Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 7
Sokolov now got a clear picture of how the events had played out.
Russian foreign intelligence had utilized its ties with Berisha to strike a decisive blow against Project Jutland.
And Sokolov and his brother were caught in the thick of it.
Everything centered around Lana Shevchenko and it made Sokolov even more determined to find her.
If she was still alive.
18
Dubrovsky’s study occupied a spacious but sparsely appointed room. It had parquet flooring and the walls were finished with gold-colored tiles. The furnishing comprised a couple of beige sofas facing each other, separated by a coffee table, in front of a massive writing desk. The desk was dominated by a 27-inch Apple iMac. There were only a few items like a bunch of pens in a cylindrical holder, a tiny elephant figurine, a single framed photo, and a small Russian flag. A larger flag was hanging on a two-meter flagpole which stood in the corner of the room.
No books anywhere, Constantine noted.
Marina sat behind her father’s desk and powered on the computer.
“It feels so strange to be sitting in this chair,” she said.
The photo on the desk was that of her, and as she saw it, she had to stifle tears again.
She quickly turned back to the iMac screen which showed a login prompt.
“Do you know the password?” Constantine asked, looking over her shoulder.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Any ideas?”
“Let’s try dad’s birthday.”
She typed in the numbers and hit the Return key.
A message appeared below the text field.
Wrong password. Please try again.
“Hmmm. Maybe it’s my birthday.”
She quickly typed in the date.
Enter.
Wrong password. Please try again.
“How about my name.”
She tried it next, but it still didn’t match.
Wrong password. Please try again. After 2 failed attempts your computer will be disabled for 60 minutes.
“Uh oh.”
She looked at Constantine.
“We can’t afford to get locked out for an hour,” he warned.
“I know,” she said. “What if it’s in all caps. M-A-R-I-N-A.”
Wrong password. Please try again. After 1 failed attempt your computer will be disabled for 60 minutes.
“Damn,” she muttered in frustration. “What do we do now?”
“If he used a password generator, we’re in trouble.”
“A password generator? No, my father wasn’t tech savvy. He wasn’t very good with computers at all. He had to pick a really simple one, easy to remember. It couldn’t be anything random.” She looked at the framed picture again. “He’d always remember it if it had to do with me.”
“Hang on.”
“You got it?”
“Maybe.”
Constantine produced his phone and opened the messaging app. Eugene had texted him earlier for an update on his meeting with Andy. They were searching for Dubrovsky’s girlfriend, Svetlana Shevchenko.
“Try Svetlana,” Constantine said.
“What? Who’s that?”
Apparently, she’d known nothing about her father’s woman.
“I’m sure it’ll work.”
“Okay.”
It did.
The login screen was replaced by the desktop environment.
“Okay, what next?” Marina sounded a little disappointed.
“Open the Contacts app,” Constantine suggested.
“Right.”
She clicked on the address book icon and hit up Reto Hofmann’s name in the search box.
Henri Armand, a chef trained at Le Cordon Bleu school of culinary excellence in Paris, had cooked at London’s finest restaurants before being hired by Dubrovsky to work exclusively for him. From the kitchen, his managerial skills had elevated him to the position of majordomo, keeping all the house matters at Dubrovsky’s various properties across Europe in perfect order, as well as running the staff at Misha’s Bar and Grill.
The pay had been good, because the Russians were always the best-paying clients. But there was no such thing as too much money, so when another man—also Russian—had approached Monsieur Henri three months ago with an offer, he couldn’t have turned it down. The task was simple enough. Henri was to report all the comings and goings at the Dubrovsky household. In return, he would be paid double his wages, transferred to his Parisian bank account from some catering company in Nice. All perfectly legal. Nobody would get hurt, he’d been assured.
Monsieur Henri had been carrying out his new assignment with diligence and discretion. And although he was saddened by Mr. Dubrovsky’s death, there was nothing he could do about it and it could certainly not be blamed on a poor diet. Monsieur Henri had always been and would remain, above all, a professional. Neither did he believe that his new Russian client was in any way related to Mr. Dubrovsky’s untimely passing. C’est la vie, as his countrymen would say.
Yet he still had a commitment to perform his duties—both as a majordomo and an agent.
Henri Armand took out his phone and texted a message in English to a pre-arranged phone number, like he’d done many times before. The contact numbers changed. His instructions stayed the same.
Constantine Sokolov is here to see Marina.
He waited until a twin blue tick appeared next to the chat bubble, indicating that his message had been delivered and read.
Then he deleted it.
19
They spotted the flashy, flaming-red Ferrari Portofino simultaneously. The Italian carmaker’s entry-level, $200,000-worth model was parked outside an Albanian café in Soho, a known front for Mafia activity where Berisha’s men discussed their deals. Andy had been correct in guessing that Taulant the pimp would hang around there. He squeezed the Vauxhall into a gap at the other end of the street just off Trafalgar Square. It was a good surveillance post that offered a clear view of the café and its surroundings, but they couldn’t sit and wait all day. Going inside to confront an unknown number of gangsters was no option, either.
Sokolov asked, “How do we draw him out?”
“The only way to do it is to create a distraction of some sort,” Andy said.
“Okay, I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“The Ferrari.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got to rear-end it. Nothing serious, just enough to get his attention. I’ll cover the expenses.”
“Agreed, mate,” Andy chuckled.
Sokolov jumped out of the Vauxhall and strode down the street, approaching the café, his fingers clenching around the gun handle.
Andy did his part, steering the Vauxhall on a collision course with the Ferrari with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.
Instead of lightly scraping the sports car’s bumper, he hit the back of the Ferrari with a burst of acceleration.
A loud thud of metal crashing against metal sounded upon impact.
As a result, Andy’s car ended up with a corrugated radiator grill, dented bonnet, and a smashed right headlight.
The Ferrari came out looking much worse off. Its rear-left side had turned into a misshapen mess. A crumpled body panel looked like it had been hit by a wrecking ball.
The car’s alarm system wailed like a banshee.
Sokolov waited.
Ten seconds later, Taulant came running out of the café. He gaped, taking in the damage that would have to be repaired at a significant cost. Yelling obscenities, he saw that the Vauxhall’s driver was inside the vehicle and rushed to the driver’s door. He kicked at it angrily and banged his fist against the roof.
Andy didn’t react.
Sokolov moved stealthily behind Taulant and jabbed the gun barrel into his ribs.
The Albanian froze suddenly.
“Get in the car.”
Still holding him at gunpoint, Sokolov yanked open the
rear passenger door, grabbed Taulant by his neck, shoved him inside violently, and jumped in next to him. No sooner had Sokolov slammed the door than Andy threw the car into motion, racing away. Sweeping into a sharp turn, they were out of sight.
The whole move had taken less than thirty seconds.
“Smashing up your own car is not exactly what I meant,” Sokolov told Andy.
“No worries, I never liked this piece of rubbish.”
“Then you won’t mind a few bloodstains if I shoot the bastard?”
“Be my guest.”
The Albanian glanced at the gun leveled at him, and then glared at Sokolov.
“Lana. Where is she?” Sokolov demanded.
The pimp didn’t say a word.
“Talk or I’ll kill you.”
“With this toy?” Taulant mocked.
“Want to find out? You’re not going to enjoy it.”
Taulant’s mouth twisted in a smug grin.
“She’s dead.”
There was arrogance in his voice. Selling young women and minors had given him a sense of invincibility. Nobody would dare touch a ruthless Mafia member.
Sokolov would show the scumbag just how mistaken he was.
“In that case you’ll be joining her very soon,” he said and pulled the trigger.
The gun went off, cracking sharply. Firing at point blank range in the confines of the car, he couldn’t miss. The bullet ripped open a hole in the pimp’s arm, going clean through the flesh and lodging itself in the seat’s upholstery.
Taulant screamed in shock and pain.
“One last time. Where’s Lana?”
Clamping down the wound with his good left hand, Taulant growled through gritted teeth.
“A flat, not far from here.”
“You’ll show us the way,” Sokolov said.
The pimp didn’t have much of a choice. He divulged the street name and house number. Andy followed the address.
It was located a short distance away, on the fringes of Kensington and Chelsea.
The building was an ordinary-looking ten-story block of flats. Despite the grimy façade, Sokolov knew that the upscale location would make the property pricey.
“Which one of the apartments are you using?” Andy inquired.
The pimp replied, “All of them.”
The Albanian Mafia rented the entire building, converting it into a high-rise brothel.
Getting out of the car, Andy reached for the glove box and grabbed a handgun. Sokolov recognized the piece as a Browning High-Power, a SAS special utilized from the Second World War until the early 2000s.
The sight of the formidable weapon spurred Taulant into a brisk pace in spite of his wound as they approached the apartment block.
On their way in, a woman exited the building, heavily made up, wearing high heels and a fur coat over skimpy black lingerie, and got into a waiting taxi.
It appeared as though the Albanian hadn’t deceived them, but Sokolov stayed alert for any tricks.
Taulant led them inside the residential red-light complex. They passed the empty lobby and took the lift up to the top floor.
Reaching it, they walked down a stretching hallway, past closed, unmarked apartment doors on either side. The air reeked of cheap perfume. At the end of the corridor, they got to the last door.
Gripping the Browning HP, Andy pressed the buzzer.
“Who is it?” a Balkan-accented male voice asked.
“It’s me,” Taulant replied.
The latch clicked audibly inside the tumbler as it unlocked and the door swung open.
A gangster wearing a baseball cap and a thick gold chain dangling around his neck stood in the doorway. He was clutching a suppressed Czech-made Skorpion submachine gun. As soon as he saw that Taulant wasn’t alone, he brought the gun up, ready to fire.
Sokolov gave the pimp a strong push in the back, hurtling him toward the thug just as the Skorpion spat out a string of 9mm bullets. The slugs hammered him, blood geysers erupted in Taulant’s body. He was dead on his feet but the momentum sent him crashing into the Albanian gunman. As the killer pushed the falling corpse away, Andy aimed the Browning and squeezed off a round, the booming thunderclap punching a hole through the skull, blowing the baseball cap away together with blood and bone. The Albanian gunman crashed in a heap on top of the pimp.
The apartment was a studio with a combined kitchen and lounge. Another Mafioso sat on the sofa in front of the telly, mashing controller buttons while he was gaming on a console. It took him an extra moment to realize what was happening. He dropped the gamepad and lurched for the gun which he kept on the seat next to him.
Sokolov acted quicker to pick up the submachine gun off the fallen thug. Seizing the Skorpion, he opened fire, bullets tearing up the sofa. The shots found their mark, hitting the Albanian, and it was game over for him. His dead body slumped back in the seat.
Sokolov and Andy headed toward the bedroom, weapons sweeping for targets. The SAS veteran pushed the door open.
Sokolov stormed inside.
A shrill female scream sounded.
There weren’t any more gangsters guarding her. The woman was alone in the small bedroom. He found her sitting on the floor next to the double bed, knees pulled up to her chest.
“Go away!” she yelled hysterically, her eyes fixed on the gun in his hand. “Leave me alone!”
The thunderous report of the Browning had scared her and she must have assumed that Sokolov was another Albanian.
Andy rushed in right behind him.
“Lana,” the bodyguard cooed, putting the Browning away. “It’s okay, Lana. Don’t worry. Everything is fine. We’ll get you out of here.”
“Oh, Andy …”
Trembling, she looked up at him and broke into tears as Andy picked her up in his arms and carried her away.
20
In his many years at the Metropolitan Police, Detective Superintendent Alex Shaw, Senior Investigating Officer, had never encountered anything quite like it.
At 08:00 GMT, Shaw sat behind his office desk following a frustrating few hours, gazing intently at the computer screen showing a live video feed of the interview room.
The murder suspect had called the police and turned himself in.
“I killed man. Trevor Kendrick. Am waiting.” The police audio recording had captured the heavy Russian accent in his voice.
Five minutes after the 999 call, a Major Investigation Team—one of the homicide units on 24/7 standby duty—had arrived at the crime scene and made the arrest.
They’d found him covered in the victim’s blood, the knife still in his hand. He’d surrendered without a fight, acting calm and composed.
The suspect, who had a Russian passport in the name of Zelimkhan Mahmoudov on him, had spent the night in custody.
During the interrogation, however, he’d refused to cooperate.
He just sat there, frozen like a statue, eyes transfixed on some distant point.
But why?
Given the victim’s identity, it had been a targeted hit, but the attack itself had been horrific. The post-mortem examination had shown that Kendrick had died of a single stab wound out of the inflicted thirteen.
The killer’s conduct didn’t make any sense.
And he seemed to be waiting for something.
Shaw couldn’t get his head around it.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The red-haired, red-faced man who entered was Kane Gilmour of SO15, the Met’s Specialist Operations branch also known as the Counter Terrorism Command which combined intelligence, operations, and investigations of terrorism-related activities.
“How’s it going?” Gilmour asked, taking a seat in front of Shaw’s desk.
“He’s asked for a translator.”
“Makes sense.”
“When we got him one, a Russian interpreter, he said he didn’t speak Russian and demanded a Chechen one.”
“Oh. So we�
��re stuck until we find someone fluent in Chechen?”
“Come on, Kane. He’s just taking the mickey. But what are we supposed to do with the bastard?”
“Let’s wait and see what Darren has to say.”
The case was as bad as it got, but it had been complicated by red tape. It was unclear whether to treat it as a homicide, a terror incident, or a counterintelligence matter, given the circumstances surrounding it. The Met already had support from MI5, but for any spy case the spooks would take over control of the investigation.
Darren James, an MI5 officer assigned to Scotland Yard, joined them a minute later. A short, wiry man in a tweed coat, his appearance contrasted sharply with Shaw’s robust 6’5" frame.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I’m fresh off a briefing on the matter.”
“So, are you taking him off our hands, Darren?” the Det Super wondered.
“Yes, Alex,” the spook replied. “And we’re letting him go.”
Shaw’s eyebrows shot up.
“What are you on about?”
“This man holds a Russian diplomatic passport. We can’t charge him.”
“You can’t be serious. I have a duty to protect this country. We’re talking about someone who’s brutally murdered a Brit in the center of London.”
“Yes, and the victim was a dodgy character at best. Trust me, nobody wants to stir up a scandal over his death.”
“And what are you going to do? Declare that he died of natural causes?” Shaw asked sarcastically.
“We’ll see about that,” the MI5 man replied with a straight face. “Look, Alex, I know it’s hard to swallow. But a decision has been made. A political decision. It comes all the way from Number Ten.”
“You don’t want to get sucked into politics,” Gilmour chimed in. “That’s how it works, Alex. You should accept that. It would spare a lot of embarrassment to the Yard as well. Last thing you and I need is journos asking how we allowed it to happen right under our noses. Then there’s the Dubrovsky incident. Kendrick was his paid advisor. Do we really need another inquest if the two cases are linked? You won’t be doing yourself any favors. Let’s get rid of the Russian problem and focus on real threats like Islamic terror cells and white supremacists.”