Ingrid Fedorov almost hopped aboard a plane bound for Paris or Berlin, to disappear for a while. But she didn’t. If she had she never would have crossed paths with David Smith and who knows how things would have turned out.
Instead, Ingrid boarded a train heading north. It was early morning. A Wednesday. London Euston to Glasgow Central. There was not a chance of avoiding CCTV but she wasn’t too concerned. They wouldn’t be looking for her that way. Not initially anyway. She had a few hours head start. Maybe more. All depended on how concerned and suspicious various people got. The concert was due to start in the evening so people would quickly start wondering and worrying. But it wouldn’t be a disaster – the show would go on with or without her.
Autumn was nudging summer into the history books.
It was north, well north, that the man had his self-described secret lair. It was where she had to go eventually. Deep into the Scottish Highlands. His secret lair? God, he was an oddball. But a rich one. Smile, Ingrid. She’d had to remind herself when in his company. Count Karl von Fries. Ingrid had first met Count Karl at the Musikverien in Vienna. Amongst the bustle of the evening crowd he had surreptitiously slipped her a card. It was some time later that one brief but illuminating conversation had ended with Count Karl whispering if you can manage it, I will pay handsomely. Handsomely with seven zeroes attached.
That had got Ingrid thinking.
It was dangerous thinking.
At the very least it was not conventional thinking and she would be breaking the law. Not to mention letting a lot of people down, worrying a whole set of others and possibly angering some powerful individuals.
As the hours passed multiple scenarios would be considered. Most of her personal possessions would be found in her hotel room. She couldn’t have gone far, surely? Had she been in an accident? Hospitals would be checked. Something more sinister perhaps: had she been abducted? Bad things happened all the time. The police would obviously be called but not right away. At some point, someone would realise that ‘it’ was also missing.
It was safely stored inside its case, which was in turn concealed in a sports bag beside her. Ingrid had a casual but firm grip on the shoulder strap.
Four hours and change to go.
After arriving at Glasgow Central a short walk to Glasgow Queen Street waited for Ingrid. There she would buy a ticket with cash for the train journey even further north.
Deep relaxing breath. Ingrid opened a book but didn’t read much. She just didn’t want to catch too many glances. Look down, look out the window. Try and look as inconspicuous as possible which mostly meant try not to try too hard. It could be a little hard to be casual when you weren’t a professional at this cloak and dagger thing.
Ingrid thought briefly, as she often did, about Munich and Saint Petersburg with a fondness and a sadness. But East Sussex had become her home some years ago. Where home would be next she hadn’t a clue. For now it was one careful step at a time.
David Smith hesitated then placed his mobile on the kitchen table and walked out of his West End flat. He was determined to stick to the plan. Surely it wasn’t that crazy a thing to do, although many would say it was. Some might even call it irresponsible, selfish, unwise. To hell with it. He would only be gone a few days and enough people knew roughly where he was going. David wanted peace and quiet and to simply enjoy the great outdoors without any technological temptations. With his brand new backpack strapped firmly in place he made his way through Kelvingrove Park and on towards Queen Street Station.
Admittedly, it did feel a little strange not having his phone at hand. Vulnerable even. It didn’t help that over half the people he passed had theirs out front at action stations. A constant reminder. It crossed his mind to quickly nip back. No, forget it. It’s fine. Enjoy your few days off.
Queen Street Station was not far away.
It was David’s third trip north but would be his first not staying under a solid roof. Wild camping as they liked to call it. Guess that made it sound more exciting than just regular camping. The initial plan had been to stay at a B&B again or perhaps a hostel but after talking to a few people he’d decided to give the tent and sleeping bag experience a go. Why not? And it was that decision that had led him to the mobile phone experiment. Seemed to make sense.
In preparation for the trip David had found himself reading a little history about the Highlands and Scotland’s clans in general – and a few of their rivalries. It was some grim reading. The Eigg Cave Massacre, the Wedding Day Massacre, the Palm Sunday Massacre, the Battle of Bloody Bay – and that was just for starters. There was a lot of massacring going on. It was a wonder how they ever reconciled David couldn’t help but think. Probably wasn’t much different the world over.
Anyway, seeing as how David was doing this no-phone thing he figured he should pick up a newspaper or two for the journey. He was walking along a Sauchiehall Street whose glory days appeared to be in the rear-view mirror. But who knew, everyone likes a comeback story. David nipped into WH Smith. Along with a couple of papers he picked up a few snacks, a water bottle and a sports drink. All ready for the final few hundred yards to the station – almost. Passing by Waterstones he thought perhaps a paperback novel would be a good idea for the lonely nights in the tent. But nothing too heavy, as in literally heavy. Walking by a display table a nautical themed book caught David’s eye and he was reminded of a video clip he’d seen recently about Ernest Hemingway and his Pulitzer Prize winning book that also won the author the Nobel Prize for Literature. He had heard about The Old Man and the Sea and that it was quite a tale. But perhaps most importantly at that moment David recalled that it was not a big book. A novella.
A few minutes later David Smith was back out the front door of the bookshop with his new purchase in hand. It was barely a quarter-inch thick. Perfect.
At the top of Buchanan Street a young piper in jeans was busking. David dropped a few coins in his case with an encouraging nod. Keep it up. The noon lunch crowd was out but the place wasn’t too busy. Just past the Buchanan Street underground station he took a quick left through Dundas Lane. Not far along, the now permanently closed American Candy shop seemed to have a few sad ghostly patrons floating about, looking for hard to come by sweet treats, and at the next corner a couple were exiting Dow’s Bar, the last chance saloon. A few strides later David was walking into the gleaming new train station. He paused, taking it all in. What a difference. He thought of the tired old place not without a hint of nostalgia. Guess everything changes eventually. He located the ticket machines on the wall to the right just beyond the Travel Shop, fished out a little notepad with the collection reference code written in it and a moment later had two tickets and a receipt in hand. Great. He felt a real sense of anticipation. I wonder how things are going to go?
As Ingrid Fedorov looked up at the huge departure and arrivals board in Queen Street Station three assassins (when the job called for it) entered the building looking just like everyone else, give or take a concealed weapon. They had strict orders: locate/retrieve/interrogate/eliminate if necessary. Each had a copy of the target’s photograph. ‘A fine-looking woman.’ Hans had commented. Nothing more. He was a professional and treated everyone equally. But he didn’t care much for the interrogating side of his business. And he preferred not eliminating anyone who was not a combatant of some sort. ‘Preferred not’ was not the same as ‘would not.’ The target had committed a grievous deed. A deed she might (most probably) pay for with her life. Hans was keenly aware of the concept of and need for compartmentalising information. And he got the strong sense that this was one of those assignments that he wanted to know only so much. It was clear that this – Ingrid Fedorov – had stumbled into something much bigger than she realised. That is what happens when you start doing bad things. Hans had received a coded ‘immediate action’ message from Bern. Priority one. ‘Need to know’ were sacred words he lived by and yet at an unguarded moment Hans couldn’t help but wonder what had this Ingrid done, beyond the obvious bit? Never mind Hans. Don’t ever forget what killed the cat. One thing was certain: she had stirred a hornet’s nest. After seeing or hearing their names once, his mind always did a special trick and he then thought of them only as the target. A nod to his two associates. They knew what to do.
Although being the older of the city’s train stations Glasgow Queen Street was the smaller of the two. But with nine platforms on two levels it was easy enough to get lost in the crowd. Hans and his associates knew the target was heading north towards Inverness, but where to precisely they did not know. She could take a circuitous route or even lay low for a while but the information Hans had received ruled that out. It appeared as though the target had a deadline. Their window of opportunity was small. Once on the train they had a couple of hours to locate, then track and discreetly seize. As there would be at least five or six carriages it would be ideal if they could identify the target before boarding the train.
The 12:07 was leaving shortly. After that there was the 13:40, the 14:39, the 15:07 and four more later on. If Hans got this wrong it would be all over and work might be scarce for a while. He might even be looking over his shoulder more than usual. If he got this right there would be a nice bonus and a very grateful customer. It crossed his mind to send his associates on separate trains if the need arose. Hans preferred to keep the team together.
His associate, Giselle, came striding back from the Travel Shop with three Anytime Day Single tickets in hand. His other associate, Dallas, was scanning the forever-moving crowd. A place like a train station brought all sorts of people into one strangely shifting kaleidoscope where nothing seemingly stood out. But try as they might someone on-the-run would exhibit an unusual behaviour at some point or another. The trick was in spotting it.
Based on the arrival times at Central Station the most likely next train was the Queen Street 12:07. Surely she wouldn’t risk hanging around for another hour and thirty minutes. The three assassins spread out, keeping in touch via earpieces and when possible and appropriate a subtle physical gesture. Nothing yet. The seconds ticked and the minutes passed. There was a surge of passengers heading for the 12:07.
It was decision time, Hans.
He glanced to Giselle. A slight shake of the head. And then to Dallas. The same.
Nothing.
Hans hesitated then committed.
In poker terminology it’s called ‘all-in.’
Apart from the fact that David was born on the side of a road just outside of Penrith, in Cumbria’s Eden Valley not too far from the M6, he considered himself Glaswegian. Yes, his father was from South Africa but his mother was Scottish and he had lived most his life in or near Glasgow. But a curious thing happened as he waited to board the train. It was as though his identity shifted a little. It was the big backpack he quickly realised. On his previous hiking trips he had travelled with both a standard travel bag and a compact day backpack for the hikes. An amateur outdoorsman spending the evenings under a solid roof. Wearing the big pack David strangely felt like a professional, and to others all around him he could be from anywhere. But the same could be said of any person holding any old bag. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps he was just getting used to having a new unspoken camaraderie with these other backpackers. Some of them might be from the ends of the earth, or from just down the road, but he was also now one of them.
It had not been a huge shift. He was still David Smith from the West End of Glasgow, supporter of Partick Thistle F.C., but the sliding scale had moved.
David made his way towards platform seven. Two folded newspapers and Hemingway’s classic tale in one hand and a sports drink in the other. He’d already tucked the water bottle into his pack. All around him people had their phones out: screens being looked at, fingers working fast, conversations on-the-go. There was no avoiding it. They had taken over the world. It crossed his mind again…too late now. Never mind. Glancing in the big, tinted windows of the carriages the train looked about half full. Passengers were spread mostly out with little clusters here and there. Shouldn’t be a problem getting a seat with a table. Another couple of glances. Couple of tables with people sitting at them. None were fully taken. A quick glance along. Three carriages left. At the start of a new carriage he decided to risk his luck. He shrugged the big pack off, grabbed a rail and stepped aboard. After stowing his backpack he turned his attention to locating a suitable seat. Two people at the first table. A scattering of other seats taken. Next table also had two of its four seats occupied. Plenty of carriage left. He kept moving. A few passengers were busy stowing their gear, others were getting comfortable. Up ahead he spied a table with just one seat taken. Perfect. There was a woman wearing a ballcap in one of the aisle seats, a bag on the seat beside her. She had her head in a book.
The two seats opposite her were empty.
David hesitated and almost moved on.
Then he asked, ‘Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?’
Iain Macneil 