Foresight Page 8

  Robin moved toward the table with more purpose than he'd had in a long time. With each step he was coming closer to frantic, bumping into stools and almost knocking over a waitress as he flew across the casino floor. His plan of keeping his actions subdued in the vein attempt to avoid making a scene had been thrown into chaos, with even Robin realising that avoiding a scene was now impossible. He'd actually wondered whether creating a scene might be his best means of making their exit, and fumbled around in his jacket pocket as he walked looking for his phone, his quick fire plan being to convince Clara and those around her that an emergency family call had come through, perhaps someone had been in a horrific car accident, and the hospital were on the phone, and they were so sorry but they'd have to go immediately, and that they'd wished they could stay but the family had to take priority or something along those lines anyway. He found his phone, snatching it out of his pocket and playing with the screen to bring it to life, thumbing his way through the contacts list, ending on Boal as he toyed with the idea of just admitting defeat, just dialling out and asking Boal to come and collect them, like a couple of 15 year olds at the Police station waiting for their parents to arrive, but he knew deep down that they'd be in far greater trouble if Boal deemed them unsuitable for the programme. As much as he wanted to just bail out now, he decided it would be better to try and redeem something from this awful evening, to claw back some sense of achievement. He held the phone in his right hand, the poker table in plain sight, as were the team of security staff in front of him, closing in on Clara.

  The hand that landed on Clara's shoulder caught her by surprise, mainly due to the fact that it belonged to the sole security guard who had approached the table from behind and not from the front or side. The situation was worrying, but Clara couldn't help but be impressed with the speed and efficiency with which these guys had moved in on her. This clearly hadn't been their first 'grab and exit' manoeuvre. She jerked in her chair, sweeping her head around to see the security guard, who by now had one hand on her shoulder, his other hand gripping a clump of her dress and using it to forcibly pull her out of her seat, trying to mask his actions so as to keep the fuss to a minimum. Clara, still playing innocent, a feeble hope that acting as though she was totally unaware of why this was happening might save her, squealed out an angry,

  'Excuse me, what do you think you are doing to me?!'

  'You need to come with me maam', said the security guard, by now pulling her aggressively away from the table, making it obvious that there wasn't going to be any time to stop and talk about the situation. Clara looked at the other players on the table, all wearing identical faces, the pose of a 'rabbit caught in headlights' that we'd all like to think we don't do in situations like this, then spotted Robin about 10 metres away from the table, not moving, just staring back at her.

  She read him; 'I'll get you out of this', he thought.

  Then a stinging feeling in her right abdomen, then nothing.

  Chapter 10

  Clara's eyelids flickered, her eyes straining to focus, as if someone had just pushed the reset button on a computer and she was having to reboot from scratch. Her vision jerked around the room, trying to pick a spot to fixate on for a moment, to give her some idea of where she was or how she'd gotten there. Her head pounded with a headache the likes of which she couldn't ever remember experiencing, and her torso, around the appendix, stung as if she'd been attacked by a particularly angry bee. She established that she was in a room, cold and grey but not at all run-down, fairly modern in fact. In front of her was a desk, a few papers and other bits scattered across them, with another desk further in front of her and to the right, a computer and phone as well as the usual office bits and pieces sat on top of it. A wall-planner hung from the wall, initials and circles across the days, looking as if it was mapping out a rota of some description, and various documents were pinned to a noticeboard including codes of conduct and a white A4 document entitled 'Spotting a Roulette Cheater'. Clara tilted her head, switching her view to the left of the desk in front of her. A range of security equipment was scattered randomly across the table, a pair of handcuffs, a billy club and a tazer. Her mind wondered, as if a segment of her memory had just been unlocked, deleted footage that had just been rediscovered, feeling the pinching, burning sting in the side of her body, realising that she'd been tazered back out in the casino room. She surmised therefore that this must be the back room of the casino, the part that patrons hope to God they don't ever see, the part that you come to when the casino think you're trying to fuck them over, and the part that you hope you walk out of in Police custody for your own safety.

  The door to the office, a basic wooden one with no window, swung open and a man about 6ft 2 in height walked in. He had short, cropped hair, wore a smart shirt and trousers and had tattoos across the top side of his hands. He stopped as soon as he crossed the threshold of the room, and unbuttoned his cufflinks, rolling his shirt sleeves up past the elbow, not making eye contact with Clara at all. As he finished altering his shirt, he gently pushed the door shut behind him, before bounding over to Clara, and hitting her with an open-palmed slap, the full weight of his swing behind it, across her face. She winced and yelped, partly the shock of being hit, partly the outpouring of fear as the desperation of her situation became evermore apparent. Her head reeled sideways with the force of the hit, her ear thumping as her hearing vanished. She yelled out angrily, as if trying to intimidate her captor, who waited until she was sat fully upright before hitting her again, just as hard as before. Clara felt a tear roll down her nose, dripping onto her knees and the floor below her, the occasional droplet of blood joining the pool of moisture on the cold, hard concrete. She glanced up just in time to see the man raise his hand again, before another voice bellowed, just distinguishable even with her battered hearing.

  'Enough!'

  And just like that, the man paused, before gently lowering his hand. Clara looked across slowly, tilting her head with caution in case another strike was headed in her direction, and saw a second man had entered the room. He was a similar height and build, maybe a touch shorter, but just as sharply dressed wearing a designer suit. He had long grey hair, immaculately kept, and a neat grey beard. His eyes were dark and cold, his brow wrinkled and aged, his hands adorned with the same style of tattoos as Clara had seen far too many times recently. He patted the first man gently on the shoulder and whispered something into his ear, before the thug left the room without looking back, closing the door as he left.

  The old man pulled out a chair, brushing down his trousers before taking a seat and crossing his legs. He sat by the desk with the phone, pushing a button on it's front and speaking into the hands-free mic.

  'Coffee', he uttered, in a deep Russian accent. He paused and looked at Clara, his eyes burying deep into her mind, the hatred, anger and violent character that she saw feeling almost as hard-hitting as the punches.

  'You want anything?', he asked.

  Clara froze, unable to hold his gaze any longer, her eyes glued to the floor in front of her. He leant back toward the microphone.

  'And a water'

  He let go of the button and sat back in his chair, sitting quietly for what felt like an eternity before the door opened, and a female entered, placing a small espresso and a glass of water in front of the man, leaving the room as quickly as she arrived. The old man lifted the dainty cup and took a long sip, emptying the contents and putting the cup back on the table.

  'I love espresso', he said. 'But you fucking Americans can't make good espresso. Your coffee shops. Bullshit. Only place where you get fucking good espresso is Little Italy.' He paused. 'You ever been to New York?'

  'Sure', mumbled Clara quietly, her voice broken and her spirit in tatters.

  'Shit hole', replied the man. 'Only good thing about New York is good espresso and Brighton Beach. You know Brighton Beach?'

  He waited for a response, almost as if he knew everything there was to know about her, as if he
was teasing an answer from her, filling in the blanks of a story he already knew the majority of. Clara hesitated to answer, the old man thankfully answering his own question.

  'I know Brighton Beach. I have lot of friends and family there. Is good town, good people. My friends and I, we arrived in New York when I was just a boy. We couldn't get work, nobody wanted to know. My mother was a cleaner, my father worked on ships, and my brothers and sisters and I were always hungry. My father told me to work hard and I would be rewarded, but the American dream is only for Americans. I am no fucking American.'

  He pushed the glass toward Clara. 'You want drink?', he asked. Clara remained still, head down. 'We try to carve out little bit of life for ourselves. We work hard, we buy land, we build.' The man stood up, walking calmly over to Clara, his right hand lifting her head up by her chin to face him, her eyes bolting away from making contact with his.

  'So tell me, what makes you think you have right to come to my Casino and rob me?'

  Clara stuttered, trying to remain calm and confident as she answered.

  'I've barely even won a hand tonight, I was just...'

  'Tonight?! Fuck tonight! Tonight, we got the better of you, you clever bitch. Tonight, who knows what you walk out with, but we stopped you. We got you. But what about all the other times? You must have known we would catch you sooner or later?'

  'Other times?', Clara asked in genuine confusion. 'What other times?'

  'It's no problem, you play stupid little girl', said the man. 'We know all about you. The roulette tables last month, the slot machines the month before that. How big is your team? We know it takes more than one person to take as much as you've taken.'

  'Hold on', said Clara, her realisation that they'd gotten the wrong person restoring some confidence in her voice. 'This is the first time I've even stepped foot in your casino, I swear to God. I don't know about any other times, and I've not taken anything today.'

  'You are lying, fucking rat. But is ok, my men are very good at making liars tell the truth. You know who I am?'

  'No', whimpered Clara, her voice broken and filled with panic, desperate to keep pleading her innocence but deciding it might be safer to let the man speak.

  'The Russians in New York. They work for me. All the Russians in this country, they work for me. This is my casino, my casino that you think you can come and steal from. You think is OK and you think you don't tell me who you work with, but we will find out.'

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette, lighting it and blowing a drag of smoke into the air. 'So who you work for? Who's your team?'

  'I don't have a team. I know you think I'm just saying this to make you let me go but I swear to god this is the first time I've ever been in this casino. I've not been ripping you off I,,,'

  Before she was able to finish her sentence, Clara heard a gentle thud on the table in front of her. She lifted her head to see black and white photos, surveillance style, taken from a distance. They were taken outside the casino, around the entrance, and showed Clara in various different clothes, clearly entering and leaving the casino. Clara's eyes widened, her mind racing as she desperately tried to work out what was going on. She knew this was the first time she'd been to this casino, but the photos were crystal clear, 100% 'her'. She scanned the images with her eyes, absorbing as much detail as she could. She noticed a sweater she was wearing in one of the photos, a favourite of hers, one that she'd only been wearing 3 or 4 days before. The images looked so real she was even beginning to question her own memory.

  'These are bullshit!', she protested. 'Someone's photoshopped them.'

  The old man tapped his finger on the monochrome image of her.

  'This, you?', he asked.

  'Yes. I mean, no. I mean it's me, but it's not me at this casino. Someone's taken a picture of me and made it look like I was here.'

  Again, the man tapped on the photo.

  'This is you', he said, this time more a statement than a question. 'Photographic evidence that you have been to my casino many times before, stealing from me many times before.'

  Clara was frozen in her seat, unable to explain the images she could see before her, but desperately trying to think of a way of convincing him that they were doctored that didn't involve admitting her real reason for being there. She looked up suddenly, a moment of realisation hitting her like a bullet.

  'CCTV!', she shouted.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'CCTV! This is a casino, you record everything right, so check the CCTV for those days, you won't see me entering the building. I swear I don't know why but someone's trying to frame me, get the CCTV and you'll...'

  The man laughed, stopping Clara dead in her tracks.

  'Fuck you. You think we haven't already looked at CCTV?' He scooped up a pile of papers from the table, a printout of a spreadsheet of some description. He slid it in her direction, tapping his finger on one of the columns. The sheet contained a list of dates, and the column he was referring to was called the 'status' column. On several dates, the column read 'OK', but on several others, the column read 'Deleted'. Clara studied the sheet for a moment, her mouth open, eyes wide, struggling to understand the man's point.

  'I don't know what I'm looking at', she admitted.

  'This is CCTV log for last 12 months. Every date that matches photographs, CCTV has been deleted. Our computer system hacked into, files gone.'

  The man pointed his finger at Clara.

  'Your people, they are trying to cover your tracks for you. They knew that if we caught you, they would need to destroy evidence.'

  He tapped again on the photographs.

  'But these photographs that the Scottish man sent us, this is evidence.'

  Clara heard those words, 'Scottish man', and felt her heart lift up into her mouth.

  'Scottish man?'

  'Yes, Scottish man', he replied. 'Made anonymous phone call tonight to one of my team. Said he used to be in your team of thieves and that you threw him out.'

  The man took another drag of his cigarette, leaning back in his seat as he blew the smoke away. 'Guess he had score to settle. Whoever he is, you shouldn't have fucked with him. He has fucked things up for you pretty bad now.'

  Clara wriggled uncomfortably in her seat, her shoulders slouched and her face showing her signs of desperation. She knew Boal was behind this but didn't know why, and knew that explaining her way out of her current predicament wasn't going to be easy. Figuring she had no other options, she gave it a try.

  'I know you're not going to believe this', she said, 'but this isn't what you think. Those photos have been doctored, and if that CCTV footage was still on your network you'd see I wasn't there.'

  She paused, as if she knew that the next sentence she was about to utter would sound so ridiculous, that somehow pausing would make it more feasible.

  'I'm a psychic. I got approached by this government agency about a month ago, and they've trained me to be good at what I do. This was my first mission, to beat the other people at poker and show that I'm ready for bigger missions. They told me that this was just a test, I thought the money would go back to you or something, I wasn't trying to rip you off I swear.'

  Clara stopped talking and looked at the man, making eye contact for a brief moment, confirmation of his disbelief. He said nothing, didn't laugh, didn't make a sound. After a moment, he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

  'Fucking hell', he said, 'you really are desperate aren't you? Like rat in trap, knowing what's coming but somehow trying to gnaw it's way out.'

  He turned around, opened the door and began to walk out.

  'I'll be back soon', he said, closing the door as he left, leaving Clara alone, frightened and in disbelief.

  Chapter 11

  Outside the casino, stood in a far-flung corner of the expansive parking lot, Robin's fingers weren't working quickly and accurately enough for his linking, as his thumbs scrambled across the screen of his smartphone, despe
rately scrolling through the list of names and numbers, looking for the entry; 'Boal, Joseph'.

  'For fuck sake, why aren't they here already?', Robin questioned out loud, in the vein hope that the SWAT team he'd been promised might be hiding around the corner, hear his displeasure and come charging to their rescue. The air was warm and still, too hot for comfort, and Robin was fast losing patience for the sticky Nevada afternoon and the apparent lack of interest by the Agency. He finally found Boal on his phone and hit dial, holding the phone to his ear and pacing angrily.

  'Robin', Boal said calmly.

  'Where the fuck are you? What's going on?!? Clara's been taken!'

  A pause…

  Then…

  'We know', replied Boal. 'We're monitoring the situation.'

  'You're monitoring the situation?! If you're monitoring the situation, then why the fuck isn't a Navy Seals team here getting her out of there?!'

  'Robin, you need to calm down. You need to trust that we've got this all under control.'

  'Under control?!', shouted Robin angrily. 'Have you any idea what they might be doing to her in there? Did you see the size of those thugs?'

  'Robin, I really need you to calm down', replied Boal.

  'How the fuck can you keep telling me to calm down? You lied to us you piece of shit, you told us that you wouldn't let us get in to trouble!'

  'I didn't lie to you Robin'

  'Oh really?! Then why is Clara having to deal with some bullshit casino security staff, doing God knows what to her? And you're not going to help? Fuck you, I need to get back in there.'

  Robin pulled the phone away from his ear, ready to charge back through the front door, only to hear Boal shouting loud from the other end of the phone.

  'Robin! Robin I need you to speak to me!' Robin picked the phone back up to his ear.

  'This had better be good Boal', he replied.