He paused while the words sank in.
‘You mean witness protection? A new life?’ Sasha gave a derisory laugh and shook his head. ‘I do not think so.’
John knew he had to dig deeper. And fast. He didn’t have much time before someone found them. ‘Do you want to watch your child growing up from behind prison bars? Do you want to subject your wife to queuing up with the other wives and girlfriends, their kids in tow? How degrading will that be? She’ll be subject to all the low-life, other prisoners will get you to ask her to smuggle stuff in. All this, of course, if she stays with you.’
‘All right. Stop.’ Sasha’s shoulders slumped. ‘I do not have any choice, do I?’
‘Not really. Not if you love your wife.’ John lowered his gun and replaced it safely into his holster.
John didn’t see the fist coming. The first thing he knew was the crack as Sasha’s right hand connected with his jaw.
‘Bastard.’ Sasha’s voice was a mixture of anger and sadness.
John staggered backwards, regained his balance and threw a punch back at Sasha, catching him with an upper cut to the stomach. Sasha doubled up from the blow but, without straightening, charged towards John. He threw his arms around John’s waist, burying his shoulder under John’s ribs. Both men stumbled back.
At that moment the sound of running feet on the concrete echoed behind them.
‘John!’ It was Neil’s voice. The security fencing rattled as Neil shook it, trapped on the outside of the building site. ‘Oi! Armed police!’
Sasha paused and turned his head to look towards where the voice was coming from. John felt Sasha’s hold relax slightly and seized the moment. With a two-handed shove, he threw the Russian to the ground.
‘There’s a gap just down there!’ shouted John, pointing towards the far end of the fencing.
Neil ran the twenty metres or so to the opening, his gun drawn, and aimed at Sasha. John pulled Sasha to his feet by the scruff on his jacket collar.
‘You’ve got exactly five seconds to make your mind up or I’m throwing you to the lions and that goes for your wife and baby too.’
John pulled himself up short from revisiting the moments that played out after Neil reached them. He didn’t want to go there. Not today. He looked at the safe house. He didn’t fancy going back in there just yet. He decided to take a walk around the square.
Walking into the middle of De Beauvoir Square he passed through the brick pillars that marked one of the four entrances to the circular-shaped gardens. The laurel hedges and mature trees shielded the tranquil setting from the Edwardian houses that surrounded it. John breathed deeply and slowly as he meandered along the pathway.
He had been shut up in that house for too long with Sasha. Cabin fever was definitely setting in. It frustrated him that Sasha was being so stubborn about not giving any more information until he had confirmation that his Russian wife and son were on their way to the UK. Unfortunately, relations between the UK and Russian governments weren’t at their best and their Soviet counterparts had got wind of what John’s department was planning. They had an interest in the business activities of the Bolotnikovs and Porboskis, it seemed, and were themselves keen to speak to Sasha and Pavel. The sins of their grandfather coming back to haunt the brothers. John wasn’t convinced the Russians really had any hard evidence on the Bolotnikovs, but were merely hedging their bets and being bloody awkward. Although John couldn’t ignore a small nagging thought at the back of his mind that was becoming more insistent. What if the Russians were stalling for time in the hope of finding Sasha? A bit of a curve ball, but it certainly had potential.
After three slow circuits of the gardens and ten minutes sitting on one of the benches contemplating, John felt back in full control. He pulled out his phone and brought up his boss’ number. He needed to put more pressure on getting the Russian side of things sorted out. It was taking too long and making John uneasy. The longer they were in one place, the more vulnerable they became, with the chances of being found ever increasing. If the Russians were going to launch an attempt to bring Sasha home, now was the ideal time.
John walked back into the safe house. Martin and Sasha were still playing poker, the pile of notes much bigger on Martin’s side of the table.
‘He cheats,’ said Sasha, not looking up from the cards in his hand. ‘I swear he has the cards marked.’
‘You’re simply a bad loser,’ replied Martin. ‘I don’t cheat, I’m a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary.’
‘My point exactly.’ Sasha threw his cards face up on to the table. ‘I do not want to play any more.’