Bad Angels Read online

  So Gregory Cunningham had got in touch with a plastic surgeon whose son he had rescued a few years ago from a particularly vicious bunch of kidnappers. He’d refused any payment at the time, telling the surgeon that he’d take his wages in trade when he was ready. Dr Nassri had been eager to pay off his debt years later, when Jon had contacted him for his second – and Jesus, hopefully last-ever – reconstructive facial surgery. He’d chosen the name Jon for no reason at all, which was the best way: no old associations, nothing whatsoever to link him to his past and make it possible for anyone to track him down. But the surname he planned to take, when he settled into his new life – Jordan – was hugely significant to him.

  I’ve crossed a big river, he thought, still staring down at the

  Thames. Like the River Jordan. From now on – and his gaze dropped to his hands – these are never going to take another life.

  Like the Bible says, I’m turning my sword into a ploughshare. Those psychological tests the Army had given the seventeen-year-old Drew Mackenzie had been more acute than even the administrators had realised. They had spotted what they thought was the potential to kill, a lack of conventional moral values or inhibitions against acts of extreme violence, an ability to act instantly and instinctively, to prioritise his own survival above anything else, and they had thought that they could mould him into the perfect killer.

  What they hadn’t realised, and what no one but the small, tight clans of Mackenzies and Hendersons back in Jackson County, Kentucky, would ever know, was that Drew Mackenzie had enlisted in the Army still a minor, but already a killer.

  Because the day before he walked down to town and caught two buses to get himself to the Marine Corps Recruiting Station in Louisville, Drew had killed a man.

  Grigor

  ‘Ho ho ho, everyone!’

  Grigor Khalovsky bounced into the Limehouse Reach atrium with a huge smile on his face, his round stomach bobbling up and down under his bright red cashmere sweater.

  ‘Andy!’ he bellowed, waving at the concierge. ‘Ho ho ho!

  Remember Christ our saviour was born on Christmas Day!’ ‘Yes indeed, Mr Khalovsky!’ Andy said, springing eagerly to his feet. ‘Welcome—’

  But Grigor hadn’t finished.

  ‘To save us all from Satan’s power, when we were gone astray!’ he continued gleefully. ‘O tidings of comfort and joy!’ He looked enthusiastically up to the gigantic Norwegian spruce tree behind the fountain. Andy had spent a very happy few days up stepladders, decorating it extremely tastefully with silver and red baubles from Harrods and a few discreet strings of fairy lights; the building’s management had specified no tinsel, nothing too shiny that would distract from the light installation on which they had spent vast sums of money.

  But staring up at the tree, Grigor’s face fell.

  ‘But there are not very many lights!’ he complained sadly.

  ‘And there is no theme! A Christmas tree must have a theme!’ ‘I was told to keep it subtle and discreet,’ Andy said nervously, coming round his desk to stand a respectful pace behind the oligarch who owned the entire top two floors of Limehouse Reach.

  ‘Subtle? Discreet?’ Grigor rounded on him, throwing his arms wide in a pantomime of amazement. ‘What do they have to do with Christmas? This is nonsense, Andy!’

  ‘It’s as tall as the tree at the Houses of Parliament,’ Andy said, hoping that this would distract Grigor. ‘And it’s eco-friendly. I—’

  ‘We need more lights!’ Grigor roared, like the friendliest of bulls. ‘More lights, more tinsel! More comfort and joy!

  And a theme! We must have a theme! What theme shall we have?’

  He was a compact butterball of a man, grey-haired and jolly in his casual sweater and jeans; Andy was several inches taller than the oligarch, and dressed in a very smart burgundy uniform to boot. And yet it was Grigor who exuded authority from every pore, Grigor who effortlessly dominated the entire space. The doorman had sprung to attention behind his desk, the security guards had shot out of their office and were flanking him, pulling down their uniform jackets, trying to look as hard and macho as Grigor’s own bodyguards.

  It was a contest in which they would always come a poor second. Limehouse Reach boasted some of the highest levels of security features of any new building in London, including bulletproof windows, an air purifier to frustrate poison gas attacks and, in the most expensive apartments, panic rooms where the owners could take refuge if kidnappers or robbers should make it past the SAS-trained security guards. But alert as the guards were, they were basically patrolmen: two of them at the monitors, one on a regular circuit inside the building, two more outside watching the entrances to the main doors and the parking garage, on constant standby for an attack that they assumed would never come, because their presence guaranteed that no one would be idiot enough to try a home invasion or a kidnap on the premises.

  Grigor’s bodyguards, by contrast, were very well aware that an attack on their boss might come at any time. And they were more than ready. Two of them had commandeered a luggage cart and were wheeling it in, piled high with Grigor’s Vuitton suitcases; another one was outside, checking the perimeter, while the other two had taken up position on either side of the atrium, covering all the exits, their hands clasped in front of them, their eyes flickering constantly between their boss and the areas from which danger might conceivably appear. They were dressed all in black, their heads shaved close, their muscles bulging under the unbuttoned jackets which gave them access to the weapons holstered beneath. They were all ex-Russian Special Forces, the Spetsnaz, experienced in counter-terrorism activities in Chechnya and Ingushetia, and there was no love lost between them and Limehouse Reach’s security guards, at whom they sneered openly as they passed the desk.

  ‘A theme, Mr Khalovsky?’ Andy echoed weakly. ‘Um, I—’ ‘Grigor! Please, I insist! Call me Grigor! We are friends, you and me!’ Grigor reached out and clapped Andy hard on the back, causing the young concierge to stagger a little. ‘We will be working closely together over the holidays, I can see! You, like me, are very happy that it is Christmas!’

  ‘You know, I am,’ Andy admitted eagerly, forgetting the professional reserve he was supposed to show when speaking to an owner. ‘I love Christmas.’

  There was a very good reason for this: Andy’s childhood had been almost entirely devoid of happy Christmases. Separated from his teenage mother, who hadn’t even known she was pregnant till she gave birth and couldn’t remotely cope with a baby, he’d been taken into care; his mother’s white suburban family had been shocked by her black baby and had wanted to get rid of the shaming evidence of her sexual preference as quickly as possible. For ideological reasons, the social workers had refused to place him with a white family, and their area had been thin on the ground for black adoptive parents. So Andy had grown up in a series of foster homes, where money was always tight and Christmas barely in evidence: a child lucky enough to be endowed with a positive nature, however, he had pressed his nose against brightly decorated shop windows, traced his finger in artificial snow stencils, saved bits of glittery tinsel garlands, and dreamed of a time when he’d have the money to celebrate the holiday himself.

  His craving for luxury after a childhood of deprivation had led him to become a high-end concierge, a job he adored: secretly, he’d wanted to go overboard with Christmas decorations at Limehouse Reach, and had been very frustrated by the management’s insistence on restraint rather than full-on sparkle and fake snow.

  ‘I know you love Christmas, just like me!’ Grigor bellowed happily. ‘I can tell you are a comrade in arms! So, Andy—’ he stepped to Andy’s side and slung an arm around the concierge’s shoulders – ‘what shall we do to make this lobby special? To show my guests that here at Limehouse Reach, we are very merry and happy that Christmas is coming? Si-i-lent night, ho-oh-ly night,’ he sang in a deep rumbling bass, which startled every Limehouse Reach employee, but not his bodyguards, who were clearly very accustomed
to hearing Grigor burst into Christmas song. ‘All is calm, all is bright—’

  To his own amazement, Andy heard his own tenor pipe up, joining in with Grigor:

  ‘Round yon vir-ir-gin, mother and child,’ he warbled. ‘Holy infant so tender and mild—’

  Grigor, over the moon at having found a fellow caroller, beamed hugely, patting Andy avuncularly on the shoulder as they continued the song, even leaning against him, head on his shoulder, as they finished the last two lines:

  ‘Sleep in heavenly peee-eeece, slee-eep in heavenly peee-eeece!’

  Derek the doorman broke into applause, carried away by their enthusiastic harmonising.

  ‘What about The Nutcracker?’ Grigor suggested, his eyes lighting up at the idea.

  ‘You mean—’ Andy began, but it was hard to get out a complete sentence when talking to Grigor.

  ‘Yes! The ballet! I love the ballet!’ Grigor said happily. ‘There are dancing mice, and pretty fairies, and nice smart soldiers! All things that children love! Go and buy many, many ornaments to decorate the tree. With the theme of The Nutcracker. And more lights, more shiny balls – more everything!’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Andy said devoutly. ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘Sergei will ring the management,’ Grigor interrupted, ‘and tell them that I, Grigor Khalovsky, instruct you to do this! To make the lobby happy and cheerful. Not discreet! Radi Boga!’ he added in disgust in his native language. ‘For God’s sake – Christmas is not discreet!’

  Sergei, Grigor’s secretary, who was scuttling along behind the luggage cart, nodded swiftly and pulled out his BlackBerry. ‘Because on Boxing Day, I have a very big party,’ Grigor announced excitedly, swinging round to include Derek and Limehouse Reach’s security guards in the information. ‘All the players from my team will come, after the big game, and all their wives and girlfriends and the children! So much fun! Christmas is really for children. I like to see all their happy little faces. There will be many, many presents arriving, and I will be dressing as Santa Claus to hand them out!’

  ‘Oh, fantastic!’ Andy said happily. ‘I love to pick out and wrap presents! Do you need any help, Mr – Mr K?’ He was unable to bring himself to call Grigor by his first name; no matter that Grigor himself had told him to do so, if a building manager heard it, Andy would be formally reprimanded. ‘Sergei?’ Grigor swivelled. The secretary, who was by the express penthouse lift, nodded again.

  ‘Great!’ Grigor boomed. ‘Sergei will liaise with you, Andy, for the presents that we need and for the decorations. He will give you credit cards. Whatever you need. It must be the best, you understand. Only the best. No expense spared, as you say in England. Oh!’ A sudden thought struck him, and he clapped his hands in glee. ‘Sugar plums! There are sugar plums in The Nutcracker. We must have lots of sugar plums for the party, to give to the children.’

  ‘Ooh, lovely! I can definitely sort that out for you. And do you have presents for the ladies already?’ Andy asked, his eyes widening with excitement at the prospect of going mad in Knightsbridge with Grigor’s credit cards. ‘I could definitely help with that too – and some gifts for the gents, of course—’

  ‘Speak to Sergei,’ Grigor said, flapping his hands between Andy and the secretary. ‘You will organise everything perfectly, I am sure! I am very happy!’

  He slapped Andy once more between the shoulder blades;

  Andy’s cheeks puffed out with the effort of repressing a coughing fit.

  ‘Now I will go upstairs and settle in, and soon I will have some guests. Very pretty guests.’ He leered at Andy and Derek.

  ‘We will have to talk more about these special guests, but that can wait. I have just been to America, and there I learned a very good expression. My dogs are barking. You have heard this expression?’ he asked, his hopeful face clearly signalling that he was keen for them to answer in the negative. Both Andy and Derek shook their heads.

  ‘Are there dogs?’ Andy asked excitedly, looking towards the entrance. But Grigor’s two SUVs had been fully unloaded; one had been driven into the vehicle lift that descended to the secure parking garage, and the other was waiting to follow suit. ‘No! It means that my feet are hurting!’ Grigor lifted one leg a few inches off the floor and wiggled his suede Tod’s loafer.

  ‘I must bathe them now in salt. Woof, woof!’ he chortled as he went towards the lift, his bodyguards forming an instant phalanx behind him. ‘Woof, woof !’

  ‘He’s quite a character, Mr K,’ Derek observed as the lift doors closed behind the oligarch.

  ‘You call him Mr Khalovsky, Derek,’ Andy said firmly. ‘Show some respect.’

  Having put the doorman firmly in his place, Andy turned to Sergei.

  ‘All right there, Sergei?’

  He shook the little secretary’s hand with fervour. Sergei, who was devoted to Grigor and violently jealous of his position at his master’s side, glared viciously at Andy, but the latter didn’t even notice Sergei’s animosity: he was much too busy imagining his whole themed tree, visions of sugar plums dancing through his head just as excitedly as Clara pictured them in The Nutcracker.

  ‘This is going to be the best Christmas ever!’ he sighed in happiness. ‘Let’s you and me sit down and plan out everything that needs to be done to make Mr K as happy as Larry, shall we? Oh!’ A thought struck him. ‘There’ll be nannies, too! Those ladies don’t come to a party with their kids without someone to look after ’em – we should get in some presents for the nannies, too, shouldn’t we? I’m sure Mr K won’t want anyone to be left out...’

  By the time Grigor’s special guests arrived, a couple of hours later, Andy was already in the Jimmy Choo boutique on Sloane Street, piling up the shiniest, flashiest handbags he could find.

  ‘WAGs want bling,’ he’d said efficiently to the shop assistant.

  ‘Let’s have a look at the showiest stuff you have. Leopard skin’s ideal – and have you got anything with a lot of Swarovski on it?’

  The WAGs for whom Andy was buying gifts chose to dress, as much as possible, to resemble expensive Russian prostitutes.

  So it was pleasantly ironic that the bevy of expensive British and Asian prostitutes who emerged from a pair of black cabs, to be met in the lobby by a waiting Sergei and ushered up to Grigor’s penthouse, looked much more like elegant, sophisticated trophy wives, in their black jersey dresses, high, but not vulgar, heels, and simple, discreet jewellery. These were London’s most exclusive escorts, girls you could take to the opera or to dinner at the Connaught or Claridge’s, and then back to your hotel suite for whatever sexual services you might require, at much less cost than the expense of maintaining a trophy wife. They were led by their madam, a very old friend of Grigor’s, who had, like all good business owners, learned her trade from what you might call the bottom up; Grigor had been an early investor when she had decided to go into management. He came towards her now with a huge smile, his arms spread wide for a hug, moving slowly in his white fur-trimmed boots, the Father Christmas costume he had been trying on gaping open at the front over his paunch.

  ‘Diane!’ he boomed happily. ‘You are as beautiful as ever!’ ‘I bloody well should be,’ Diane said, kissing both his cheeks, ‘the amount of money I spend on Botox. It’s a sodding fortune, I can tell you. Let’s have a look at you, Grigor.’ She pulled back, taking his hands, surveying one of her oldest clients. ‘You’re chubbing up, darling. Need to take care of yourself more. What about a nice detox at a posh fat farm after New Year’s?’ ‘We cannot all be thin like you, Diane,’ Grigor said, patting his round stomach complacently.

  ‘It gets harder and harder, I’ll tell you that for nothing,’

  Diane said gloomily, looking down the long slim expanse of her body, clad in a navy silk Chloé blouse and matching navy crêpe skirt, balanced on spike snakeskin YSL pumps: if her girls looked like trophy wives, Diane looked like a first wife who had screwed every last penny out of her husband in a historic alimony settlement and used i
t to become a leading light on London’s most elite charity committees. Her hair was expertly streaked by Jo Hansford herself in overlapping layers of pale blonde and ash-browns. Diane had never been beautiful, but she could pass for it with careful make-up, and no one ever caught her without a full face of slap.

  ‘Not like these little tramps,’ she said, gesturing at the six beautiful girls hovering at her heels. ‘They’ve got no idea what a diet is, do you, you little sluts? I saw Lori stuffing a whole bag of Cheesy Wotsits down her throat this morning for breakfast.’ ‘Makes a nice change for her,’ another giggled, ‘she’s usually much too busy stuffing—’

  ‘Oi! Lyndsey! Cut that out! I can talk however the fuck I want,’ Diane said sternly, ‘but you lot are ladies till the clothes come off. Right?’

  ‘Yes, Diane,’ Lyndsey muttered a little sullenly.

  ‘Drinks!’ Grigor said, clapping his hands in an attempt to lift the mood. ‘We must all have some champagne! Sergei, you will pour, please, while I meet these very lovely ladies! Oh, I see we have a very nice mix here!’

  ‘Hello, Father Christmas,’ said a slender brunette, fluttering her eyelashes at him flirtatiously; they were a clever blend of her own and individual false ones, applied carefully to the upper lids by Lori earlier that morning. ‘I’m Valerie. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.’

  She extended her hand to Grigor, its manicure immaculate, a simple French finish.

  Diane nodded approvingly.

  ‘That’s more fucking like it,’ she said, taking a glass of champagne proffered by Sergei. ‘Now, Grigor, what’s the set-up here? Do you want the girls to mingle at this party, or keep to themselves?’

  ‘Ah—’ Grigor tossed off half a glassful in one swig, and sighed deeply. ‘Alas, they cannot mingle. You see, this is a family party at the beginning. Wives, girlfriends, children. But obviously, it is my players I want to keep happy, and this little London home of mine—’ He waved his arm expansively around the enormous receiving room with its triple-height ceilings, marble pillars, priceless rugs on the polished walnut floor, and sliding glass doors that led out onto the equally large marble terrace equipped with a huge, built-in Weber barbecue, chrome space heaters and chaises longues – ‘luckily for me, is large enough for me to be able to accommodate various different parties at the same time.’