Breaking the Cycle: Chapter 1

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CRUISING FOR BRUISING

One day she would push things too far. People had been telling her that
for years, and today it seemed they would finally be proved right.
Wedged between two burly men in the back of a black Mercedes with
darkly tinted windows, Doina could hardly breathe, let alone move. The
warmth of their bodies and smell of leather upholstery were
overpowering. She wanted to ask them to turn on the air conditioning,
but feared it would be perceived as a sign of weakness. They had been
driving for almost an hour, and once the shock of being abducted had
subsided, she had been doing her best to think clearly. Not that she
had many options. She knew why they had taken her and what they
wanted.

At first, her fears had centred on what they were going to do to her
afterwards. She had been threatened with death on a number of
occasions, but in her job, it was part of the ritual, a professional
courtesy almost. To Doina, it merely proved her opponents were taking
her seriously. Corrupt businesspeople usually attempted to buy her off,
and politicians would try other sorts of pressure. What they didn't do
was actually kill journalists, not in Western Europe at any rate. Not
because they were any more compassionate, but because it was bad for
their business. Bullet-riddled corpses attracted unwelcome attention
from the media, and public opinion then demanded action from the
police.

Fortunately for Doina, her four captors appeared to be professionally
trained, not everyday criminals. They could even be former security
service personnel or ex-special forces, because they were very
disciplined. They had hardly exchanged a word since grabbing her and
were still wearing their balaclavas, a fact that gave her hope. If they
were going to kill her, they wouldn't be so concerned with concealing
their identities. However, that still left plenty of other unpleasant
possibilities. Doina was under no illusions that she could resist
physical coercion long enough for her to be reported missing, never
mind located and rescued. She would simply have to tell them where she
had hidden the incriminating documents and hope they wouldn't beat her
up too badly before letting her go.

Unfortunately, it meant she would have wasted the past six months of
her life. Her target, an ex-cabinet minister who now headed the British
subsidiary of a US-based arms manufacturer, would get away with
supplying illegal weapons to an African conflict, in total defiance of
UK law and UN sanctions. And for Doina, the stakes were just as high.
Her determination to pursue this story had resulted in her being fired
two months ago. She suspected someone in a position to do so (and she
had a definite idea of who that might have been) had put pressure on
her editor to dismiss her - on the flimsiest of pretexts. Her one hope
had been that, once she obtained some undeniable evidence, he would
re-employ her before she could take her scoop elsewhere.

The worst consequence of losing her job was it had attracted the
attentions of the tabloid press. When you made a career in front of the
television cameras, exposing corruption and hypocrisy, it was sometimes
hard not to become the story yourself. The resulting personal intrusion
had led to an escalating series of rows with her husband. His only
solution was for her to give up her investigation. Quitting had never
been her way, and eventually, in desperation, he had despaired of her
stubbornness in an interview. Having made his lack of support for her
so explicit, Doina felt she had no choice but to leave him. Despite
these distractions though, she had been getting closer, until yesterday
she had made the final breakthrough - and then this had happened. Now
it was all over. She had failed, and the thing that would hurt most,
worse than being beaten up, greater than the emotional distress of her
marriage falling apart, was having nothing to show for her efforts. It
would prove her detractors right after all. The humiliation she could
just about bear, but their gloating might mean the end of her career.
After being so publicly discredited, no sane editor would hire
her.

It was almost dark by the time they turned off the main road into a
narrow country lane. Her captors were more wary, checking for anyone
following. They must be approaching wherever it was they were taking
her. It could only be some temporary hideout, reasoned Doina, otherwise
they would have blindfolded her. Steep banks of long grass, appearing
unnaturally pale in the car's headlights, waved forlornly on either
side of them as they swept past. As they rounded a bend in the narrow
lane, she saw a silver Audi in front of them.

'Slow down,' instructed the front seat passenger, whom Doina supposed
must be the leader.

The driver did so, but they were still catching up with the slowly
moving car in front. Abruptly, it turned sideways, blocking their path.
The driver reacted instantly, bringing the big Mercedes to a screeching
halt and then immediately reversing away at high speed.

'Ambush, ambush!' the leader snapped into his radio. 'Backup needed
now!'

The man on Doina's right released her seatbelt and pushed her roughly
down to the floor. She felt the car abruptly swing around and stop,
before they were off again, forwards this time, but only for a couple
of seconds before there came another screech of brakes, followed by the
unmistakable metallic crunch of impact with another vehicle.

'Shit!' exclaimed the man on her left. 'Get her out. Let's go!'

Doina's breath had been knocked out of her by the crash and there was a
rip of tearing fabric as she was bundled out of the car, but these
things hardly registered. As the two men pulled her round to the rear
of the vehicle, she glimpsed the driver and leader, guns drawn,
advancing on another silver Audi that had blocked their escape. One of
them shouted, "There's no-" and it all went quiet. In the unexpected
stillness, the fact nothing was happening made no sense to her. She was
all tensed up - certain there would be an exchange of gunfire. What
would it feel like to be shot? To bleed to death slowly, before help
could arrive? Or wait helplessly to be executed by a bullet to the
head? The abrupt silence clearly made no sense to the men either side
of her, either. After a few moments, one of them rose cautiously,
trying to see what was happening.

'They're both down!' he exclaimed incredulously, followed by a smacking
sound of something hitting flesh. 'Fuck!' he cried, clutching at his
throat. 'Poison dar-' and then fell in the road beside her.

The remaining man grabbed Doina around the neck and pulled her in front
of him. Almost immediately, there was another thwack noise. His grip
loosened as he fell backwards, his pistol clattering to the tarmac at
her feet. For an instant, Doina wondered if she should pick it up, but
kicked it away instead. She didn't know how to use it, and she hated
guns anyway. Running away wouldn't help, either. She had a rough idea
of where she was, but if four trained professionals couldn't escape an
ambush, she certainly wasn't going to. Instead she waited - desperately
hoping that whoever had trapped them had not been ordered to kill them
all.

Crouched against the rear bumper of the Mercedes, she felt all
light-headed, weak and dizzy. Her heart was racing, too. She had
forgotten to breathe. Inhaling deeply, the fresh air felt cold in her
lungs, after the claustrophobic confines of the car. She must look
pathetic, she realized, curled up almost into a ball, fists clenched,
arms crossed; but she could do nothing else, except swallow hard and
wait.

Several more seconds of eerie silence followed, before Doina heard a
car door open. She couldn't see anything in the darkness beyond the red
aura cast by the Mercedes' taillights, but there were footsteps
approaching, coming towards her from the direction of the first
intercepting car, until a dark shape loomed above her. Silhouetted
against the last glow of sunset and bathed in crimson light, he might
have been a demon, come to escort her to Hell.

'Doina Danilowska,' said the figure, as calmly and politely as if he
were wishing her a good evening. He extended a hand, but when she
didn't move, continued, 'They're not dead, only unconscious. They'll be
fine in half an hour, but their backup will be here soon. Come, we
should leave.'

Doina couldn't see if he was holding a weapon, and feared she would get
a dart herself, if she did not comply. Slowly, she stood up, without
his assistance. He motioned her in the direction of the first Audi and
she started towards it. After sitting motionless for an hour, involved
a car crash and manhandled around, she could hardly walk. Behind her,
she heard the distinctive sound of scraping metal as the second Audi
extricated itself from the crashed Mercedes. It drove away into the
dusk, leaving a silence broken only by their footsteps.

They reached the mysterious stranger's car. He waited while she got
into the front passenger seat and shut the door behind her, before he
went around to the driver's side. As he did, Doina glanced over her
shoulder and was surprised to discover there was no one in the rear
seats. The two of them were alone. They set off down the road, took the
next right, then the next, until they had returned to the main road.
But instead of making a further right turn and heading back towards
London, they turned left and headed north.

There were no streetlights this far out into the countryside, but from
the headlights of approaching vehicles, Doina could glimpse her rescuer
well enough to study him. He was about the same age as her, late
twenties or early thirties, and not much taller, meaning he couldn't be
more than a metre seventy. He was dressed in a dark suit and had quite
an angular face with shoulder length and rather poorly groomed hair.
His build was a lot less bulky than her former captors, making him less
intimidating. Her self-defence skills had been no use against the four
of them, but if it became necessary, she might stand a chance against
this one man. In fact, he didn't look like a person who could have
defeated her kidnappers so easily. He must be a spook, she thought, a
government agent. Others had done the shooting and he had only been
there to whisk her away afterwards. But where to? And why had the
security services intervened on her behalf? Probably to save the
British Government from the embarrassment of being associated with a
sanctions-breaker. They too wanted the papers she had hidden away
yesterday, but to hush things up, not publish them.

But something didn't add up. Why the ambush? All they had to do was
follow her captors to their hideout and demand her release into their
custody. There was no need for any shooting, even if no one had been
killed. This was Britain, not some former Soviet republic, where
organized criminals were often more than a match for the local law
enforcement. As if to answer her speculations, the man switched on the
courtesy light and half turned towards her.

'Sébastien Lagrange,' he said, offering his right hand.

Doina would have taken it this time, except her own hands were still
shaking from delayed shock. She slipped them under her thighs, so he
wouldn't notice, and simply nodded her acknowledgement. 'Pleased to
meet you,' she replied with a calmness she didn't feel. 'You obviously
know who I am.' She couldn't decide what had frightened her more, the
kidnapping or the rescue. At least she was no longer in immediate
danger, although there were a lot of things she needed to know before
she would be able to relax.

'Yes, and you're safe now - don't worry. They can't catch us now. You
can relax until we reach our destination.' Despite the French name, he
spoke English well enough for it to be his first language, with hardly
any trace of an accent, but from that alone, she could not decide where
he might have come from.

'So where are we going?' she asked.

'Stansted Airport.'

'What! Where are you taking me?'

'Somewhere safe. Which certainly isn't England right now. You do know
who those people were?'

'It's not hard to guess. But why didn't you just arrest them?'

'Because I have no legal authority to do so.'

'But you're a spook, right? Which lot are you, Five or Six?'

'Neither. I'll explain fully later, but for now, let's say I'm someone
who doesn't want you to come to any harm.'

This puzzled Doina. Sébastien Lagrange, if that was his real name, must
have access to some pretty up-to-date inside information if he was able
to find out she'd been kidnapped and arrange to rescue her, all within
an hour. Unless he had engineered the whole thing for the purpose of
deceiving her into giving up her information¦ Yes! That was it. The
whole thing had to be a carefully planned sting.

'I suppose you still want to know where I've hidden the papers,
though?' she enquired, watching for his reaction. Now she'd figured it
out, she wanted him to know it, and taunting him with how obvious his
ploy was, might make him angry and reveal something to give her an
advantage.

'No. I assume they're safe where they are,' he replied with a shrug.
'We certainly don't have time to retrieve them now, if that's what
you're suggesting.'

You're bluffing, Mister Cool, thought Doina. He would try to trick the
location out of her later. Then one of his associates would go and pick
them up. 'Where am I to be flown off to?' she asked.

'It's better you don't know for the moment.'

'Do I have a choice?'

'Of course you do,' he replied, sounding annoyed by her question. 'I'm
here to help, not kidnap you again. Where would you like to go? Home? I
don't think so. They'll have staked out your cousin's place, and have
probably turned it upside down by now. Your parents will take you in, I
suppose, but even with their connections, they won't be able to protect
you for long, because sadly, you're not the stay-at-home type, are you?
Which is bad, because the people you've upset have long memories and
aren't known for their forgiving natures.'

'But you say you can protect me?'

'Only if you agree to come with me.'

'Why? If you don't want the papers, what's your interest?'

'I have something else in mind. Instead of naming and shaming the bad
boys of the arms trade, how would you like to help me put them out of
business altogether?'

'Yeah, right!' she snorted. 'And how do you propose to do that, Mister
Lagrange?' He was winding her up now.

'If you don't come along, you'll never find out, will you?' he said
lightly, turning off the road into a service station. 'Anyway, it's
your call. I'm sure you'll be able to phone for a taxi from here, if
you decide not to accept my offer.'

He's calling my bluff, thought Doina. She was sure of it. And she would
find out - right now. 'Thanks for your help, then. I'll be off - bye!'
she said, getting out of the car and heading for the service station's
shop.

Sébastien made no move to follow her. Doina made straight for the
toilet and locked herself in. She sat for a couple of minutes,
recovering her composure. She was no longer shaking, which was a
relief. What a mess, she thought, standing up and examining herself in
the mirror. She had to do something about her hair, even if she didn't
have a brush. The kidnappers had taken her handbag, along with her
mobile phone. At least I'm only bruised and don't have a broken nose or
any missing teeth, she thought, carefully examining the pale oval of
her face with its pleasantly small features, deep blue eyes and
straight dark eyebrows, framed by her long dark wavy hair. Quickly, she
did what she could to make herself more presentable, although her suit
was covered in dirty marks and there was a rip in the skirt that went
halfway up her thigh. Fortunately, she still had both shoes.

What am I going to do now? she asked herself. Even if everything he
said was true, Sébastien had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to
rescue her. Which meant he wanted something. Would he really let her
walk away? How could she find out while keeping her options open? There
was something else she needed to check on, too. She returned to the
harsh neon ambience of the shop and found the payphone. Outside,
Sébastien sat in his car, doubtless watching her every move.

'Hello, Krystyna?'

'Doina, is that you? Where are you? I've been so worried about¦'

'I'm okay, kuzynka, thanks,' interrupted Doina. 'How are you?'

'Well apart from coming home to find we've been burgled, I'm
fine.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

'You will be, Mrówka, if this is anything to do with what you're up to!
My new designs are scattered all over the floor and I've an important
show on tomorrow¦'

'Have you called the police?'

'I don't think there's any point. Nothing's been taken; they've just
ransacked the place.'

'Okay, Krys. Can you manage without me for now? I'm not sure how soon I
can get home, but I promise we'll sort everything out then. I've got to
go now, though - sorry!'

Doina called a taxi, which rather typically took fifteen minutes to
arrive. By that time Sébastien had wandered over to the shop and asked
her if everything was all right. When she explained what she was doing,
he gave her money for the fare and his business card, "In case you ever
do need me," he had said. Then he coolly returned to his car and drove
off.

Once in the taxi, Doina instructed the driver to leave the main road
and make several random turns before asking him to stop. She wanted to
be sure Sébastien was not following them. Right, she thought, now I
have to make up my mind. She was fairly sure her cousin would be okay
without her. In fact, if Doina were not around, Krystyna would be safer
- they weren't after her. Did that mean she should go with Sébastien,
though? At first she'd thought he was a spook, because it was the only
explanation that fitted. Now she wasn't sure who he might be, but her
instincts were not telling her to run away. She was proud of her
ability to size people up quickly. It was a skill that made her such an
effective journalist, being able to decide whom she could safely trust.
And although there were many unanswered questions, there were no
obvious danger signals, either. It was time to make a decision. The
clincher for Doina was she could sense another story in all this, a big
one, and she simply couldn't walk away from that. Instead, she asked
the taxi driver to lend her his mobile phone.

'Sébastien? Hello, it's Doina.'

'Doina. How nice to hear from you so soon. What can I do for
you?'

'How about meeting me back at that garage in ten minutes?'

Once she was back in the snug warmth of Sébastien's car, they resumed
their journey northwards.

'Okay Mr. Lagrange, I'll go as far as the airport with you. You have
until then to tell me what this is all about.'

'Sure, but first, you need to know something about me and what I do.
There's a laptop in the bag behind my seat, if you pull it out, you can
have a look at my website.'

Is he kidding? thought Doina, but did as she was instructed. After ten
minutes browsing, she had as much information as she needed for the
moment. Everything except whether any of it was true.

'This is fine,' she observed, 'but how do I verify it? Half of what I
read on the web these days is pure propaganda.'

'Agreed. Okay, whom do we have in common? When you need to check a
story with someone in The City, who do you phone?'

Doina reeled off half a dozen names; people she could call on when
doing general background research. She had no intention of revealing
any sources of inside information to a complete stranger.

'Robbie Knight,' interrupted Sébastien. 'I've had dealings with him and
I'm sure he'll remember me. Why don't you give him a call?' Reaching
into his jacket, he proffered his mobile phone.

'What, call him now?'

'Why not?'

'Oh, alright,' replied Doina, taking the phone, but thinking her
situation was getting stranger by the minute. 'Stop in the next lay-by
and stay in the car, please. I'm not going to talk to him while you're
listening.'

'Hi Robbie, it's Doina Danilowska,' she announced, thankful the evening
breeze wasn't too chilly. 'Are you okay to talk right now?'

'No problem. Haven't heard from you for a while. What's up?'

'Do you know a guy called Sébastien Lagrange?'

'Yeah, I know him. We did some business a while ago. I may even have
met him, but I can't remember, offhand. I meet a lot of clients.'

'That's no problem,' she said. 'What does he do? What's he been up to
lately?'

'Oh, you'll love this bloke, Doina. You're made for each other. He's
into just about everything, as long as it's green. If it's
environmental or ethical, he's investing in it: renewable energy,
sustainable development, recycling - you name it. Also what you might
term "good causes", like cheap generic drugs and new ways to detect
land mines.'

'Very interesting,' replied Doina, although she had already gleaned as
much from Sébastien's publicity material. 'He should be in line for a
knighthood, then. How come he hasn't got a higher public profile? I
never heard of him before today.'

'Well, for such an active do-gooder, he does keep an unusually low
profile. Which means he might be up to something. Otherwise you
wouldn't be investigating him, right?'

'Maybe. But you are correct. He does sound too good to be true. No
criminal convictions then?' she asked.

'Nothing I know of. Although this class of punter never does have -
until they overreach themselves and it all goes bad for them.'

'How typically cynical of you, Robbie. Alright, what about tangible
assets, as opposed to holdings? There's a manufacturing plant in
France, I believe.'

'Ah yes, that place. The only bit of jigsaw which doesn't fit. It's all
high-tech aerospace stuff, evidently. There's some fluff on the web
about it being for aerial resource mapping, but you don't usually do
that with executive jets. It's privately owned though, not listed on
any market, meaning I couldn't get any solid financial details for you.
And I heard a rumour he's looking for a buyer, anyway.'

'Hmm, even more interesting. Anything else? Politics? Personal
details?'

'Let's see. Yes, I think he said he came here from Canada a few years
ago. Although I get the impression he's now one of these stateless
international types. Surprisingly, for someone investing so heavily in
environmentally friendly technology, he doesn't have any political
connections. Not even to the Greens. He seems to have an aversion to
politicians.'

'Can't say I blame him there. But you would trust him though?'

'Well, I've done some business with him, and on paper he's clean. What
is your interest, anyway? Is there a story here?'

'Can't say right now, but thanks a lot, Robbie. I definitely owe you a
drink or two, next time we meet - bye.'

As Doina terminated the call, she was thinking it simply confirmed her
suspicion of a set up. For a start, Robbie would know it was
Sébastien's phone she was calling from and not her own. And even if
every word he said was true, she was still being asked to believe that
someone who professed to be an ethical industrialist could suddenly
turn into a counter-terrorism expert and rescue her from four
well-trained heavies. None of it fitted. In fact, it was the worst
cover story she had ever heard of. So utterly ridiculous that Sébastien
must know it would never convince her. What could be his game then, if
he didn't want the papers? There was only one way to find out.

She returned to the car, handed back his phone and they set off again.
Considering they were meant to be escaping from armed thugs, he was the
calmest driver she had ever met, carefully sticking to the speed
limits. Normally, men who showed off their powerful cars with a flashy
driving style irritated her, but Sébastien was, if anything, rather too
sedate. At least they would not attract any unnecessary
attention.

'Alright, Mr. Lagrange, you said earlier you wanted to end the arms
trade. How do I fit into your plans?'

'I need someone to work with me. Someone who knows the media. I've been
very impressed by your investigations, and the integrity and sincerity
with which you conduct yourself. What I have in mind is a progression
from that, an opportunity for you to achieve positive results instead
of merely exposing the negatives.' He paused for a few seconds before
continuing. 'I believe you have the potential to achieve much more than
you have so far. More even than your grandfather and father put
together.'

What a cheek he has, thought Doina with annoyance, pushing such an
obvious psychological button of hers so brazenly. It was bad enough her
being currently referred to in the papers as the wayward granddaughter
of Tadeusz Danilowski, but before that, it was being introduced as
Jerzy Danilowski's kid that really got up her nose. Despite her
irritation, she couldn't help turning to look at him directly.

'How do you mean?' she asked quietly.

'Without going into any details now, I have acquired the rights to some
very impressive new technology, but I'm concerned about how it will be
used. I want it to be for everyone's benefit, not just my own. The only
way I can think of, is to increase awareness about it and have public
opinion on my side. Otherwise, the whole thing could be hijacked by the
usual vested interests. That's where you come in. I need your media
skills to present my case.'

'Can you be more specific?' she asked. 'How is some new technology
going to end the arms trade?'

'I can't elaborate at this stage. I need you to decide whether you're
in, before I can disclose anything of substance.'

'I'm still thinking about that,' she replied. 'And how do I know you're
not one of those same vested interests seeking to use my name to
promote something dodgy?'

'A fair point. Which is why I'm offering you the opportunity to come
and see what I have. If you don't like what you find, that's it -
finish. I'll be sorry of course, but I can always call my second
choice.'

'Who is?'

'Oh, a competitor of yours, who's doing very well with her new TV news
show,' he replied. 'She's not as good as you, but she'll have to do, if
you're not interested.'

'I know who you mean,' gasped Doina. 'But she's only a presenter, not a
proper journalist. You're joking, right? Please don't tell me you're
serious about asking her.'

'I won't need to, if you say yes.'

'You manipulating...' breathed Doina, caught again by his complete
directness. 'Now you've told me about her, you must know I'll never
refuse!'

'That is what I'd hoped,' he confirmed with a smile, 'but I do pay
well. Would double your usual rate be acceptable?'

Doina frowned. Ignoring the fact he had just extricated her from a very
awkward situation, his proposal still seemed too good to be true. She
needed to be cautious, even if she was out of work and had bills to pay
- which he must also know. She simply wasn't ready to commit
herself.

'Explain what I have to do to earn all that,' she said.

'Spend a couple of weeks at my manufacturing plant asking all the
questions you like and advising me on media strategy.'

'Where is it?'

'In France, near Toulouse.'

'And you want me to go there with you tonight?'

'Given your current situation, yes, it would be advisable. I had
planned to approach you with this proposal after you'd completed your
current investigation, but today's events forced my hand.'

'Hmm. Who else will be coming with us?' she asked.

'No one at this stage.'

'For a supposedly wealthy industrialist, you don't have much of an
entourage.'

'I like to travel light. It's easier to keep secrets if fewer people
are involved.'

'Which is a point. Can I tell anyone where I'm going?'

'No problem. Why should I mind you doing that?'

'Well, didn't you say all this stuff of yours was secret?'

'Yes, but you don't know any secrets yet.' He shrugged again. 'What
could you possibly divulge?'

Doina sighed and sat back in her seat. He must have had her under
surveillance for weeks, and obviously knew everything about her. What
choice did she have though? Stay in England and face certain danger, or
fly off into the unknown with Mr. Mysterious. If she refused, he might
shoot her with his dart gun and take her anyway. Better to be
conscious, she decided.

'Okay, I'll go with you if I can borrow your phone again. I'm going to
tell my cousin where I'm off to - and who with,' she said.

'Of course. Here you are,' he said with a smile. 'And when you're done,
there's something I'd like you to tell me.'

'What's that?' asked Doina, feeling defensive again. Here it comes, she
thought.

'Well, we both want to make the world a better place, but if you were
given the opportunity to change something, anything, what would it be?
What would you try to do? And how would you go about it?'

'Ha ha,' she laughed, turning to look at him. 'How much time do you
have, Mr. Lagrange?'

***

Lucien Romano, 2005