Rebel Elite: Sam Driver #1, page 15
He sprung back up to his feet. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’
‘Look before you drop,’ Driver said rubbing her wrist. She plugged the belt in and pulled it tight.
The marine was tall and handsome, with sandy hair and intense eyes. ‘You been on one of these before?’ he asked.
‘An airplane?’ Driver replied. ‘Yeah.’
‘It can get a little bumpy, just so you know.’
Driver rolled her eyes. ‘Are you always this condescending?’
The marine shrugged. ‘Only when I’m nervous.’
‘Around planes?’
‘Around government suits,’ he said. ‘What are you, State Department?’
Driver reached into her jacket and flashed him her badge.
The soldier fixed her with an annoyingly charming grin. ‘Operations Officer Driver… Do I call you sir or ma’am?’
‘Call me Sam,’ Driver said, fighting the urge to smile. She checked the name on the breast of his uniform. ‘Commander McNeil.’
‘Tom,’ he replied, extending a hand as the plane rumbled along the runway.
Driver put her hand in his as they locked eyes. Was that a spark?
No, she had a rule. No military personnel. No one remotely connected to work. She’d seen it, done it, burned the T-shirt. But damn if she didn’t feel something.
As the C-17 rose into the air, Driver allowed herself that smile.
It didn’t last. Turbulence snapped her back to the present – a jolting return to a loneliness beyond repair and the thunder of a snoring Pope.
St Petersburg, Russia
It had been a long time since Driver had held anything resembling an eyeliner in her hand. And it felt alien to see herself in anything other than a prison outfit or combat gear.
Even the utility wear she’d slipped into for the Libya mission felt strange. So looking at herself in the bathroom mirror of her hotel room was like an out of body experience. There, in the large, lit mirror stood a complete stranger. Her time in prison had done wonders for her hair and skin. Cold water and medical soap had cleared up all the minor ailments she used to fuss and fret over. And that extra inch around her waist? Gone. A natural consequence of boiled cabbage, raw cabbage and when the prison cook was feeling generous, cabbage with an egg.
Driver stared at the stranger in the mirror. Her long blonde hair blow-dried and straightened. Her strappy black dress tight to her figure and halfway up her thigh. Smoky eyes, defined cheekbones and lip glossed in a subtle peach.
She slipped on her black high heels and stood tall. Driver would have preferred the security of a Beretta in her silver clutch bag. But where they were going, a pat-down and search were inevitable.
She turned off the bathroom light and left the hotel room, wobbling towards the elevators as she got reacquainted with heels. Fortunately for Driver, the corridor was long. Unfortunately, Wells waited at the end of it, pushing a button on an elevator.
‘Shit,’ Driver whispered to herself, checking her look as she passed by a tall mirror.
Wells stood upright in a dark-blue suit and a crisp, white open-neck shirt. He turned with a beaming white grin. ‘Well hello, Agent Driver.’
Driver flashed a brief, embarrassed smile in return. ‘Shut up.’
She followed Wells into the elevator. As the doors closed and the elevator descended, they stood shoulder to shoulder. There was an uncomfortable silence Driver could have stabbed with the end of a fork. Or perhaps the tension was internal. She tried to think of something to say. But Driver had never been any good at small talk. Even less so after two years in solitary.
Wells straightened his jacket and talked to himself under his breath. ‘Yeah, Sunny, you look damn good in that suit… Oh hey, Sam, thanks for noticing…’
Driver laughed, feeling the tension break. She looked up at Wells. ‘You look very handsome. Happy now?’
‘It would just be nice to be told once in a while,’ Wells said, offering her an arm.
‘Asshole.’ Driver smiled, hooking her arm around his as they stepped out into the lobby.
With her feet feeling their way into her heels, the pair glided across the limestone floor together. They met the others at the hotel entrance beneath a grand, sparkling chandelier. Pope wore a light-grey suit and the same style of shirt as Wells, while Baptiste was more showy in a deep burgundy number complete with waistcoat and black tie, a combination only he could have pulled off.
Driver sized up Lim and Rios. While Lim seemed at home in a white strapless dress sprayed onto her slender figure, Rios tugged awkwardly at a slinky, shimmering gold number.
‘Wow, you all look great,’ Driver said to the group. ‘Even you, Pope.’
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ Pope replied, ogling her in return. ‘You’re a bit of all right when you make an effort.’
Driver sighed. ‘And then you go and open your mouth.’
Pope turned to Lim and Rios. ‘Don’t worry, girls, you’re a couple of fine examples as well.’
‘Oh thank God,’ Lim gasped in mock relief.
‘Come on, let’s not keep the night waiting,’ Wells said, leading the way through the front entrance.
They gathered on the kerb as a doorman stepped out into the road. Wells flagged down a cab and opened a passenger door. Baptiste tipped him as he and Driver climbed inside the car. She ran a comms check as the taxi cruised through the rain-slicked streets of St Petersburg. The rest of the team checked in loud and clear from the backs of their own cabs. Gilmore had come good with the new and improved earpieces. Now Driver hoped Baptiste knew Yedmenov as well as he claimed.
The ten-minute journey across town ended in a steep fare and a swanky nightclub called Sugar. Its vertical neon sign glowed in effervescent pink. A line formed inside a red rope and a pair of bald doormen stood guard. An elegant six-foot woman in a black trouser suit oversaw the admittance of clientele. She held a tablet and a cold look on her face, giving a nod of approval or a shake of the head.
Driver took Baptiste’s arm as they crossed the street, an inch taller than him in heels.
‘You’re making me look short,’ he complained in Russian.
‘Sorry, darling,’ Driver replied, in the same language.
Baptiste nodded in approval. ‘Your accent is pretty good, if a little generic.’
‘Watch it, stumpy.’
Baptiste chuckled as they joined the back of the line. Two other cabs pulled up alongside the pavement. Lim and Rios climbed out of one, Pope and Wells the other. Driver saw the others join the queue behind them, keeping a few club-goers in between. The line moved fast. They were soon at the front.
‘On the list?’ the woman with the tablet asked, her thin face glowing in the light of the screen.
Driver knew the drill at these kinds of clubs – the ones with the overpriced drinks and inflated egos. If you weren’t a regular, then they had to like the look of you. If they didn’t like the look of you, then you had to be on the list. It was the kind of place she hated. Give her a beer and a bar stool any day of the week.
‘Why would I be on your list?’ Baptiste snorted. ‘I’m a friend of the owner.’
The woman smirked. ‘You and everyone else.’
‘Tell him it’s Yuri Baptiste.’
‘Sorry, not tonight,’ the woman said, returning to her tablet.
One of the doormen unhooked the rope and invited Baptiste and Driver to exit the queue.
‘Fine, I’ll call him.’ Baptiste said, pulling his phone from inside his blazer. ‘But he’s going to be pissed—’
Driver watched as Baptiste scrolled through to an empty contacts list. His thumb hovered over the screen. He looked up at the woman and held her eye. She took out her own phone and made a call. Her back turned, she muttered low into the handset. As she came off the call, her face lit up with a delicate smile, as if a whole new person. ‘Apologies, Mr Baptiste, please go through.’ As the doormen stepped aside, the woman smiled at Driver. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
She smiled back as they joined a group of club-goers filing their way in through the entrance. A second team of bouncers patted down the men and searched the handbags of the women.
Driver turned to see Lim and Rios make it through. She figured it was on account of Lim. The woman had the cool air of detachment that knitted perfectly with the trying-not-trying crowd. Whether it was a trained persona or her true character, Driver couldn’t tell. But her instincts told her there was more to Lim than she chose to reveal.
While a doorman checked her handbag, Driver watched Wells and Pope step up to the plate.
‘No,’ the woman with the tablet said.
‘Why not?’ Pope asked in a London accent.
The woman looked Wells up and down. ‘Just no.’
Something told Driver it wasn’t the colour of Wells’ suit that was the problem. But Pope was persistent. ‘You know who this is, love?’
The woman shook her head.
‘It’s only Danny Akibe.’
The woman shrugged.
Pope acted in disbelief. ‘African footballer of the year?’
‘Runner-up,’ Wells added in a Nigerian accent.
‘Runner-up,’ Pope continued. ‘Scored forty goals in the Dutch league last season. He’s just signed for Zenit Saint Petersburg.’
‘Zenit?’ one of the bouncers asked, elbowing the other.
‘Yeah, thirty-five million euros,’ Pope continued. ‘It’s not even made the news yet.’
The woman glanced at the doormen. They pleaded with her to let him in, declaring themselves huge Zenit fans.
‘Okay, you come in,’ the woman tutted, as the doormen took out their phones and posed for selfies with Wells.
‘Nice accent,’ the Brit remarked as he and Pope caught up to Driver and Baptiste. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Let’s just get to the bar,’ the Australian replied, as if sucking on a lemon. ‘I need to wash the Pom out of my mouth.’
It was a busy night inside the club. Hard electronic music thumped out a chugging bass line as the dance floor heaved with rocket-fuelled clubbers. Driver surveyed the scene. There was a pink-lit bar towards the back, adorned with rich men and statuesque women. Above was a large window looking out over the club. It was just as Baptiste had described during their planning session in Geneva.
‘Take your positions,’ she said over comms.
On her command, the group split and melted into the crowd. Lim and Rios first, then Pope and Wells, heading for opposite ends of the bar.
Driver stuck close to the entrance with Baptiste. She leaned into his ear. ‘Are you sure we just wait?’
‘Give it a moment,’ Baptiste said, glancing towards a discreet security camera above.
Within seconds, a man as tall as a tree appeared, dressed like a secret service agent. He had a shaved boulder of a head, caveman-era features and a curling wire extending from an ear into his collar. He placed a giant hand on Baptiste’s back and beckoned them to follow him. Driver noticed gang tattoos peeping out of the man’s shirt collar and cuffs as he pushed through the crowd. She made eye contact with Wells as they followed. He gave her a subtle nod.
The others were already in position, Pope attempting to pick up a long-legged blonde and Lim flanked by two men attempting to buy her and Rios drinks.
Driver felt the bass vibrating in her bones. The giant with the tattoos led them through an inconspicuous side door painted the same colour as the black walls of the club. He took them along a dingy spot-lit corridor and into an elevator, the music dropping to a dampened thud.
The elevator rose and the door opened. The man led them into a quiet hallway with black marble tiles. A set of double doors awaited them, flanked by another mean-looking security guard. Opening the door, the big man led the way into a large circular space, fronted by the huge window Driver had noticed on entry. It made the entire room resemble a giant fishbowl.
In the centre was a sunken, circular living space with curved cream leather sofas.
‘Yuri Baptiste, is that you?’ a voice shouted in Russian from the back of the room. ‘No, it can’t be Yuri. He would never look so old!’
It was Oleksandr Yedmenov. He emerged from behind a private bar with a martini in hand. A small man with dark features and unnaturally tanned skin, wearing a gaudy silver shirt with a black dolphin pattern. He swaggered over on short legs with a smoker’s smile as wide and crooked as the Neva River.
20
Yedmenov laughed and hugged Baptiste. He slapped him hard on the back with a hand full of gold sovereign rings.
‘Oleksandr,’ Baptiste said. ‘You haven’t aged a day. What’s your secret?’
‘You know what they say,’ Yedmenov replied. ‘You’re only as old as the woman you feel.’ The Russian arms dealer boomed with laughter, only to stop in an instant when he noticed Driver. ‘Speaking of which.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Who is this magnificent creature?’
‘This is Monica,’ Baptiste replied. ‘Say hello, Monica.’
‘Hello, Monica,’ said Driver.
Yedmenov wagged a finger in her direction. ‘I like this one. Beauty and brains. Hard to find.’
Driver shunned Yedmenov’s attentions and looked around the room. A young woman reclined on one of the sofas. She wore a cherry-red velvet dress, her strawberry-blonde hair swept over a pale, freckled shoulder. Her nose carried a tinge of crimson under the nostrils. She drank a glass of champagne and glared at Driver like she was competition.
‘So, Yuri,’ Yedmenov said. ‘You no longer working in service of Mother Russia?’
Baptiste sighed. ‘I got tired of the politics.’
‘I heard you got arrested,’ Yedmenov said, circling his old friend.
‘Just a little mix-up in Paris,’ Baptiste replied. ‘I’ve gone private now. You might say an intermediary.’
Yedmenov chuckled. ‘Intermediary, huh? And you say you’re tired of politics…’
Baptiste shrugged. ‘I thought we might do some business together.’
‘You’re not a competitor, are you?’ Yedmenov scowled. ‘Because you know what happens to my competitors…’
Baptiste hesitated.
Yedmenov roared with laughter and swung a fake punch into Baptiste’s midriff. ‘I got you, Yuri.’
Baptiste bobbed and weaved. ‘You didn’t have shit.’
‘Bullshit, I had you like always,’ Yedmenov said, slapping a hand on Baptiste’s shoulder. ‘Come, we talk business.’
Beckoned down to the sofas, Driver sat far enough away from Baptiste to hint she might be available.
‘Viktoria, fetch us some champagne,’ Yedmenov said.
The beautiful young redhead rose to her feet. She killed Driver with her eyes as she glided by.
Baptiste leaned forward. ‘I can assure you, Oleksandr, I’m not in business to tread on any toes. Only to oil the wheels. To make introductions.’
‘Introductions to who?’ Yedmenov asked, reclining into the sofa and sipping on his martini.
‘Buyers, sellers, new product lines.’
‘Come on,’ Yedmenov said, leering at Driver. ‘What can you get me that I can’t get for myself?’
‘How about a new product line from China?’ Baptiste asked.
‘You don’t have access to China,’ Yedmenov replied. ‘No one does.’
Baptiste leaned in close. ‘You sure about that?’
While Yedmenov considered Baptiste’s proposal, Viktoria returned with four flutes of champagne. She set them down on the table. ‘One for me, one for Oleksandr, one for Yuri…’ Viktoria narrowed her eyes at Driver. ‘And one for the old woman.’
Viktoria sat herself close to Yedmenov, a hand on his thigh. Driver picked up her glass without comment and stood up from the sofa. She strolled to the viewing window, holding the champagne, but not drinking. It was severely tempting, yet she held strong and surveyed the nightclub floor below.
Pope and Wells were still at the bar, the former dabbing his face dry with a gold napkin. The handsome Brit laughed as an offended young woman strode away cursing the Aussie’s name.
Next she spotted Rios and Lim being chatted up by two of Yedmenov’s personal security team. They were clearly separate to the club doormen and clothed in tailored suits.
Indeed, Baptiste had been right on the money, down to the number of security they could expect and how they operated. Inside the club, Yedmenov’s private team weren’t on official duty. Yet they had strict instructions to stay on the right side of sober, and remain close at hand if needed. They had the look of men who took the perks of their jobs seriously. A free drink here, a young woman there, with the promise of VIP access. Yedmenov knew how to treat his employees and how to engender loyalty. Baptiste was also right about the man’s penchant for long-legged blondes.
Driver sashayed back to the sofas, Yedmenov watching her every move.
He turned his attention to Baptiste. ‘With or without China, I’ve got a full product line as it is. Russian, American, British, Israeli—’
‘So you won’t be interested in an EMP railgun,’ Baptiste remarked.
Yedmenov paused, champagne flute to his lips. He set down the glass. ‘A pulse weapon?’
‘More than one,’ Baptiste said. ‘And I know you’ve been looking to get your hands on the new V-series nerve agent.’
The arms dealer shifted to the edge of the sofa. ‘How much are we talking?’ he asked, opening a small silver box on the table between them.
‘Twenty million,’ Baptiste said. ‘US.’
Yedmenov flinched at the price, spooning out a small heap of cocaine on the glass table.
‘It’s next-generation tech,’ Baptiste continued. ‘I know other parties who’d pay triple.’
‘So why do you need another middleman?’ Yedmenov asked, arranging the coke into a neat line.
‘It’s a sensitive time for me,’ Baptiste replied, crossing a leg and pinching the knee of his trouser. ‘I need a layer of anonymity. Besides, you have all the logistics in place. Why reinvent the wheel?’
