Vasilyev tried to pull his hand away but Standing was too strong for him. Standing’s fingernails bit into the man’s flesh and he winced. ‘Who are you?’ said Vasilyev.
‘I’m the man who’s going to break your wrist if you don’t sit down and talk to me.’
The Russian sat down. Standing let go of his wrist and Vasilyev massaged it as he stared fearfully across the table. ‘I could call the police,’ said the journalist, but there was no conviction in his voice.
Standing smiled. ‘Look, Anton, I’m not the enemy here. I’m not the one who poisoned you. I just need some information from you and then I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.’
Vasilyev looked to be close to tears. ‘You can’t talk to me like this,’ he said. ‘There are laws in this country.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Standing. ‘But I can’t let you leave, not without telling me what happened. There’s too much at stake.’
‘Why does it matter? Koshkin is dead.’
‘I want the man responsible for Koshkin’s death to be brought to justice and punished,’ said Standing, and that much was true, though he was more concerned about getting the dogs off Bobby-Ray.
‘All I know is what I read. There was a home invasion and he was shot, along with three of his bodyguards.’
‘That’s what the cops are saying, but I’m not sure that’s true.’
The Russian frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that the cops might not be telling the truth. I think that Koshkin’s death is connected to what happened here in London.’
‘Somebody wanted him dead, that’s for sure.’
‘Who?’ asked Standing.
The Russian shrugged. ‘If I knew, I’d have told the police.’
Standing sat back in his seat. ‘Maybe you would have, maybe you wouldn’t,’ he said.
The Russian frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe you decided that you’d be better off not telling the police anything,’ he said. ‘You were lucky last time, you might not be so lucky if they tried again.’
‘It wasn’t me they were trying to kill,’ said the journalist.
‘They didn’t seem to care about collateral damage, though,’ said Standing. He sipped his coffee. ‘Of course, it could have been you who gave the poison to Koshkin.’
‘I was poisoned, too,’ said the Russian indignantly.
‘You might have taken some yourself, to make it look as if you were also a victim.’
‘I WAS a victim!’ hissed Vasilyev. ‘I could have died.’
Standing shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘There’s no “maybe” about it,’ said Vasilyev. ‘Whoever poisoned Koshkin also poisoned me.’
‘If that’s true, how did they know Koshkin would be in the restaurant with you?’
The Russian’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘You were poisoned in a crowded restaurant. That takes planning. So how did they know you would be there?’ Vasilyev didn’t answer and Standing leaned towards him. ‘Did you tell anyone you were meeting him?’
Vasilyev shook his head. ‘No.’
‘How far ahead was the meeting planned?’
‘It wasn’t. I rang him up and said I wanted to interview him. He suggested we have dinner.’
‘The restaurant was his choice?’
The journalist nodded. ‘He suggested the place and the time.’
‘And the phone call was how far in advance of the meeting?’
Vasilyev shrugged. ‘A couple of hours.’
‘Do you think your phone is tapped?’
‘I called him on my mobile.’
‘Mobiles can be tapped.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. But it’d be more likely that it was Koshkin’s phone that was being tapped.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Standing.
The Russian shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘The sooner you tell me, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair,’ said Standing.
Vasilyev nodded slowly. ‘You know who he was, right? He was a nobody before the Soviet Union broke up, and he emerged as one of the richest men in Russia. You don’t do that without making enemies, both in the government and elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere?’
‘Jealous rivals. The Russian mafia. When you’re rich, you’re a target.’
‘Mafia? The Russian mafia were after him?’
‘He had connections with the Solntsevskaya syndicate, one of the nastiest Russian gangs. It’s an open secret that they have links to the Kremlin.’
‘Putin?’
‘Allegedly. But these things are almost impossible to prove.’
‘You say connections. What sort of connections did Koshkin have with them?’
‘That’s the billion ruble question. He denied it, obviously.’
‘That’s what you wanted to interview him about?’ asked Standing.
‘Partly. He had a business partner, Erik Markov. Markov was definitely in bed with the Solntsevskaya.’
‘Koshkin fell out with Markov, didn’t he?’
‘Big time.’
‘So it is possible that Markov used the Russian mafia to kill Koshkin?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Vasilyev. ‘But that wasn’t why I interviewed Koshkin. I was more interested in rumours I’d heard that Markov was involved in the manipulation of the American elections.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a long-running story, you know that? The Russians are said to have manipulated the elections in the United States, but to date there hasn’t really been a smoking gun. I was working on a story that the Solntsevskaya organisation was the conduit and that Markov was using one of his companies to fund it. I was hoping that the fact that Koshkin had fallen out with Markov would mean that he might help me.’ He shrugged. ‘I was wrong.’
‘Wrong that he was involved, or wrong that you thought he’d talk to you?’
The journalist forced a smile. ‘The latter. In fact he tried to bribe me to not write the story. He was clever about it, though. Said he’d pay me to write the story exclusively for him. He’d pay for world rights.’
Standing frowned. ‘Does he own a newspaper?’
‘No, that was the point. He was offering to pay me so that the story wouldn’t get published anywhere.’
‘Which suggests that he was involved, obviously.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Vasilyev. ‘He denied that he had anything to do with election-rigging but said that any bad publicity for Markov would reflect badly on him. I think he was scared of Markov. After what happened, it looks like he had good reason.’
‘So why are you still alive?’ asked Standing.
The Russian’s face creased into a frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If Koshkin was killed to keep the Russian involvement in the US elections under wraps, wouldn’t they want you silenced as well? Why just kill Koshkin and leave you alive?’
Vasilyev shrugged. ‘Without Koshkin, I really don’t have a story. Just the same rumour and speculation that everyone else has.’
Standing sat back and stared thoughtfully at the journalist. ‘So was it Markov who wanted Koshkin dead, or the mafia, or the Kremlin? Or all three?’
‘You’re asking a question I can’t answer,’ said Vasilyev.
‘Someone told me that if it was the Kremlin they would have used something like a nerve agent or a radioactive substance, something that let the world know it was them.’
The journalist nodded. ‘Putin does like his enemies to know that he can reach them whenever he wants to.’ He reached for his cup. The door opened and two men walked in. The hairs on the back of Standing’s neck stood up as he looked over at the door. Both men were wearing dark glasses and were looking in his direction. One stood by the door, his right hand up across his stomach. His dark-green bomber jacket was open. He had a black wool hat on, pulled low so that it covered most of his head.
Vasilyev s
aw Standing’s eyes narrow and he began to turn to see what he was looking at.
The man nearest to their table already had his hand inside his jacket. He had on a baseball cap and his cheeks were pockmarked with old acne scars. He had a moustache that looked as if it had been glued on and was wearing a light-brown leather jacket and beige cargo pants. And gloves. It was a warm day and if Standing needed any proof that the men weren’t there for the coffee, the gloves were all he needed.
Standing twisted to his right and grabbed the walking-stick that was leaning against the chair next to him. The owner of the stick opened his mouth to protest but Standing was already getting to his feet.
The gloved hand was emerging from the leather jacket now, gripping the butt of a semi-automatic. It was a Glock, a 36, one of the smallest and lightest guns around. It weighed just twenty-seven ounces and was just seven inches long, making it the perfect concealed weapon. Its small size meant that it held only six .45 ACP rounds. It looked like a toy in the man’s hand, but Standing knew that it packed a punch that outweighed its size. It also had a silencer screwed into its barrel.
Standing raised the stick and smacked it against Baseball Cap’s elbow. There was a satisfying splintering sound and the man grunted in pain.
The other man was reaching inside his bomber jacket. Vasilyev had his hands up in front of his face, an instinctive reaction that would do nothing to help him.
Standing pulled back the walking-stick and stabbed it into Baseball Cap’s chest, just below the sternum. The gun fell from his hand and clattered on the floor as the man staggered back and fell against a table, spilling the coffees of two young mothers.
Customers were screaming now and several were ducking down under their tables.
Bomber Jacket had his gun out now. It was another Glock, a 22 Gen4, an inch longer, seven ounces heavier and with fifteen .40 calibre rounds in the magazine. Bomber Jacket was also wearing gloves and his finger was tightening on the trigger.
Standing threw the walking-stick and it spun through the air. Bomber Jacket moved to the side but the stick still caught him on the shoulder before it smashed against the window.
Baseball Cap regained his balance and staggered forward, bellowing with rage. He bent down, groping for his weapon with his left hand.
Standing stepped around the table. One of the baristas dropped down behind the counter, the other stood transfixed, her eyes and mouth open in horror. Most of the customers were screaming, but Standing was barely aware of the noise.
Baseball Cap had his left hand on the butt of his gun.
Standing pushed Vasilyev off his chair, getting him out of the line of fire.
Bomber Jacket was still bringing his gun to bear on Standing. Standing was definitely the target, not the journalist, but then they were professionals and would probably be reacting to the only threat.
Baseball Cap had grabbed the gun but he’d had to bend double and it was an effort for him to straighten up. Standing took two quick steps and seized the gun with both hands. He twisted the man around so that he was facing the door. Baseball Cap resisted but Standing jabbed his elbow into his throat, hard. He slipped a finger over the trigger and aimed at Bomber Jacket’s chest. He fired two shots and both hit the man dead centre. The silencer dampened the sound to a dull pop. Bomber Jacket slumped to the ground.
Baseball Cap tried to head-butt Standing and caught him a glancing blow on the temple. Standing twisted the gun around, jammed the silencer under his chin and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains and bits of skull plastered across the ceiling and the man fell to the ground in an untidy heap.
Standing looked down at Vasilyev, who had scuttled to the side of the room and was sitting with his back to the wall. He was shaking and there was a blank look in his eyes. Standing knew he had only seconds to decide what to do next. If he stayed, then the police would take him in for questioning and while he was absolutely sure that everyone in the coffee shop would confirm that it was self-defence, he would still have a lot of explaining to do and the Regiment wouldn’t be happy.
He nodded at the Russian, then put a finger up to his lips. The Russian nodded back. ‘Not a word,’ said Standing and Vasilyev nodded again. Standing tucked the gun into the back of his trousers and walked quickly to the door, keeping his head down. He stepped over the body by the window, pulled the door open and walked out into the street.
The sound of the silenced shots hadn’t been heard over the noise of the traffic. It was a busy road and a major bus route and there was construction work going on in a building opposite. Standing kept his head down as he walked to the first intersection and took a right, then a left. In the distance he heard a siren, then another.
He was breathing slowly and evenly and he walked at a steady pace. His heart was beating at its normal rate and his mind was clear. He took another right and then flagged down a black cab. He had it take him to The Strand and he got out close to Charing Cross Station where he caught another cab back to his hotel.
17
Standing sat on his bed and popped the tab on a can of lager. He kicked off his shoes and sat with his back to the headboard as he sipped his drink. The gun was on the bed next to him, not for protection but because he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He used the remote to turn on the television and flicked through the channels until he got to Sky News. He wanted to phone Kaitlyn to check that she was okay and was trying to work out what time it was in Los Angeles when his phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call. It was Spider Shepherd. ‘What’s going on, mate?’ asked Shepherd calmly.
Standing didn’t bother pretending not to know what Shepherd was talking about. The man was a professional and deserved Standing’s respect, plus he was an SAS living legend who wouldn’t take kindly to being lied to. ‘They came after me,’ said Standing. ‘I was having coffee with Anton Vasilyev and they burst in with guns.’
‘Were they after you or Vasilyev?’
‘They were going for me, but I was on my feet so I was the obvious one to hit first. There were two of them and they both had guns with silencers, so it was clearly a hit.’
‘You took one of the guns?’
‘It had my prints and DNA on it; I could hardly leave it behind. How much trouble am I in, Spider?’
Shepherd chuckled dryly. ‘Surprisingly little, at the moment,’ he said. ‘There were two dozen witnesses in the coffee shop and two dozen different descriptions. They can’t even agree on what jacket you were wearing and one had you down as a ginger.’
‘They were in shock, and shock does things to your memory,’ said Standing.
‘Sure. But they’re all in agreement that they came in and started waving guns and that you saved the day. There was no CCTV in the shop and the cameras in the street had nothing useful.’
‘What about Vasilyev?’
‘He’s saying nothing. He told police you were a contact who’d called him up with a story but that you didn’t identify yourself. He said he agreed to meet you in the coffee shop. He told the cops he didn’t have your mobile number but you need to dump your SIM card ASAP and get rid of the phone.’
‘Is it going to be on the TV or in the papers?’
‘Maybe. But other than the fact that a mystery man took out two men with guns, they don’t have much in the way of facts. The cops have no idea what was going on.’
‘Do they realise that Vasilyev and I were the targets?’
‘Not yet, but at the very least Matty Stogdale is going to figure it out. I’ll call him and keep him on track, but at some point they’re going to realise that it was Vasilyev they were after. It has to be, right? No one knows you’re in London.’
‘Who were they?’ Standing asked.
‘Professionals,’ said Shepherd. ‘They had no ID on them, the gun you left behind was unregistered and their mobiles were throwaways with pay-as-you-go SIMs. Fingerprints have come back not known and they’ve sent DNA samples off but I’m going to assume they’re not
on file either.’
‘So we don’t even know if they’re Russians or Americans?’
‘Or homegrown hitmen,’ said Shepherd. ‘No, they’re blank slates.’
‘Did they have a car outside?’
‘Neither of them had car keys on them, so the cops are assuming they had a vehicle waiting for them outside with a driver. Look, we need to meet, Matt.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Standing. ‘Where and when?’
‘Hyde Park Corner, opposite the Hard Rock Cafe,’ said Shepherd. ‘In two hours’ time.’
‘Fancy a burger, do you?’
‘Just be there, Matt.’
‘You wouldn’t be trying to set me up, would you, Spider?’
‘If I was, I’d have done that already,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is as much about protecting the Regiment as it is about helping you.’
‘Good to know.’
‘I’m serious, Matt. I’m not sure what you’ve got yourself involved in, but I want you out of it as quickly as possible. I’ll see you in two hours. And ditch that gun. You do not want to be caught with that in your possession.’
Shepherd ended the call. Almost immediately Standing’s phone buzzed to let him know that a text message had arrived. It was from John Keenan in LA. It was an address in St John’s Wood.
18
Standing got to the Hard Rock Cafe ten minutes before he was due to meet Shepherd. He’d dumped the throwaway phone in a skip after removing the SIM card, breaking it in half and flushing it down the toilet. He had broken the gun down into its component parts but had left them under the mattress in his room. He’d need to take more care of disposing of the pieces and the silencer. He spotted Shepherd on the other side of the road, clearly watching to see if Standing was being followed. Standing walked past the restaurant, then turned and doubled back. He looked over at Shepherd and Shepherd motioned for him to cross the road. Standing jogged over.
Last Man Standing Page 14
