned, dishing out orders, having you run from pillar to post and then scuttling back into the dark when we turn round again.”
To Joe, there is something very comical in Ackroyd’s assessment of the situation. The sense of paranoia he had felt, of being stalked and hunted, begins to deflate. He begins to feel that the people who took his wife are merely flesh and blood, like him. That they can make mistakes. Betray themselves. That they are no longer an alien, formless menace. That they are vulnerable to the down-to-earth common sense of a black-country policeman (9). He chuckles and then begins to laugh. Ackroyd laughs, too. He gets up and claps Joe on the back.
“Thank you for telling me all this. It’s these little things which add up. We know a name now. If they are watching you, we can watch for them. Send them some false information, perhaps. Tempt the little buggers to stick their heads out from under the stones again, only this time we will be the ones waiting patiently for them.”
After Joe has left, Inspector Ackroyd picks up his own phone. He calls through to a colleague in the neighbouring and much larger West Midlands force (10). “Harry? Look, its Brian Ackroyd here.″
″Brian! Always a pleasure. What can I do for you?″
″Erm, I have a bit of an IT and Telecommunications problem. I was after a bit of advice and actually some help.″
″Uh huh?″
″I am reinvestigating a disappearance case from 2009. The person concerned has resurfaced. I’m working with a DCI from the ‘Met because the girl in question vanished in London although she lives on our patch, in Warwick, actually — and, would you believe, an Inspector from the Swedish version of the FBI because the girl actually turned up in Stockholm.”
“So, a run-of-the-mill Warwickshire Police case, then?”
“Very funny, Harry. Anyway, to get to the point, we think this girl was abducted and I have evidence suggesting her abductors might still be keeping an eye on her. I would very much like to look through the phone records for Mr and Mrs McEwan’s home and, finally, I would like to know all the numbers Mrs McEwan called from her mobile yesterday. She is with O2, by the way. So, could you give me a steer about who are the best people to contact at BT and O2 (11)?″
References:
1. The Bull Ring Centre is a major commercial centre in Birmingham, UK. It has been the site of a commercial market since the Middle Ages and takes its name from an enclosure once used for the ‘sport’ of bull-baiting. Http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bull_Ring,_Birmingham
2. University of Aston, Birmingham, UK: www1.aston.ac.uk
3. The Moscow Metro stations are all marked with a bright red ‘M’: http://engl.mosmetro.ru
4. In Russia, Apotek is the name for a Pharmacy.
5. Find-my-phone app for iPhone:
6. Neena is, of course, sending Vyera to Starbucks. There is no easy transliteration of the English ‘uh’ sound into Cyrillic letters, so it comes out as ‘Starbacks.’
7. ‘Trains Birmingham London’
8. In Russian, the polite and formal way to address an unfamiliar man.
9. The Black-Country is a colloquial British name for the country north and west of Birmingham (but with no very precise geographical boundary) and was coined to describe the grim state of the area in the early years of industrialisation in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. People there think of themselves as very down-to-earth and practical.
10. As explained in an earlier footnote, policing in the UK is in the hands of a number of independent police forces, to try and give some local accountability. West Midlands Police is the largest force in this particular area of the UK and, because it is a large force, it has more resources at its command.
11. BT — British Telecom — provides the telecommunications infrastructure for the UK and also acts as an internet service provider. It is the major provider of traditional landline telephone services. O2 is one of the major UK mobile telephone network providers. It is now an independent company, but was formerly the mobile telephone branch of BT:
In the month following Jennifer’s reappearance
Edward Black, MI5, and Clyde Ritchie, CIA, are coming to the end of one of their regular liaison meetings, something they do at least once each week, according to the progress of world ‘events.’
“Clyde, do you remember I asked you about what might have been a Company operation in Suffolk about a couple years ago? Two academics, interrogated by people who claimed to be your people, and then one of them disappeared, a suspected abduction?”
At first, Ritchie struggles to remember the incident Ed Black is referring to, but the word ‘abduction’ brings together the fragments of memory into a coherent whole.
“Yeah, Ed, I remember. So, what’s new?”
“The girl who disappeared, a Mrs Jennifer McEwan, has resurfaced in Stockholm and there is circumstantial evidence implicating Anatoly Kustensky as being involved in Mrs McEwan’s adventures. The police think she might have left the UK aboard his private aeroplane. She was found after his yacht left Stockholm. Kustensky was of course, the character she was interrogated about originally.”
“Ah ….”
Now Ritchie is giving Black his full attention.
“Unfortunately, Mrs McEwan is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder She has seen a psychologist working for the police, but she has not said as much as the police would like. That’s both the police here in the UK and the police in Stockholm. Nevertheless, she admitted to a friend that she had been in captivity —that’s my word, by the way, not her’s — with an American female called Tracy. I just thought I should let you know.”
“Oh? Is that so? Well …well, thanks for that, Ed. I will have my people look into it. I will get back to you if it comes to anything.”
After closing his call to Black, Ritchie makes another call.
“Scott? It’s Clyde.”
“Sir.”
“I just had a routine ‘touching base’ discussion with Ed Black from MI5, London. He gave me something new they had on that Kustensky guy you were looking at sometime back.”
“Oh?” Immediately, Scott is interested. There had been a lot crossing his desk in the past two years and his investigation into the more recent exploits of his old enemy had been pushed to the side-lines but it now seemed that events might be pulling Kustensky back towards the lime light.
Ritchie is still speaking: “Do you recall the story MI5 had about a couple of British academics being interrogated about Kustensky, by people who claimed to be from The Company? One of the pair – Jennifer McEwan – disappeared some months after the incident and it seems that McEwan has been found. Black says there is circumstantial evidence that she left the UK aboard Kustensky’s private jet and she resurfaced again in Stockholm when a yacht he owns was just leaving town. Both the British police and the Swedes have unsuccessfully tried to get McEwan to tell them where she had been and what she had been doing, but she won’t talk. However, she let slip to a friend that she had met an American called Tracy. I guess ‘Tracy’ was the main news item Black had for us. Anyway, can you check it out? Are we looking for a lost Tracy?”
After Deputy Director Ritchie has hung up, Scott smiles. Result! He had always known that, if you just kept looking, something useful would turn up. So, Kustensky is implicated in people trafficking across international frontiers, is he? Scott logs on to the Inter-Agency database. It was built in the wake of the 9/11 Enquiry to help the various law enforcement and intelligence agencies of the United States share information amongst themselves easily.
Scott enters the search terms: American/female/missing/kidnapped/abducted/Tracy
There is a surprisingly large list of references.
He adds three filters: ‘Ex-USA’ and a date range for the age of the subject and a second date range for possible date of disappearance.
The list shortens considerably.
He adds another two filters: Europe/Russia.
The list is now very short indeed. The hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle. One of the names is ‘Tracy Randolf.’ He ought to know the name but for a moment cannot think why. The tags associated with Tracy Randolf are Randolf Corporation, Houston Tx, Germany.
As Deputy Director Ritchie has mentioned ‘Tracy’ to him in the context of Anatoly Kustensky, he asks the database to cross-tabulate Randolf Corporation against AKE. The two match on three criteria: Oil. Gas. Engineering.
Scott then brings up the database resume for Tracy Randolf and reads:
Missing Person: Tracy Randolf.
Nationality: United States Citizen
Relationships: Daughter of Manfred Randolf 3rd, CEO Randolf Corporation, Houston Tx.
Date of Birth: July 16, 1983
Address: C/O Randolf Corporation, Randolf Tower, Houston Tx.
Ethnicity: White Anglo
Height: 5 feet 6 inches
Weight: 112 lbs
Coloring: Hair: red. Skin: pale.
Distinguishing marks, tattoos etc: none
Date of Disappearance : January 12, 2011
Place of Disappearance: Berlin, Germany
Occupation: Accountant
Employer: Randolf Corporation GmbH
Contacts:
Berlin: Embassy of the United States, Pariser Platz 2, 10117 Berlin, Germany Berlin: Joachim Schmitt Claver, Budeskriminalalamt
Berlin: Agent Simon Peters, FBI Legat, US Embassy
Houston: Lt Arthur Harris, Houston PD, Houston Tx
Houston: Agent Robert Holloway FBI Houston Office, Houston Tx
Scott spends a moment or two looking at the image of Tracy Randolf attached to the entry.
It is a copy of the image from her passport. It shows a rather serious but attractive young woman. The image is black and white and her pale skin and red hair is rendered gray, neatly styled and almost boy-ish. She also has a determined cast in her eye. Scott can’t help but think about his own daughter and how he would feel if it were she who had vanished.
It's time to call Deputy Director Ritchie. Scott is pretty sure he has the information he's looking for.
His call is answered almost at once. “Clyde Ritchie?”
“Sir? It’s Scott.”
“Hi, Scott.”
“Sir, I have run a database enquiry as you suggested …”
“OK and?”
“I have a connection for AKE, Randolf Corporation and Tracy Randolf.
Tracy Randolf is daughter to Manfred Randolf, the CEO and President of the Corporation. ”
“This guy Kustensky is beginning to crop up in some unexpected places, Scott.”
I wonder if kidnapping young women is a new sport in Mother Russia?” Scott chuckles. “This seems to bring Ol’ Anatoly centre stage.”
“Sure does. Look, Scott, I am going to have to move this up a level. I need to know if you managed to get anywhere with the Kustensky investigation?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I accumulated a lot of information about AKE activity Stateside – and it's all good, I’m afraid. Excellent commercial reputation both with the Treasury Department, because they pay their taxes right on the nose, with Department of Labor, and with the State Governments where they work. Homeland Security have no qualms about them and the D of J has no information about any lawsuits in progress or in preparation. So, no dirt and no cause for concern.”
“So, he is making money and that’s it? Apparently? At least, on the surface?”
“Yes, Sir, right on all counts.”
“Scott, someone that good needs looking at. Carefully. Do we have any pipelines into his organization?”
“Not as yet, Sir. But, if you recall, I mentioned that Kustensky seems to have enjoyed a long-term liaison with a British Academic called Angela Dawney. She was one of the women interrogated about him right back at the start of this. I have a hunch she could be the place to start.”
“Thanks, Scott. That’s good work. Better go start!”
“I am right on it, Sir.”
After Ritchie has replaced his receiver, Scott smiles once again. This would grow legs and run! Step One: Get a pipeline into the Kustensky operation. Step Two: Clarification about Tracy the captive and Tracy Randolf. Step Three: Arrest Kustensky as soon as he is outside Russia but, best of all, arrest him on his next trip to the United States. If he was convicted of the kidnap of an American citizen, ‘Ol Anatoly would not be going home again. Ever. And he, Scott Anderson, would be a Head of Section, at least.
If Anatoly is ‘well connected’ to former colleagues, so is Andrew Palmer. When a soldier leaves the armed forces, one career option is to enter – perhaps that should be ‘remain’ - in the security industry, but this time working for a private enterprise organisation instead of the State.
Jennifer has kept close contact with her parents after her return and confided some of her feelings of alienation and fragility to her mother, but has kept all details of her attack on Cathy Corbin to herself and Joe, for fear of the consequences and for the shame of what she has done.
Nevertheless, by astutely assembling what Jennifer says and what she does not say, Andrew and Inga are rapidly moving to the conclusion that Jennifer has indeed been abducted and held prisoner, even though the reason for her ordeal remains obscure.
The level of security provided by the Swedish Authorities also preys on Andrew’s mind. Why is Inspector Ackroyd prepared to allow Joseph and Jennifer to make their own way in the world even as they are in the immediate shadow of Jennifer’s ordeal?
Resources will be one factor. More pressing investigations may be another but surely waiting patiently for Jennifer to ‘recover herself’ and say more is merely complacent?
Andrew is not – has never been – complacent. He knows he should not trespass on the work of the Police but on the other hand, perhaps he can bring other resources to bear? He picks up the telephone and dials …
“Rampart – Webster”, says a precise, cultured female voice
“Colonel Andrew Palmer. To speak with Andrew Collin if I may?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I am a ‘new business enquiry’, well possibly.”
“Could one of our other partners deal with your enquiry?”
“I really would prefer to speak with Major Collin. I can ring back.”
“Just one moment …”
“Simon Collin?”
“It's Andrew Palmer.”
“Andrew. Yes, I remember. Well, long time?”
“Yes it has. Look I was calling to ask for advice.”
“Official or unofficial? Business or are we talking about delayed fall-out from the ‘old times’?”
“It's business and it's personal. Have you a few minutes?”
“Er … yes … you have caught me in the middle of something but set the scene and I will see what I can do with it.”
“Two years ago my daughter Jennifer disappeared without trace in London …”
“Yes, I did hear about that. I ‘m sorry. Andrew. I expect the police will be involved?”
“Oh yes, the police were – are – involved all right, but last month matters came to a head because Jennifer reappeared in Stockholm. The Stockholm Police and some people from a department called the Rikskriminal Polisen took very good care of us all and made sure we caught the ‘plane home safely. The situation now is, well – I am just very uneasy about what happens next. Now Jennifer is back home. Is she safe? Will her captors come back for her? How can she be defended?”
“So, Swedes energetic, ‘Plods’ lethargic. Is that it?” (1)
“Yes, that’s how I feel.”
“Hmmm. Any names? Of the people dealing with the case?”
“In London, a Chief Inspector Grantby. In Warwick, an Inspector Ackroyd.”
“OK, leave it with me. When can I get back to you?”
“Anytime – I’m retired.”
“Retired? Retired and idle? Huh! Lucky sod. Keep your ‘phone on, OK?”
“Thanks, Simon. It’s on.”
It is not long before Simon Collin is back on the line.
“Andrew? Its Simon. Look – you are being looked after by the right people.
I have used my contacts. Grantby has a very good reputation and now works for part of the ‘Met called SCD9, in other words ‘Serious Crime Directorate 9’. These are the people who deal with people trafficking and in recent years cases of forced labour, domestic servitude, sexual slavery, that sort of thing. The Met’s approach to this sort of crime has changed in recent years and become much more focused. Partly, the Met became aware of it as an increasingly serious problem and partly in response to political pressure around the question of illegal immigration et cetera et cetera. SCD9 was operational from April ’10 and has had the bit between its teeth ever since. (2)
I haven’t found out as much about Ackroyd but if Grantby and his people are in charge, I expect he will keep the local plods on the straight and narrow. Is that helpful?”
“Yes, well yes up to a point. I suppose I would just like to think there was …”
“An electric fence around your daughter’s property and watch towers?”
“Very funny Simon. No, not really that but I’m sure you can understand how Inga and I feel.”
“Sure. Sure. Where do they live? Your daughter and her …”
“Husband. In Warwick.”
“Town or country?”
“In the town. Well, the suburbs.”
“OK. Well … well … I think there is less of an immediate threat if they are living in a built-up area. Neighbours tend to notice an armed attack taking place on the house next door. Know what I mean? However, better not be too complacent, which is where we started this conversation. Has their house been check for electronic surveillance?”
“I don’t think so. The police took their computers for examination after Jennifer first disappeared but I don’t think their home has been swept for bugs, as they say, since they got back.”
“Andrew, we both know that if you are planning an attack, some knowledge of the terrain comes in handy. I could send some of our people to look the place over. Would that help? Reassure?”
“Yes, Simon it would.”
“Before we start, I would like to have a word with this local man, Ackroyd. To keep on side, you know?”
“Yes, I absolutely know. I have spoken to him quite recently. It would better come from me first and then I can put you two in touch?”
“Yes. Agreed. Lets do it.”
Anatoly is in the office in his apartment on Tverskaya Ulitsa. Today, he has chosen to work alone at home instead of going to the AKE Building in the commercial sector of Moscow which has come to be known (as in London) as The City.
Anatoly is looking for some peace and quiet, away from the activity and fizz at his headquarters building. Away from nagging emails, from his senior management team, away from subordinates who need advice, direction and supervision.
This morning he wants be alone and undisturbed so that he can marshal his thoughts with a ‘clear desk’ in front of him.
Anatoly’s principal occupation is business and business needs constant attention. Providing ‘Special Employment Opportunities’ has always been a hobby and he is becoming anxious about just how much attention and effort his hobby has taken up recently. He has a major civil engineering project on his hands, easily the largest he has ever undertaken. It is in the planning stage at the moment, but it will be on an heroic scale. A truly Russian scale.
Civil Engineering is the closest Anatoly gets to the life experience of his father, the closest he comes to mechanised warfare. The machines, the materials, the men, organising the whole into a force which can carry through the project and, in his case, creating something of lasting value, instead of wreaking destruction.
The project in front of him now — The Interconnector — has quite simply, everything. It will join two continents for the first time in history. It will need new engineering but the new solutions will be achievable by building on present knowledge. It will provide a completely new route for international trade. It will side-line many of the international shipping companies. It will be immune to storms and almost certainly, proof against pirates. It will unite old rivals whose common economic interests will both be served once the project is complete. Consequently and unfortunately, the project also has an international political dimension – and this is the difficult, unpredictable, slippery dimension to the whole enterprise. This is where trouble comes from unexpectedly, from unexpected directions – but when had it ever been easy to unite nations? This is where Vyera might feature in the equation. The insignificant, hitherto invisible item which, after Sveta’s flamboyant attempt to perform an act of unalloyed generosity and mercy, has taken tangible form and has the potential to prevent a satisfactory resolution to the mathematics.
Suddenly, his telephone rings! Anatoly is very tempted to ignore it. After all, he has told his secretary that this morning he is not to be disturbed. In emergency, she was to text his mobile. Anatoly glances at the device. Its screen is blank. There is no text and the telephone continues to ring. He lifts the receiver. A voice says: “Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky? You have an appointment with Mikhail Barysovitch Antonov at The Lubyanka. A car is waiting for you at your door. You will come immediately.”
Tverskaya Ulitsa, where Anatoly and Sveta have their apartment, has become a very busy thoroughfare. Throughout most of the day, traffic pours down the street from the western parts of Moscow to turn left at the junction with Teatralnyy Proyezd and follow the one-way system round into Lubyanka Square whose most famous building is the large, classical, pale-yellow painted headquarters building of the State Security Apparatus, once the home of the KGB, now the FSB, and known colloquially the world over as The Lubyanka. Traffic in Moscow is often slow — after all, there is so much of it — but when you travel in an official car you speed down the reserved central lane, especially if your destination is The Lubyanka.
As Anatoly settles into the rear seat of the official BMW, his mind goes back to a recent conversation with Sveta which is almost certainly relevant to the forthcoming interview …
“Tolya?”
“Mmmm?”
“I saw Mikhail Barysovitch today.”
“At Ostankino? He was at the Studio?”
“He met me when I was coming home. He took me to lunch at The Ukraina.”
“Ah … what did he want?”
“He wanted to talk about Vyera and the American girl …”
“Oh … what did he say?”
“He does not think you should have got involved with the American and he is anxious to see things with Vyera sorted out. He gave me the impression it was not just him.”
“Ah, well, I suppose that is not really a surprise. Did he have any instructions?”
“He said you — we — should be creative but I think he will be helpful when we have a plan. Tolya, I am so sorry! I did not mean to cause such trouble. I was only trying to do good.”
Anatoly remembers taking Sveta into his arms and enveloping his wife in a soft embrace.
“I know”, he says, “I know.”
When Anatoly reaches Mikhail’s office, he can see that Mikhail expects to do business. The youthful face of Dmitry Medvedyev, President of The Russian Federation may be looking down from the wall, but Mikhail Barysovitch has another picture on his desk to show Anatoly and he is speaking formally.
“Sit down, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. Do you see this? Take a good look. These were people who got things done! I expect you to get things done. There are consequences for failure in this matter.”
The picture shows Joseph Stalin and Georgy Zhukov, his father’s former commanding officer…
Ni figa, thinks Anatoly. If Mikhail Barysovitch is talking about Stalin, his patience must have run out, or events are taking a serious turn for the worse or perhaps, both … (3).
“It has come to my attention that your little slave girl has raped her friend in a public building. Later, she suffered a psychological breakdown in Birmingham and telephoned Neena Kirova to ask for help. For goodness sake, Anatoly Sergeyevitch, we need something to be done!”
“Igor Ivanovitch Mend…”
“Mendeleyev? Don’t waste any more time listening to that fool Mendeleyev, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. He is a theoretician. He thinks the world is some sort of test tube in which he can control events. We are in the real world and the real world is unpredictable, but one thing I can predict is that things will go very badly wrong unless something is done about little Vyera and quickly!
“There are dangerous factors in play,” continues Mikhail. “First is the Randolf girl. Manfred Randolf himself has crimes to cover up. He is vulnerable and he has everything to lose. His fortune. His company. Public disgrace. Imprisonment. Expect him to do everything he can to locate his daughter. She knows the true state of his organisation. Remember, Tracy Randolf was in Berlin on her father’s behalf trying to put matters straight. As soon as Vyera mentions Tracy, expect Randolf to find out that Vyera has been in captivity with his daughter and expect him to make energetic attempts to locate Vyera in England, so he can put her under intense pressure to say all she knows of Tracy and where she might be. Randolf will use his own resources and he will use the American Authorities. In fact, he will use anything at hand to protect his own position.
“Second is Vyera herself. I do not care what Mendeleyev might have said, but she is a complete liability. She carries information about you and your family in her head. It will start to leak out at any moment. What she did. What you did to her. Where she was. Who she met. Outsiders, especially if they work for western police forces, will assume you are merely another grubby criminal involved in people trafficking. We need, the country needs you to maintain your status as a modern, honest, capable engineer. Someone who can travel anywhere and be welcome everywhere.
“Third is Vyera’s father. The soldier. He knows people who know people. He has already shown resourcefulness and guile in protecting his daughter. How much more determined will he be, now he has her back in Great Britain?
“Fourth, I am concerned about your policy of maintaining contact and in some way reasserting control over Vyera as though she was some sort of space probe. Yes, you should gather as much intelligence as you can, but be circumspect about casual direct contacts. The recent telephone conversation between Vyera and Neena Kirova was completely idiotic. She is another person listening to the fool Mendeleyev. For goodness sake! They now have a name. Your organisation is beginning to take tangible shape in their minds. They have found how Anna Symeonova Tereshkova left the UK, but they will also realise that Anna Symeonova could have easily have been Vyera. You are the engineer! However strong the foundations, once they are undermined, the whole edifice is at risk, however strong it has been built.
“You are going to have to do something decisive to get back into proper control. Start with the husband, Joseph. Offer him a job or something. Money. Position. Opportunity. In another country. Any country. You have interests in tunnelling. Tunnels need concrete. He works with concrete. Get him to dig a tunnel or something and pay him as much money as you have to, but keep the McEwans out of reach of Randolf’s people — and the British Police. That is your first priority. Meanwhile, I will see if there is any possibility at all of influencing the psychologist who is treating Vyera. I have arranged electronic surveillance of her office. We must find out what they say. We must find out how much Vyera is revealing about you.
“Finally, watch out for the father. The soldier. He is dangerous. That Lithuanian girl I sent to speak with you? She will be working in your office from today. I want regular reports about your plans and your progress. Is this absolutely clear, Anatoly Sergeyevitch? And this hobby of yours? Perhaps the time has come to find a less exotic and dangerous pastime. If you wish to ask my advice, it would be to find your recruits from inside Russia and the near abroad” (4).
References
1. ‘The Plods.’ Rude British slang for the Police. The phrase has two roots. First, original British police methods had an individual officer responsible for a ‘beat’ which he or she patrolled on foot and ‘plodded’ slowly around their patch, clearly visible to the law-abiding (to provide reassurance) and criminal elements (to strike fear into their hearts). Second, the name was elevated to a new plane by the children’s writer Enid Blyton, who created Mr Plod, the policeman who looks after Toytown and its inhabitants. Visitors to the UK should not refer to any policeman they encounter as ‘Mr Plod.’
2. SCD9. For more information, see
3. Ni Figa: A colloquial Russian expression of surprise
4. he Near Abroad is colloquial Russian for the former Soviet satellite countries and the countries which left the Russian embrace after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Poland, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia and Ukraine are all examples.
During the first four weeks after Jennifer’s reappearance.
Manfred Randolf is sitting behind his desk in the Chief Executive’s Office, high up in the dark glass and steel tower of the Randolf Corporation corporate headquarters.
He puts down the phone, takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as he squints out at his blurred view of the city. His attention wanders for a moment from the financial future of his company to the personal worries of a father who has lost a daughter. Not only has he lost a child, but some very sensitive information has gone with her. It's hard to know which comes uppermost in his mind.
Again, his thoughts are interrupted by the telephone.
″Mr Randolf?″ It's his PA.
″Yes?″ replies Randolf testily.
″I have Agent Holloway from Houston FBI and his colleague, Agent Anderson, here to see you.″
″Who? Oh. Show them both right in,″ replies Randolf, with much more generosity in his tone of voice.
″Gentlemen, this is unexpected but I am glad you could stop by …″
Randolf’s office has three areas set aside for different types of encounter. There is the area in front of his desk, where he dictates to his employees. There's a conference table, where he can hold more detailed debate about policy and operational matters. Finally, there's an area by the window, which affords a magnificent panorama of Corporate Houston. This is where Randolf likes to entertain guests and hold more informal discussions.
″Let's go over to the window …″
″Actually, Mr Randolf, we would prefer seats at the table.″ Agent Holloway gestures to the conference table. ″There are issues to discuss.″
Randolf is wrong-footed. He usually directs the goings-on in his own office. In this moment, he has that awful ‘free fall’ sensation familiar in dreams. His rational mind points out that he is losing control at the very moment when control and the facility to steer the conversation are of paramount importance, yet he can hardly object to Agents from the FBI wanting to do serious business with him. It all depends on what the business actually is? Have his various creative financial sleights-of-hand come to light at last? Holloway he has met before, but who is Anderson? Are these the first polite words before Accusation and Arrest? On the other hand, could the Agents have come with news concerning Tracy’s disappearance? The true precipitating causes of her disappearance are in the front of Randolf’s mind, especially at this very moment. Most of the details Randolf must keep strictly confidential if he is to avoid sharing a cell with ‘that dumbass Jeffrey Skilling,’ Randolf’s characterisation of his erstwhile Houston business colleague, now in prison for his part in the Enron scandal. As the trio takes their seats around the table, Randolf ponders when it would be a good point to call his lawyer.
The Agents take seats in the middle of the long side of the table. Randolf has to take a seat opposite them. The position of an interviewee. Warning bells begin to sound in his brain until it occurs to him that this would be the same position he would take if he was interviewing two employees about a project. Maybe he can gain the initiative back?
He tries: ″Well, gentlemen. What ne …″
″Mr Randolf,″ cuts in Agent Holloway, ″we have two things to say and some questions to ask.″ Randolf notices that Agent Anderson has opened an iPad and Holloway has a notebook.
He takes a careful look at both Agents. Holloway is tall, slim, in his thirties and very well presented. He almost has the cliché appearance of J Edgar Hoover’s G Men, Law Enforcers of the Nineteen Thirties. Anderson is older but still in reasonable shape. His face has begun to carry the lines of age and responsibility. Randolf guesses he is somewhere in his fifties. He is also letting Holloway do the talking. At least, so far.
″Well, if there is anything I can do …″ replies Randolf, cautiously.
″First,″ continues Holloway, ″I think we may have some encouraging news. In July this year, a British female who had disappeared in 2009 was found in Sweden. The British police suspect she was an abductee. She let slip that when she was in captivity … ″
″We have to add, Mr Randolf, that those are our words, not hers,” interjects Anderson.
″… she met an American girl called Tracy and we are wondering if this could be your daughter?″ continues Holloway.
″The question is, Mr Randolf,″ it's now Anderson speaking again, ″the question is, do you have any interests which might have taken your daughter to Russia, or any business interests which have a Russian connection?″
For a moment, Manfred Randolf is lost for words. The problem is not words to say, but how to carefully choose the right words …
In the end, Randolf opts for a question. Several questions. ″Can I just ask you to expand on what you have just said, just a little? You said the British police thought the British gal had been a captive. For Pete’s sake, why don’t they just ask her? And who is she anyway? What sort of connection does she have to me?″
Now the Agents must respond to his agenda. He is getting back into control of the situation.
Holloway begins. ″It may be easier to take your questions in reverse order. Question Three: What connection does she have to you? We don’t know, and that is one of the things we are here to ask. Question Two: Who she is, and this is something to get you thinking, she is called Jennifer McEwan. She was a PhD student in psychology at a British university at the time of her disappearance. She is married to a …″ Holloway checks his notes … ″to a Joseph McEwan who is a concrete engineer working for a company called …″ Holloway riffles through the pages of his notebook again. ″… New Horizons in Civil Engineering. Question One: Abductees, particularly people who have been under duress for an extended period — this lady was absent for almost two years — abductees can suffer from something called Stockholm Syndrome, which is a psychiatric condition in which they strongly identify with their abductors and they put the interests of the abductors first before the interests of themselves or their families or the wider interests of Justice.″
″So, we don’t know because she isn’t telling,″ adds Anderson, just to make the position clear.
″Well, gentlemen,″ responds Randolf, ″I can tell you right away that I have never heard of Jennifer McEwan or her husband or a company called — what was it?″
″New Horizons in …″, offers Anderson
″That’s right. Them. Never heard of any of them. So, right now, I am interested in knowing what the British are doing to get some sense out of Mrs McEwan? I mean, for goodness sake. If she has information pertinent to the whereabouts of a kidnapped American citizen, why in hell’s name is she not under arrest and made to sweat it out in jail until she finds her tongue?″
″We would prefer to let the British handle the situation on their own, Mr Randolf. She is one of their citizens, after all, and though extradition may be possible, we think a faster resolution will be had if she stays in the UK,″ replies Holloway.
″Hmm, yeah, well OK. I suppose they will know their own business best,″ replies Randolf grudgingly, but in the privacy of his mind he feels very differently. If this McEwan woman has information, what could he do to screw it out of her, and fast? And now, he has a name and an approximate location. The faster he has Tracy back in his hands, the safer he will feel.
″So, we were wondering, Mr Randolf,″ continues Agent Anderson, ″about Russia?″
″Why Russia?″ counters Randolf.
″Because Mrs McEwan can now speak Russian and she could not do so before her disappearance. Our British colleagues think that’s where she might have been. It could be where your daughter is,″ explains Anderson.
″So, we come back to the question, Mr Randolf,″ asks Agent Holloway, holding Randolf with his gaze. ″Do you have any business interests in Russia which might lure your daughter from Germany and keep her in Russia?″
Manfred Randolf reflects quickly on what he should say. The Randolf Corporation’s activities and relationships with other companies are mostly in the published accounts but, of course, not entirely. At this point, frankness would be appropriate but it would be extremely unwise.
″Well, gentlemen, yes, the Randolf Corporation has a number of joint projects with oil interests in Russia. It is not an easy business environment, not a straightforward environment, whether you look at the negotiations or the legal framework or the accounting side. That said, there is a lot of business to be done. We have been in negotiations quite often. Closed some deals. Failed to close others. Some investments turned out to be better than others …″
″Your daughter Tracy disappeared in Germany; do you run the Russian operation from Berlin?″ asks Anderson.
″Mainly. We have a Moscow office, but Berlin is our major European base. Family connections there.″ Randolf smiles to solicit understanding from Holloway and Anderson. ″But we try to do as much as we can from the Moscow office. Too much coming from Berlin brings back bad memories for the Reds, sorry, Russians!″ Randolf smiles again. To make his point clear, he continues: ″You know. History an’ all that. Tracy has been in Moscow once or twice, but she is based in Germany. I am looking to her to take over from me as CEO in due course, so she is moving round the company to get a thorough knowledge of how it works.″
″Mr Randolf,″ it's Agent Holloway speaking now, coming to the point of the conversation. ″Did you have, or do you have, any sour business relationships which might have provoked your daughter’s abduction?″
Randolf can almost see the yawning pit now open before him. There were unorthodox business relationships a-plenty. Tracy was in Berlin trying to sort out the situation, for goodness sake. Promises made but only half kept. Debts paid but not fully settled. The “Special Purpose Vehicles” invisible to the US financial authorities but all too visible to his Russian collaborators. Is this the end game at last? Is he one of the Clantons, facing down Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday in the blinding Arizona heat? He looks at Holloway and Anderson. For Randolf, this might be High Noon. In his mind’s eye, he looks down at his gun and then up Main Street at his nemesis. He cocks his weapon …
“What do you mean, for goodness sakes? Who would go after a daughter just because some two-bit business deal has gone sour? That’s just plain crazy! OK, when I look back, I have had some business problems, it's true, but they are all resolved now. I don’t owe anyone nothing. Not one cent. Not one favour. Actually, some people owe me.″
Scott Anderson is an experienced player when it comes to interrogation. He stays calm as the squall of verbal bullets from Randolf whine and ricochet past him because, during the assault, Scott notices a disconnect. Randolf has scornfully denied the very suggestion that a difficult or unsatisfactory business relationship could have provoked his daughter’s abduction but, right after, Randolf owns up to problems in the past and moves on rapidly to deny any problems in the present, yet adds the information that favours are owed to him! Implicitly, Randolf had validated the idea of abduction for business reasons.
Scott’s experience tells him to take a careful note of this part of the conversation and allow time for further reflection, time to pick the best future opportunity to make best use of it. He merely follows up with a bland and apparently unconnected question of his own.
″Mr Randolf, have you had any relationships in particular with a company called AKE or any negotiations involving a man called Anatoly Kustensky?″
Randolf’s face lightens. At last a straight question to which he can give a straight answer.
″AKE? Nope. Not with them. We have not done anything with them or their associates.″
″Mr Randolf?″
″Yes, Martha. What is it?″
″I have your 2pm in the outer office.″
″Petra?″
″Yes, that’s right, Sir.″
″Show her in, Martha. Show her right in.″
A tall, fair, blue-eyed woman appears at the office door. Her camouflage trousers, desert boots and khaki sweat top mark her out as seriously different from the corporate Barbie’s that normally walk the corridors on this floor. ″Come in, Petra,″ Randolf calls.
The two shake hands and sit themselves down in the comfortable chairs, by the window.
″So, what’s new in Germany?″ Randolf watches as his PA shuts the office door and then turns back to Petra. ″Have you found out any more about what happened to that dim bitch of a daughter of mine, yet?″
Petra Tennerby gives a tolerant smile. ″That’s a curious position for a loving father, Manfred.″
Randolf snorts, ″For a loving father, you’re right. For a father that has to cope with the spawn of a bitch like Shanice, it’s a reasonable reaction. Do you know about Shanice?”
“No, Manfred. I don’t generally get involved with that sort of gossip.”
“No, well, Shanice and I got married before we should have and probably for the wrong reasons. Her daddy was rich and my daddy wanted me to marry well and do well. We had a good couple of years … Tracy was born … I got more and more busy at the Corporation. Shanice got more and more busy with charities and socialising. I got to thinking she was more interested in what I could provide than she was interested in me. I guess she thought I was more interested in the Corporation than I was in her. Things can grow pretty sour pretty fast in that sort of soil. When Shanice left, well, let’s just say things between us have not been amicable.”
After a short reflective pause, Randolf gets back on track.
“Petra, this abduction wasn’t about Tracy. This is personal. This is to get at me. This was a personal attack on me, something to get my attention, to get my attention to my finances. They wanted to get at me. Well, they did, they certainly did. And now, I’ve cleaned up every damn mess. All of the dogies are back in the corral (1). But, whichever bastard is running this game still hasn’t returned my daughter to me! Now, come on, . . .”
″So, a loving father, after all?″
″Petra, I am a father who wants his daughter back, is very interested in the security of information about the Randolf Corporation and has no interest in being constantly nagged by his ex-wife. I admit: there were some debts. They have been repaid. My daughter still has not been returned. Now come on! This is your patch, Europe. Germany is still in Europe isn’t it?″
Petra Tennerby smiles and starts on her report.
“Yep, it’s still there and, as you know, I found the guy in the photograph. We had an ‘interesting’ evening together. He confirmed he had been hired as a bait. After spending the evening with Tracy, that was the evening of the last day she was in the office, he handed her over to the Abductors. I will spare you the details, but the guy I found is an amateur. On the other hand, the abduction team was 100% Pro. It seems Tracy was shipped out of Germany, probably by freight train, probably to Russia.”
“And then?”
“I am afraid the trail in Germany goes cold. Investigating in Russia is a whole different ball game. I don’t think we can really handle that ourselves. Yes, we employ people in Moscow, but none of them have the right training to follow through with something like this. They probably don’t have the motivation, either.”
Manfred sighs. He's not really surprised, but he's disappointed anyway. Still, Petra had confirmed his gut feelings about the situation.
″OK, Petra, now here is some information I have for you. This morning, by coincidence, I had a visit from the Houston FBI. A couple of agents. Holloway, I had met before. There was another one called Anderson who was older, maybe more senior. He was new. Anyway, it seems that some British gal who disappeared two years back has been found and she mentioned she had been held with an American called Tracy. The Feds and the CIA obviously think that this Tracy is my Tracy, otherwise they would not have come to see me. The British bitch won’t talk: she has some syndrome or other . . . ″
″Stockholm Syndrome?″
″Yeah. Something like that. I think you need to go and find her and then we will see what needs to be done after that.″
″Did they say anything about her?″
″Her name is Jennifer McEwan. She was a postgrad at some university in England, studying psychology. She was found recently after she'd been out of sight for about two years. Her husband — Joseph — works for a civil engineering outfit who call themselves ‘New Horizons in Civil Engineering,’ for goodness sake! Also, and this is particularly interesting in view of what you have just said, there seems to be a Russian connection. Anderson was very interested to know if I had any association with a Russki called Kustensky. The answer to that was ‘No,’ by the way, but we are in the same business: energy and, in particular, oil and gas. Is that enough?″
Petra smiles. ″Yes, that’s plenty!″
″So, what next?″
″Now we have this new information, you want me to go on looking, right?″
″Absolutely right.″
″So, this is not going to be cheap.″
″Compared to being yelled at by Shanice, it’s cheap. Besides, I don’t like being played for a sucker. I’ve paid my dues. Someone isn’t settling up with me.″
″OK: I am heading to the UK to find Jennifer. I will keep you posted.″
″Petra, find that British gal and screw the information we need out of her. I don’t really care what you have to do and I am not going to ask. If you need me urgently, use the prepaid cell’ I gave you. It's virgin. Unused. So, no one will have a trace on it. For routine updates, air letter, please. No one suspects the postman anymore!″
Petra smiles at Manfred Randolf’s shrewdness. She smiles back in reply. She merely says, ″You got it.″
Petra Tennerby steps out from the foyer of her hotel. She’s staying not far from London’s Exhibition Centre at Earl’s Court. It’s a cosmopolitan part of the capital, not smart but not shabby either. Petra likes it; it’s away from the hustle and hassle of the West End but it’s a part of town where no one worries too much about your coming and going.
She’s heading for breakfast. There’s a special café in the Earl’s Court Road, not one of the coffee clone chains: small tables, big couches, food cooked to order as long as it’s what the chef feels like doing, twenty sorts tea and if you ask for coffee — well, you just don’t ask — but the café also has free Wi-Fi.
Petra sits at a table by herself, orders tea and porridge with maple syrup and gets to work. That’s an advantage of small tables. When your laptop is open, there is no room for anyone else and Petra is keen to work alone.
She opens her laptop and makes a list:
Jennifer McEwan
Psychology
University
Joseph McEwan
New Horizons in Civil Engineering
2009
Anatoly Kustensky.
Newspapers
Petra is an experienced investigator. Back home, Stateside, she has a Limited Liability Company called Spiral Galaxy Incorporated. The company is registered in Nevada where the state does not require the disclosure of the company owners, merely a local Registered Agent attached to an in-state law practice to receive any legal papers which have to be served and to settle any accounts which Spiral Galaxy cannot settle with PayPal.
This arrangement allows Petra’s identity and affiliations to remain out of the equation and hidden from view and Petra likes that very much. She has arranged for Spiral Galaxy to open a company account with several organisations who offer to search the Internet for addresses, telephone numbers, court records, marriage certificates and any of the publicly available sources of information which chip away at the privacy of members of the public. These days, a ‘gumshoe’ can do as much from the comfort of an office as used to be done walking the streets.
However, after some minutes work, Petra finds that most of her North American Internet search companies seem not to work with United Kingdom data — or perhaps the sort of data she is interested in is not so easily available in the UK? Still, there is always Google, Facebook, Twitter, and Linked-in …
In moments, Linked-in finds a civil engineer called Joseph McEwan who works for New Horizons in Civil Engineering, but does not quote his home address. Google tells her that New Horizons in Civil Engineering has its offices in Coventry and there are five academic institutions in the English West Midlands which teach psychology.
She pauses for a moment’s thought and then searches on <Kustensky/Psychology>. To her astonishment and delight, she finds a Google image showing some members of the department of psychology in the University of Warwick at a meeting in Moscow with the meeting sponsor, Anatoly Kustensky! Could Jennifer McEwan be a postgraduate at the University of Warwick? Petra checks the street address for the University of Warwick. It is in Coventry, home to New Horizons in Civil Engineering, the company which employs Joseph McEwan! It had to be a hot possibility.
Petra had wondered about searching local newspapers for stories about Jennifer; after all, a police search for a missing person is always news. She decides to search first under <Jennifer McEwan/missing person> and immediately gets two hits. First, the website of an organization called Missing People and, then, a link to a site called Find Jenny.
On the Find Jenny site, under ‘News’ and tagged with a smiling picture of her quarry, Petra reads:
″Joseph McEwan and Jennifer’s parents, Andrew and Inga Palmer, are delighted to say that Jennifer McEwan was found on Wednesday, 20th July, in Stockholm, Sweden. We are very grateful for all the support and encouragement we received from family, friends and colleagues during the many months when Jennifer was away from us.″
Petra now has a picture of Jennifer and another completely separate photo showing a connection between the Russian Anatoly Kustensky and some British academic psychologists from a university located in the same town as the company which employs Jennifer McEwan’s husband. One hurdle now remains: to track down a street address for Jennifer.
Petra calls over to the girl on the till:
“Say, do you have a telephone book here I can look at?”
The girl searches and finds a dog-eared copy. “We mostly go on-line these days, but here it is.”
“Thanks … BT? … Are they the major landline company in the UK now?”
“Yep, they’re the only company. Is that all right?”
“Sister, that’s perfect!” (2)
Petra uses the book to confirm the format of the listings: name, initial and address. The Internet address of BT she finds from Google and, in a moment, has reached their on-line phone book. She picks the ‘Find A Person’ tab and opens a dialogue box which asks for a name and location or post code. Location? Petra opens another Internet page and brings up Google Maps. Where might the McEwans live? She makes a list of the towns near Coventry and then begins to enter ‘J McEwan’ in the box, followed by each of the likely towns, one after another. In due course, Petra has accumulated a substantial list of McEwans.
She could track down each one, staking them out at home to see if any of them match the pictures she has of Jennifer, but that would be too slow and costly. The idea of looking for a story about a missing young woman in the local newspapers resurfaces in Petra’s mind.
Petra runs a search for <Local Newspapers. West Midlands. UK> and finds a list including conventional newspapers, television and radio. The first page of the Search promises ten pages to follow; there is a real possibility of drowning in results. Nevertheless, this is what Randolf is paying her to do, so Petra bends to her task. She picks the first one on the list and visits its website to see if their news archive is searchable. It is not. Nor is the archive of the second title on line. Nor is the third.
She could visit the offices of each one, but that would not be exactly discreet. She would stand out as an American and journalists would be all too capable of seeing through any explanation she might put together to justify her interest. Petra clicks to page two and her eye is immediately caught by a site called ‘British Newspapers Online,’ This particular site more than fulfils its promise. It provides an index of newspapers, past and present, published for the whole country. The site can filter its results by region and clicking the West Midlands England tab brings up every paper in Petra’s area of interest, both contemporary and historic (3).
Petra uses the site to identify the papers published in all the towns where the McEwans are likely to live, but starts with the Coventry papers. One of them has an online archive which yields up a story written in December 2009:
‘No Trace of Local Don. Husband and Family Appeal for Help’ (4).
The story goes on:
‘Warwickshire Police today appealed for help in finding Mrs Jennifer McEwan, a lecturer at the University of Warwick. Mrs McEwan, 27, who lived with her husband in near-by Warwick, disappeared on 9th November whilst in London on business and no trace of her has been found. Inspector Brian Ackroyd of Warwickshire Constabulary said; ‘The Police have no reason to suspect foul play at this point, but we and of course, Mrs McEwan’s husband and family are all very concerned to know her whereabouts. We appeal to any member of the public with any information at all to contact us at Warwickshire Police Headquarters …’
The quaint British phraseology almost throws Petra off the scent but there it is: The McEwans live in Warwick. Yet, there are no McEwans at all listed in Warwick by the ‘phone company.
Petra pauses once again. She could go to Warwick and cruise around the town, hoping for a chance encounter with Jennifer McEwan? Surely there must be a better way?
What about hiring a local private detective? Someone who could merge into the background more easily than she? Hiring a detective is neat, but it expands the circle of people who will be aware of Petra’s interest and then, what if they do not approve of the methods she uses to lean on Jennifer? She would not like them to go to the local cops …
How might she find a residential address in the States? She would check the voter registry. There must be one in the UK. Petra puts <Voter Register UK> into Google and finds four useful sites. Wikipedia tells her that in the UK, the register of electors (to use the British phrase) is updated each year and registration is mandatory; there are two versions of the Electoral Roll. An edited version available for sale to any organisation but voters can opt out to spare themselves junk mail and marketing calls and then there is the full register which contains names, addresses and dates of birth.
Petra learns that this version of the Register is maintained by officials at the local municipal council offices and is available for inspection, under supervision from the officials responsible for it, on request during office hours. Wow! That will be the place to go, thinks Petra, and the only question left to answer is whether she should go herself or send someone else? Then, there will be the relatively easy matter of organising a stake-out.
What is the time? Twelve-thirty? Time for a drink! Time for a celebratory lunch — and on ‘expenses.’ It’s a lunch which Randolf will, without doubt, be glad to pay for!
In Russia, Anatoly and Sveta are eating dinner together. It is a quiet meal.
Tomorrow, Sveta is to resume another series of the TV programme she presents. She is preoccupied. Preoccupied by three things, actually. First, Dmitry. Second, life without Vyera. Third, her programme. The three things warp and flux in her mind. They are constantly present. Each brings its own burden. Dmitry, growing up, reminds her of the children she never had. Vyera reminds her of the daughter (well, a sort of daughter) she gave up. Another lost child. Third, the urgent demands of mastering the TV script and seeming cool, informed, relaxed, charming, articulate, amusing and intelligent in front of the unseen audience. And of course, there's the other audience, the one which, without fail, takes careful note of her performance and reflects on whether it has done the Government the service it should.
Anatoly is preoccupied with his business and there are other worries, too. Many of those stem from his wife’s flamboyant decision to release Vyera. He can almost feel the various police and security forces circling like vultures over Russia’s western border, waiting for him to cross. But at last, he now has some solid information to work with.
He has been reading the e-mail intercepts prepared by Yevgeny. About what Joseph McEwan did after his wife disappeared. Who he met. The projects he took on. Anatoly has also read about the background to secret negotiations between Joe's employers, the British civil engineering company called NHCE, and a Swedish company, Skandia Konkret. Anatoly is also in the engineering business. These companies are his business rivals. Those who merge to become a bigger and potentially more dangerous competitor will always be interesting to Anatoly, but the added dimension — that one of them employs Joseph McEwan, husband to the slave Vyera — is of more than trivial interest.
Anatoly is pondering Joe McEwan's future. Sometimes it helps to look at a problem from a different direction, as pointed out to him by Mikhail Barisovitch, in person, and to Sveta, over lunch at the Ukraina. It is a train of thought he clearly wanted Sveta to share with Anatoly and, with Anatoly's attempts to resolve the ‘Vyera problem’ in mind, perhaps Vyera's husband is the ‘different direction’ he should be using? McEwan is a concrete engineer. Skandia made their reputation by doing clever things with concrete. Will McEwan find himself in Sweden after the merger? That's not so far across the Baltic Sea from Russia, after all. Then again, is McEwan’s professional curriculum vitae strong enough to make him an attractive employee when compared to the resources and expertise that Skandia would bring to the new company? As Anatoly swirls the last of a glass of red wine around his mouth, he also wonders if some of the projects McEwan involved himself with in his wife's absence would cause the new company some anxieties or embarrassment?
Anatoly glances up and his eye is caught by a photograph of his father, The General. Actually, it is Anatoly’s favourite picture of him. When he was a boy, it always used to raise goose bumps on his neck. The picture shows several military officers bending over a map. His father has just looked up, his finger poised over the map. Listening, his head slightly on one side, his chin cupped in his hand in concentration, is Marshall Dmitry Zhukov. His father, holding the rapt attention of Marshall Zhukov!
Anatoly wonders what his father would make of him now? Had he been a worthy son? He had not had the opportunity for heroism on the battlefield, like his father, but Anatoly had been successful. He had brought employment to many. He had raised the standard of living of many more. His engineering projects had benefited yet others. He had brought the good name of Russia to people in the West.
Oh — and he had recruited a considerable number of young girls and boys to be slaves, the cause of so many headaches at the moment.
Was this particular enterprise a worthy achievement? Anatoly wonders. The slaves’ circumstances were better now than they were when Anatoly had found them. They had been set on their feet in various ways. He had cared for them. Trained them physically, intellectually and emotionally. They were all special and precious to him. And yet, and yet … they do not have freedom in any conventional sense of the word. But, does anyone in the world enjoy complete unfettered freedom? After all, he had given them the opportunity to serve, something well understood in the Russian psyche. They served a greater individual whose own purpose was to advance the cause of their country. In that light, the slaves merely had a specialised form of employment. He recoils from the thought, comparing the ″special employment″ with another ″special″ concept, the ″House of Special Purpose″ (6). Is he simply trying to find justification for his actions?
He shrugs his shoulders and returns to his problem. One of the slaves is ‘out of position.’ Anatoly has to use all the tactical guile he has inherited from his father to get her back. Here, an opportunity is presenting itself. Reconnaissance, reflection, attack, as his father might have said.
In England, Joe is standing above the construction for the A45 Corridor Redevelopment, at the point where the road will plunge into a tunnel to avoid the end of the Birmingham Main Runway Extension. (7) Joe’s company, NHCE have been employed by the principle contractors and have a small part of the work. From his vantage point, Joe has a view down the length of runway 33/15. Suddenly, a shadow passes over and Joe glances up to see a Lufthansa A300 Series on its final approach to the runway. Joe follows the final few seconds of its flight, as the pilot begins to lift the nose of the aircraft and the main wheels touch down, marked by a puff of blue smoke as some of the tyre rubber vaporises and then the rumble as the thrust-reversers engage to slow the aircraft before it can turn onto the runway exit ramp.
In his mind, Joe is quickly transported to another aircraft arrival. This time it was Jenny and himself landing at Heathrow and he was bringing his wife back home to safety after goodness-knows-what had been happening to her.
As for Jenny herself, she is gradually becoming more relaxed and happy. Joe hasn't mentioned the fact that he has spoken to Akroyd again, but he didn't think it would have helped her. She seems so confused about whatever happened to her while she was away and it seems like the slightest thing can trigger her withdrawing into this other ″Vyera″ person.
Everybody has said to him that the best thing to do is to just try to keep things as normal as possible and, as long as he is able to do that, things really do seem to be all right
As Joe climbs down into the mud of the excavations, another memory crosses his mind. It is from a rugby match he watched on television several months before. Saracens (8) were attacking and close to the London Irish goal line. (9) The ball had escaped the control of the players and was bouncing free along the ground. Someone in the confusion called out ‘Mine!’ and most of those on the field had looked towards the shout and failed to see one of the Saracens sweep up the ball and begin a desperate run for the line. The Saracen did not escape the attention of the London Irish defenders for very long – hardly a second or two – and as a man they tuned to run him down. In the few extra seconds in took the Saracen to reach the Line, his pathway filled with the London Irish and the Hero disappeared from view. As the melee collapsed in a heap, it was impossible to know who was in possession The referee blew to halt play and the untidy ruck of players unscrambled – and at the bottom, beneath all, there was the heroic Saracen, his hand firmly on the ball and the ball touched firmly down over the goal line!
It occurs to Joe that even though he now has possession of Jenny and even though he has brought her safely ‘across the line’, the match might not be over: he might have to fight to defend his possession.
Well: if there was to be a fight for possession, that was exactly what he would do …
References
Orthanc is the tower occupied by the wizard Saruman the White who became poisoned by the idea that he might become the ruler of Middle Earth. To find out more about him, read Lord Of The Rings by JRR Tolkien
1. “dogies” are motherless calves in a herd. This is American cowboy slang from the end of the 19th Century. Present theory is that this derives from feeding them on a flour and water paste.
2.
3.
4. A Don. A rather old-fashioned way to refer to a university academic in the UK.
5. ″A man. A plan. A canal.″ A reference to Theodore Roosevelt, 26th President of the United States. The full palindrome is ″A man. A plan. A canal. Panama.″
6. The House Of Special Purpose: The Ipatiev House in Ekaterinberg where Tsar Nicholas and his family were held until they were killed by the Bolsheviks.
7. To learn more about the civil engineering mayhem associated with the Birmingham Airport Runway Extension,
8. Saracens Rugby Football Team
9. London Irish Rugby Football Team
Has Joseph won the game, or is the match still in progress?
The ‘Jennifer McEwan Case’ is still under active investigation by two police forces in the UK and one in Sweden …
The Russian Security Service is anxious to see the Vyera problem finally resolved and for Anatoly Kustensky to turn his attention to an higher purpose …
The Britsh MI5 and the American CIA would like to know to what extent Anatoly Kustensky was involved in the abduction of Jennifer McEwan and what this might mean for his business activities in the United States and Great Britain …
Manfred Randolf is determined to secure his position as CEO of the Randolf Corporation and get back his daughter and the business information she carries in her memory …
And what of the international transportation company, FCE part owners of Inward Bound and the organisation whose paranoid over-reaction when they discovered Jennifer McEwan’s academic supervisor Professor Dawney to be a personal friend of a business rival, was the root cause of Jennifer’s ordeal in Russia? …
The game will continue in Book 5, due for publication in 2015.
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