Illegal Action

13

As he approached the house in Belgravia, a beautiful white stuccoed mansion just off Eaton Square, Jerry Simmons kept his eyes peeled, which was what he was paid to do. But there was nothing unusual on the street.

A month before there’d been a man sitting in an electric blue Audi saloon car, two days in a row, within view of the house. Each day he’d disappeared by mid-morning, though once Jerry thought he’d spotted the car, further down the street, at dusk.

Jerry reckoned that the man had been there on Rykov’s orders, probably to confirm where Jerry worked. Certainly since then there’d been nothing unusual, although Tamara, the PA, had been jittery lately. But then she’d always struck Jerry as highly strung, neurotic even. One day she’d grilled him after a substitute postman had made the delivery. Had he seen him? Did he look genuine?

Jerry’s daily routine was straightforward. He’d come out from the Underground in his standard blue chauffeur’s suit, do up his tie and walk across the park in time to reach the house by eight o’clock. There he’d collect a mug of tea from Mrs. Grimby in the vast basement kitchen, then retreat to the Bentley Arnage, and wait, reading the Mirror he’d brought along with him on the Tube. By eight-thirty the Russian would come out and get into the back seat, and Jerry would drive him to the gym, an expensive place with a pool down near Chelsea Harbour. Then on to any appointments, and perhaps a restaurant for lunch, after which the Russian liked to be in his house.

On those mornings when Brunovsky stayed in, Jerry might go out and top the car up with petrol, get it washed or take it for its quarterly service; otherwise, he killed time by waxing and polishing the car until it gleamed, by making himself useful around the house (he was good at DIY) or just by reading.

It could be a long day sometimes, especially when there was an evening engagement, but his weekends were usually free, since Brunovsky liked to spend them in the country where he kept a Range Rover which he drove himself. And the money was good enough, so he wasn’t complaining, especially now that he had the generous top-up from Rykov.

He had had two more meetings with Rykov, though they had been brief. He’d given accounts of his employer’s comings and goings, and supplied what little information he had about where the man might be going next. It had seemed skimpy even to Simmons, but Rykov had not complained. And he’d paid him well.

Still, it violated what Simmons knew should be his professional code: a man had one employer, and therefore one loyalty; less clearly, it also stirred some unease, since Jerry was well disposed to the Russian and it seemed obvious that Rykov’s close interest in him was a threat of some sort.

Not that he knew his employer very well. He was small and wiry, but seemed a cheerful bloke. His English was excellent, and he always said hello to Jerry in the morning and asked how he was. He would apologise if his schedule changed unexpectedly, or if he had to go out suddenly in the evening. But they didn’t have much other conversation, and when he was on his mobile, which seemed most of the time, or Tamara was with him, he spoke in Russian.

Tamara was not so friendly. Frosty, fortyish, dyed blonde hair, she spoke English with an accent that got on his nerves, though that was nothing compared to her manners, which were high-handed and officious. She wasn’t Russian herself, but from some country Jerry could not identify. Macedonia? Montenegro? Something like that, though you would think she had been born on Park Lane the way she behaved. Her demeanour suggested that although she too worked for the Russian, she was not a mere employee—which someone like Jerry, who was a mere employee, should not forget.

Yet she was the only unpleasant note in the household, which had a sizeable retinue—Mrs. Grimby the cook, a housekeeper named Warburton who didn’t say much but was friendly enough, a series of temps who helped Tamara when she found typing beneath her, a young maid, two gardeners and Monica, Brunovsky’s girlfriend. She was nice, Monica—a looker of course, but not stuck up. He was sometimes asked to chauffeur her on shopping expeditions, though most of the time she seemed happy to drive herself. Who wouldn’t, given an Audi 6 coupé and licence to knock up as many parking fines as they wanted?

This morning he was collecting his tea from Mrs. Grimby when he heard voices in the corridor upstairs, speaking in Russian. He was used to the voices of Tamara and the boss, and today there was a strain to their exchanges, which Jerry could detect without understanding a word.

“Is he going to the gym today?” he whispered to Mrs. Grimby. Stout and white-haired, she wore an apron around her ample waist and was opening a canister of flour.

“I don’t know,” she said equably, “though he’s here for lunch. But I think something’s upset him.” She raised her eyes; upstairs, voices continued in an agitated staccato of Russian. Suddenly he heard the noise of clacking heels come down the stairs, and Tamara swept into the kitchen.

“Jerry,” she said shortly, “when did you get here?”

“Just a minute ago,” he said. She looked even tenser than usual. “Is something wrong?”

Tamara ignored his question and turned on her heel. Leaving the kitchen to go upstairs, she called back over her shoulder, “Sir will be down shortly.”

Sir, thought Jerry sarcastically, who was happy enough to address his employer that way, but was buggered if he’d use the expression when the man wasn’t even there. He looked at Mrs. Grimby. She and her late husband had run a pub in South London, then a boarding house in Poole; Jerry couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen a thing or two. “What’s got into her?” he asked.

“Takes all sorts,” said Mrs. Grimby philosophically, starting to sift some flour.

Jerry picked up his mug, then went outside, where the car sat in a narrow cul-de-sac, next to the small garden between the back of the house and a mews house which the Russian also owned. It was going to be a fine day, he thought, watching as the sun began to eat up the early-morning haze, and the dew on the close-cropped lawn began to dry.

Ten minutes later, he had worked his way to the sports page when Brunovsky came out. Jerry put the paper down, got out and opened the back door. “Morning,” said his boss. Usually he was openly cheerful, even expansive if the day was fine. But this morning he looked preoccupied, and got into the car quickly.

Jerry had just backed up the car to turn around and leave, when there was a sudden exclamation from the back seat. “Bozhe moi!”

“Sir?” said Jerry tentatively, stopping the car.

The Russian had his computer open on his lap and had opened a copy of the FT. He raised both hands to his head in a parody of despair. “I’ve left my folder.”

“Shall I run in and get it, sir?”

“Please do.” Brunovsky gestured to his lap and made a gesture of helplessness. “It’s right on the desk in my study.”

Jerry turned off the engine and got out. In the kitchen Mrs. Grimby was rolling out pastry on a butcher’s block. Jerry went straight through and climbed the stairs to the ground floor, two at a time. In the front hall, two storeys high and boasting a splendid curved staircase to the upstairs bedrooms, he turned and strode down a thin corridor lined with watercolours of Russian landscapes.

At the back of the house he found the door of Tamara’s office open. He walked through it into the study where his boss worked, a cosy room with vivid scarlet wallpaper, two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at one end and a small sofa and TV at the other. Between the bookshelves hung a large oil painting of a Cossack bestride a horse—normally, that is, for now the Cossack picture was on the floor, leaning upright against the wall. In its space was a square wall safe, its door wide open.

Jerry stared at the safe for a moment, then, overcome with curiosity, took two steps closer and peered inside. He saw a couple of large envelopes and a leather jewellery case. Not unexpected, nor was the existence of the safe—a man as rich as Brunovsky must have plenty of valuables he’d want to protect. What did take Jerry aback though was the sight of a small handgun, lying flat on the safe floor.

He turned quickly and went towards the large partner’s desk in front of the window overlooking the back garden, where he saw the file and picked it up. He was about to turn to leave when Tamara suddenly came into the room. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, almost shouting. Her eyes shifted towards the safe, then moved back, blazing, to Jerry.

He calmly waved the file, deliberately keeping his gaze on her, well away from the open safe door. “Mr. Brunovsky left this behind. He asked me to fetch it for him.”

There was nothing she could object to in this. “Go on then,” she ordered, and Jerry nodded and left the room. Christ, he thought, as he made his way downstairs and returned to the car. What sort of bloke am I working for? He could understand Brunovsky’s having a gun, but it was the type of gun that shook him. The Izhmekh MP 451 packed the punch of a .38, and was the weapon of choice for Russian detectives and intelligence officers wanting a compact weapon with maximum firepower. So lethal was this gun that private citizens there were not allowed to own them.

Damn, thought Jerry, for he had grown to like his peaceful chauffeur’s routine, and had almost forgotten that he was also being paid to protect his boss. Not peaceful any more, he thought, suddenly alert, recognising that if Brunovsky felt he needed an MP 451, then there must be something to protect him from.