Arbitrage by Colette Kebell

Author:Colette Kebell [Kebell, Colette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skittish Endeavours
Published: 2019-04-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

Igor Sokolov came to Brighton that afternoon. In the sphere of Russian mafia, he was as feared as he was detested. Someone had even nicknamed him ‘the woodcutter’ for his habit of carrying an inlaid sixteenth-century German axe, which he used for some jobs. Those who knew him well, few, knew about the history of that axe, taken by his grandfather as a war trophy from a German army colonel during World War II. Nobody knew who the owner was, but during a battle, Sokolov’s grandfather came face to face with a German soldier who had stopped the car near a grove, right before the Russian counter-offensive to liberate Leningrad took a foothold.

The man came out from behind the trees as if he had suddenly materialised, he killed the driver with a knife and began to hit the colonel with his bare hands, leaving him bleeding and unconscious on the side of the road. Searching the unlucky man’s luggage, he found the inlaid war axe, probably a family heirloom. Its twin can still be admired in Dresden Museum nowadays. It was with that that Sokolov’s grandfather had torn the colonel to pieces.

The axe passed from father to son until Igor, who had chosen it as his privileged tool to kill his enemies and for ‘small works of persuasion’ as he used to say. The ferocity of Igor Sokolov had no peer, it had been cultivated for years, polished, refined in every detail, first as a special-forces operative and later in the service of the Russian mafia.

Having to face Sokolov was a powerful message for anyone, often equivalent to receiving a business card from death itself.

The car, a Mercedes Maybach, travelled through the downtown streets until it arrived at their destination under a Victorian building in the centre. The driver opened the door, and Sokolov entered the building, heading toward the elevator. The building was facing the sea and had probably cost a small fortune, but with what they paid Robert Price, he could probably afford it. Sokolov was not keen on houses or apartments, and despite the tailored pinstripe suit that made him look like a businessman who had just arrived in town, the woodcutter preferred spending time in the countryside, far from too many memories and the noise of the city. Even when he was in Moscow, he avoided the apartment he had received as a gift from the mafia, preferring hotels or even sleeping on a makeshift bed at a friend’s house. He had never been accustomed to luxury, unlike so many with whom he worked.

The doorbell rang and a blonde, an attractive mid-30s woman, came to answer. He introduced himself as a client of the Mortcombe Bank while in the background he could hear the shouting of children busy arguing over a few games. She asked him to wait in the lounge while Price’s wife went looking for her husband, holed up in his home office.

The room was furnished with modern, plush designer sofas, contemporary paintings on the walls and a few pieces of art, mostly bronze, scattered around the room.

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