CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Begovich warehouse that stood in an unfashionable part of London’s old docklands was as unremarkable as it was drab.
There was nothing about its exterior to mark it out as extraordinary or important.
As Dragana stepped out of the black Range Rover and entered the building she reminded herself of the necessity of such ugliness.
Such anonymity. Of course, when her father had bought the building, over thirty years earlier, it had been considered a wise investment and a prestigious location for his import/export business.
In the eighties, it had been no small achievement for an immigrant from what was then Yugoslavia to establish themselves in such a place on such a scale.
Now the building served as a legitimate business to cover their more clandestine enterprises, as well as a vital base, secure and private, for Dragana’s own purposes.
The interior continued the impression that this was a functioning operation, in as much as there were crates and cases, marked with their point of origin which was invariably Belgrade.
Further labelling suggested the contents were traditional pickles and bottled sauces, cases of plum brandy, or crafts and artefacts to satisfy any homesick compatriots.
Closer inspection, however, would reveal a patina of long-settled dust, cobwebs strung between many of the crates, and a general air of nothing having been disturbed for months if not years.
Dragana strode past these familiar, unimportant objects and ran lightly up the stairs at the far end of the warehouse.
These led to the glass fronted mezzanine office.
The large interior window allowed the main part of the building to be observed from a lofty distance.
The bullet-proof glass and double locked door provided a place of safety.
Inside, the heating was at an uncomfortable level, and a layer of cigarette smoke drifted across the room.
Her father sat at the card table, chain smoking, a pot of strong coffee and a plate of sweet ratluk beside him, enjoying a game with Victor and Nenad.
He looked up at her and smiled before returning his attention to the cards.
She wondered briefly at what point his two bodyguards had become his two closest friends.
It was they who spent the most time with him, and had done for years.
Now that his mind was enfeebled, it was they who had the most patience with him.
And possibly the most love. She shook off the thought.
Any sentiment she had for her father had long ago been replaced with a sense of obligation and responsibility for him, little more.
Of greater interest to her on this occasion were the two men who were her own aids and helpmates: her brothers.
Yoksa, older than her by a year but without the wit to run the family firm, was as pale as he was thin, taking after his father.
Brane had endured school with the nickname of kit, which was Serbian for whale.
Until the day he had used his great size with his more grizzly bear-like bad temper and broken a fellow student’s arms. Still he was conscious of his weight, and somehow it was even more noticeable when he stood as he did now, as if summoned by the headteacher.
Dragana was expecting important news from them.
She strode to the desk, setting her Gucci handbag down on the worn polished wood, standing with her arms folded, regarding her brothers with a questioning stare.
She saw at once that the news was not going to please her.
Their body language and downcast gazes spoke loudly about the lack of success of their given task. She felt her mood darken.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Yoksa found his voice. ‘Nothing. No sign. He never returned to his boat.’
‘We waited hours, kept a close watch…’ Brane’s words petered out as he glanced up to see his sister’s expression harden further.
She slammed her fist down onto the desk. ‘Jebiga, can I leave nothing to you? Must I do everything myself?’
‘We did what you asked, Dragica,’ Yoksa tried using her pet name but it cut no ice.
‘I told you to bring me Tudor! Is he here? Have I missed something? Do you, perhaps, have him hidden among the slivovitz?’
They both shook their heads.
At that moment, so engaged in his game he was unaware of the tension at the other side of the room, Nenad proudly declared his winning hand, slapping the cards down in front of the other players with a whoop of delight.
‘Ah, full house! My money, I think,’ he laughed loudly, scooping the cash on table towards him.
Only then, in the painful silence that followed, did he sense the heightened atmosphere of the room.
With genuine apprehension, he turned to look at Dragana, filled with fear at the way she was regarding him.
‘Izvinite, molim!’ He begged her forgiveness, slipping into his native tongue instinctively, forgetting for the moment his boss’s insistence that they all speak English and so fuelling her irritation with him further.
It was his misfortune to give Dragana a focus for her seething anger.
In that instant, it was as if all the air had been sucked from the room.
No-one moved. Nenad sat, still clutching a handful of money in a trembling hand as on the other side of the desk the young woman’s eyes bore into him.
Her mouth became a taut, thin line and she reached out a hand as if to place it around his throat.
Even though she did not touch him, he gasped, starting to choke.
The temperature in the room rose sharply and there was a rank, bitter smell.
The tobacco smoke was gone, to be replaced by something altogether more deadly and poisonous.
The smoke pulsated and then turned towards Nenad as if following Dragana’s direction.
The terrified man tried to scream but managed only a pitiful whimper.
The veins at his temples bulged and his skin began to flake and peel as if burning.
Yoksa stepped forward. ‘Sister!’
She turned her eyes on him and he backed down at once, holding up his hands in submission.
Nenad clawed at his own throat, his life hanging on a thin thread that Dragana could sever any moment she chose.
Suddenly, as if bored of the whole business, she dropped her hand, and the Serb, gasping, dropped to the floor. A more normal colour began to return to his sweat-drenched face.
‘I am surrounded by idiots,’ she muttered, before turning to her brothers again. ‘If you cannot bring him to me, bring me the girl.’
Yoksa and Brane exchanged anxious glances.
Brane tried to protest. ‘But, Dragica, the girl is…’
‘I don’t want to hear your excuses. I am calling a gathering. I will be able to tell them we have this situation under control, or somebody vill pay the price for your failure.’
With the threat hanging in the air that still smelled of singed flesh, she picked up her bag and walked over to her father. ‘Come, Papa. We go to eat,’ she said, taking his arm and leading him out of the room.
Gloucestershire, 1190
The grass of the paddock was worn short from grazing, the summer drought hindering new growth.
As the horse’s hooves thudded rhythmically upon the dry ground they kicked up puffs of dust. Tudor sat deep in the saddle, relaxed, responding to the horse’s movements, keeping only the lightest contact with his steed’s mouth.
He used his legs to turn the animal this way and that, adding slight pressure on its glossy brown neck with the reins, all the while urging it forward with his heels and seat.
The horse was young, still green, with much to learn and little time in which to learn it.
Tudor clicked his tongue and the horse turned his ears to listen.
‘Gently now,’ he murmured, keeping the horse in a flowing canter, bending it this way and that, turning at the limit of the flat piece of ground, pivoting it round on its hocks.
‘Good!’ he patted its neck with his free hand.
His sword hand. His mount must be able to understand all his commands and perform the requested manoeuvres with the smallest of signals from him.
A shift of his body weight. A little pressure from his lower leg.
A whistle. In battle, he would be busy killing those who would be intent on killing both him and his horse.
If either of them were to stay alive, they must be in perfect harmony.
He turned at the top of the field and repeated the exercise.
And again. At last the reins became wet with the horse’s sweat and they slowed to a walk.
‘Enough for today,’ he told it, leaning forward to tweak its ears.
The horse snorted, dropping its head as it relaxed.
‘Tudor!’ Maryanne called from the edge of the field. ‘Tudor, come and eat!’ She smiled at him, the baby on her hip.
He swung down from the horse and went to her, the animal following meekly. He kissed his wife, taking the child from her.
‘Tudor, you’ll have her filthy,’ Maryanne chided him.