No Tomorrow Page 15

  “Then why ask?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, does it? If you don’t want to tell me anything about yourself there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “It’s not a case of want but necessity. The less you know about me, the better.”

  “The better for you, you mean.”

  “For both of us,” he said.

  She saw an honesty in his eyes despite his evasiveness. He refused to open up about himself but made no effort to lie or pretend. It would have been easy enough to lie to her. She wouldn’t know what was true and what was not. She liked that he didn’t do that.

  “Okay, I’ll give up getting to know you for the moment. But only because by saying so little about yourself you’ve actually told me quite a lot.”

  “I have?”

  “Oh yeah, bud. But now it’s your turn to ask me something. And before you say you don’t need to, I’m telling you that you do. Remember what I said about these here nails and your eyeballs.”

  After a moment, he said, “What happened a week ago?”

  Gisele took a deep breath. “I knew you were going to ask me that. And I don’t exactly want to relive it.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Fine. I guess I have to sometime, right? Might as well be now. I was working late at the office. There was a lot to be done, as my boss wasn’t in that day. I was the last to leave. I barely made the tube home. When I got out at my station I noticed there was this guy hanging around. He looked at me. You know, stared. I thought he was going to ask me for money or a light or something, but then he looked away and started playing on his phone. I didn’t think anything more about it, but I was walking fast, just in case. Which was pretty dumb, because all I could hear was my own footsteps. I couldn’t hear his behind me.” She took another breath. “I guess I was lucky, because his phone went off and I didn’t look back but I knew it was him. So a minute later when this car pulls up next to me I’m already alert and I start running. What I didn’t know was that the man behind me had tried to grab me at that exact moment. But I was already running so he only caught a handful of hair and yanked it out.” She rubbed the back of her head.

  “Did he chase you?”

  She nodded. “I guess. I think so. I didn’t look back and I’m quite quick. As well as a self-defense class, I jog and take a spin class. I like keeping fit. Even if I could still lose a couple of kilos.”

  “Where did you go when you ran away?”

  “Not far. I ran into the first place I could find: an Irish pub. Soon as I was inside, I called the police. No one followed me in.”

  “That was smart. You forced them to back off. They might have gone straight to your flat to wait for you there.”

  “The detective said the same thing.”

  “Did you see the driver of the car?”

  She shook her head.

  “What was the car like?”

  She shook her head again. “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Was there anyone else in the car beside the driver?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “That I was very lucky.”

  “Did they have any idea who the two men were?”

  “No. They asked me lots of questions, of course. Do I have any enemies? Do I owe anyone money? That kind of thing. They said they might have been looking to rape me. Fuck, can you imagine? It’s a cliché, but you never think it will happen to you. Well, you don’t want to believe it could. Otherwise you’d never leave your house, would you?”

  “Did you tell them about your father?”

  “Why would I? I haven’t seen Alek for years. I haven’t had anything to do with him since I’ve lived here. I say that, but I still take his money. And, yes, I know that makes me a hypocrite. But you know what they say: not everyone can afford to have principles.”

  “Did the cops tell you to stay with your neighbor?”

  “The police said they would have a patrol car drive by to keep an eye on me, which they did. Exactly one time. When I realized that they weren’t going to do anything else until after I was raped or murdered, I decided I would take the week off work and stay with Yvette. She offered. Well, insisted. She’s nice. A bit paranoid, though. She wouldn’t open the curtains in case they came back looking for me. That’s why I hid when you knocked on the door. I hope you didn’t scare her too much.”

  “Please apologize on my behalf when you see her next.”

  “So the guys who tried to grab me are enemies of Alek?”

  Victor nodded. “He believes another outfit is seeking to wipe him out.”

  “Good. He deserves it.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  She shrugged.

  Victor said, “Regardless, you don’t deserve this.”

  “How do you know I’m not exactly like him?”

  “I can tell. You’re a good person. Like your mother.”

  “How good could she have been if she married him?”

  “Norimov kept her in the dark as much as possible. She knew he was a criminal, but she didn’t know what that meant.”

  “Then she should have found out.”

  “She loved him long before she knew he was a criminal.”

  “That’s not a very good excuse.”

  She saw him consider this for a moment. “Maybe not.”

  He slowed to a stop at an intersection. Gisele saw his eyes never stopped moving while they waited for the light to change. Not just at the roads ahead and to the left and right, but also to the road behind. She saw it for what it was—vigilance—and felt comforted by it. She knew next to nothing about this man, but somehow trusted he would keep his word to protect her.

  She relaxed in the seat and let her eyes go unfocused on the city outside, blurring the sharp lines and glare into softness and light.

  Chapter 29

  Through the cabin windows, the city was a seemingly infinite blanket of orange dots glowing in the darkness. The plane touched down at London City Airport shortly before seven p.m. local time. It wasn’t a commercial airliner but a private charter jet. It was a Gulfstream G550, capable of seating up to nineteen people. Tonight it carried eight passengers. All men. The cabin crew, more accustomed to serving oil tycoons, bureaucrats of the European Union, and Arab sheikhs, were not sure what to make of these eight unkempt passengers onboard the luxury jet.

  Instead of suits, they wore jeans and khaki trousers, T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts, sports coats and leather jackets. They were all tanned and had varying amounts of facial hair. Most were well built, ranging in age from early thirties to late forties. They had boarded the Gulfstream with few words at Tripoli International Airport, declining offers of help with their luggage. Their bags were a far cry from Louis Vuitton and Prada. They were sports bags and rucksacks, as dirty and weatherworn as the men who carried them; instead of being stored away in the luggage hold or even in the overhead compartments, they were placed on the fine leather seats next to their owners.

  The Gulfstream was equipped with a bar stocked with a range of wines, spirits, and liqueurs. The crewman stationed behind it spent the flight bored and restless with nothing to do. Each of the passengers ignored the complimentary alcohol, instead drinking only bottled water, tea, or coffee. They accepted the food, however, emptying the stock of gourmet meals and making a horrendous mess in the process. They had no taste and no class, eating smoked salmon pâté from the same plate as steak tartare, asking for crème anglais to be poured over strawberry semifreddo. The crew was appalled.

  It was a three-hour, forty-minute flight from Tripoli. The televisions and other gadgets were ignored. The men seemed to have neither interest in their surroundings nor the need to pass the time. They did little more than eat. And after they had
eaten they slept. One even lay sprawled on the long couch, booted feet up and leaving smears of dirt on the suede. Only one stayed awake, reading and making notes in a small notebook, undisturbed by the snores around him.

  The comfort and facilities of the luxury charter jet were wasted on the group. Their very presence was an insult to the expertise of the cabin crew. They whispered among themselves, sampling the bar’s drinks to pass the time and speculating on who the eight men could be, the conclusions becoming more and more outrageous as blood-alcohol levels rose. They had the look of men who performed tough manual work. One of the crew suggested they were soldiers, but it was agreed with their lack of uniforms, manners, and nonmilitary haircuts, they had to be otherwise employed. But how could these men afford to travel in such an expensive aircraft? If they were not rich themselves, who was footing the bill for the charter? And, more important, why?

  The men exited the aircraft with barely any acknowledgment to the crew. Only one bothered to express his appreciation. If he noticed the inebriation of the cabin crew, he did not comment on it. A woman waited for them on the tarmac. She shook their hands in turn and led them to where a couple of black Range Rovers were standing by. The men boarded the vehicles, and the crew watched the brake lights disappear into the night.

  Chapter 30

  Gisele shifted in the passenger’s seat. Her jeans were digging into her stomach. They were high-waisted to keep her tummy in. The sweater helped too, and its geometric pattern added some breadth to her otherwise modest bust. She liked to look nice but drew the line at such patriarchal shackles as high heels and underwear that encouraged yeast infections. Women shouldn’t have to torture themselves in order to look their best. Men wouldn’t stand for it—literally—so neither would she.

  She thought of herself as an attractive woman—not as hot as she would have liked, but she received enough compliments and pickup attempts to have a positive self-image. Her companion, stone-faced and unblinking, didn’t seem to notice. This irritated her. She noticed him. He was tall and in shape and had an aura of unshakable confidence bordering on arrogance. She found that to be a particularly attractive quality in a man. A shame, then, that he had no personality.

  She wanted to be taken seriously as a lawyer and dressed appropriately conservative and tried to act older than her years. She wasn’t prepared to flirt and flatter to get ahead, even if the opportunities seemed to be there. Men at her firm clearly liked her, especially the older men. She already had the weight of her stepfather’s criminality hanging around her neck. The only way she would ever be respected was by showing people she knew what she was doing. Problem was, she didn’t yet know how to do her job. Studying law and practicing it couldn’t be more different. For now, she was happy to assist and watch and learn. Her time would come eventually. She knew that.

  Gisele wanted to make it as a lawyer, to earn respect and pay the bills and do some good to distance herself from Alek and the life he led—the life that had paid for the nice house they had lived in and bought her everything she ever wanted and nothing that she had needed.

  Feeling herself getting stressed thinking about her stepfather, she rubbed her arm and said to the man next to her, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Your stepfather’s men have a warehouse where they’re holing up. We’ll stay there until we know our next move.”

  “What do you mean, next move?”

  “You let me worry about that for the time being.”

  She nodded, then examined him. Fit, but slim. Decent clothes. Well groomed but not stylish. “You don’t look like a bodyguard.”

  “I’ve told you. I’m not a bodyguard.”

  “Then what do you do for a living?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. He acted as though he hadn’t heard her.

  “Well?” she said after a moment’s silence.

  “I’m a security consultant.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if you were, then you wouldn’t have pretended not to have heard my question.”

  He remained silent.

  “We’ve already established you’re a gangster,” she said. “I just wanted to know what kind.”

  “How many kinds of gangster are there?”

  She shrugged. “I know only two kinds. There are guys like Alek who wear a suit and act respectable, like they’re a CEO or something, and there are those who do the heavy lifting so people like Alek can get rich. So, which kind are you?”

  “I’m a different kind.”

  “The security-consultant kind?”

  He nodded.

  “Which of Alek’s guys are there?” she asked.

  “Dmitri and Yigor.”

  She smiled. “Cool, I haven’t seen them for ages. It’ll be great to catch up.”

  “You like them?”

  “Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  He said, “Because they’re gangsters working for the stepfather you hate.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not their fault I hate him, is it? Growing up, they paid me more attention than he did. Yigor used to drive me to school and let me play the same stupid music every day. Dmitri, he’s a sweetie. Once you’ve spent some time to get to know him, anyway.”

  “Then I guess I haven’t had the time.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “It’s more the other way around.”

  “He doesn’t like you? I can only assume he has good reason. What did you do?”

  “I suppose you could say that we had an altercation a couple of years ago. One that he still holds a grudge over.”

  “Like a fight?”

  “Of a kind.”

  She looked shocked. “And you won?”

  “It wasn’t a fight per se, so there wasn’t what you’d call a winner and a loser. But he came off worse, if that’s what you mean.”

  “So, are you one of those guys who knows that cage-fighting MMA stuff?”

  “Not exactly, but I know a little about self-defense.”

  Gisele smiled, impressed and intrigued. “Me too. I told you about my class, right? Can you show me some cool moves?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know any cool moves.”

  She eyed him, suspicious. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Chapter 31

  It was cold in the aircraft hangar. Outside it was less than ten degrees Celsius, according to her car’s thermometer. Inside it had to be even colder, Anderton thought. She wore her long winter coat and scarf. There was no heating, obviously, and the domed ceiling was at least thirty meters overhead. Forty thousand cubic feet of space for aircraft was almost empty. The only vehicles inside were Anderton’s car and two black Range Rovers. Men climbed out of the four-by-fours. Eight of them in total. Anderton knew their faces only because she had seen the files Marcus had supplied. She knew each man’s name and particulars because she had studied those files and memorized every detail. She had never worked with them before.

  They dropped out of the vehicles, boots loud on the hard floor and echoing around the hangar. It took them a few minutes to assemble before her because they unloaded bags and rucksacks. Most eyeballed her a little, sizing her up and coming to all sorts of judgments and conclusions. They would have worked with intelligence officers before. They had probably all been screwed over or put in danger because of bad intel. She would be the whipping girl for their collective distrust and dislike of what they referred to as green slime.

  But that was before, back when they had been serving their respective countries and risking their lives for far less money than anyone who gets shot at for a living should make. Now they earned a lot more and didn’t have to answer for their actions. They were mercenaries. According to Marcus, his best. And if not his best, his most reliable. In Marcus’s world, on the Circuit, as private securi
ty contractors called it, reliability was code for “willingness to do jobs that other mercenaries would not.” Don’t worry about this guy. He’ll do what needs doing. He’s reliable.

  That’s what Anderton required above all else. “What do you think?” she whispered to the man next to her.

  Sinclair shrugged by way of an answer and folded his arms in front of his chest. Ropey muscle tightened beneath the tanned forearms. Normally, the stance would have indicated defensiveness to Anderton, but coming from Sinclair it could not be read as such. Marcus had referred to him as a dog that should have been put to sleep, and he was at least half-right. Sinclair was an animal, and therefore his behavior could not be interpreted by human standards.

  He was a white South African. Dangerous and unpredictable, but he was loyal and excelled at doing the kinds of things that turned even Anderton’s stomach.

  Overhead fluorescent tubes bathed the mercenaries in harsh, unforgiving light. When they had formed a loose line, she closed the distance between them. The heels of her snakeskin boots clattered on the floor.

  The hangar air was crisp and stank of diesel and engine grease and jet fuel. When she was three meters from the men it also stank of body odor. She reminded herself that a few hours before they had been in Libya and then on a flight. There was no lack of discipline in their hygiene. They simply didn’t have the time or opportunity to pay attention to activities like regular showers, shaving, and using deodorant. Plus, she had been in some of the same parts of the world these men had recently operated in, and most natives there didn’t either. They were all tanned from time in Tripoli, North Africa, and the Middle East. Most had been in that region for months. She had winced when reading reports of some of the things they had done. But that was good. She didn’t want heroes.

  They had been stationed in Libya for the last three weeks, working for Marcus as they had all done numerous times before. They were running a number of simultaneous operations for several different clients who had hired them through Marcus’s company. They had provided close protection for VIPs. They had conducted surveillance. They had trained and advised. And they had killed.