Last Man Standing

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd was wearing a black raincoat over a dark-blue suit. His hands were in his coat pockets and he didn’t offer to shake hands. ‘So no burger then?’ asked Standing.

  Shepherd gestured at an open-topped tour bus. His right hand appeared from his coat pocket holding two tickets and he gave one to Standing. ‘I’m not a tourist,’ said Standing.

  ‘No, but everyone else on the bus will be and they’ll be listening to the commentary on earphones,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Clever,’ said Standing, following him onto the bus.

  ‘I do my best,’ said Shepherd.

  They showed their tickets to the driver. Most of the sightseers had gone upstairs but Shepherd went straight to the rear of the bus and sat down. Standing sat next to him. Other than the driver, they were the only people downstairs.

  The doors hissed closed and the bus pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Okay, so Matty Stogdale is up to speed,’ said Shepherd, getting straight to the point. ‘He’s not happy, obviously.’

  ‘He doesn’t blame me, does he?’

  ‘It’s not about blame. It’s about having an off-the-record chat with you only to have you go off and shoot two men in broad daylight.’

  ‘In self-defence.’

  ‘Of course it was self-defence. That’s not the point. The point is that the police are trying to find out who you are, and he knows. So by not providing the investigating officers with that information he’s being derelict in his duty.’ Shepherd sighed. ‘He’s onside, there’s no need to worry on that score. He’s spoken to the investigating officers, who were already coming around to the idea that Vasilyev was the intended target. But Vasilyev is sticking to his story that you were just someone who had information for him and that he doesn’t even have your name. Matty is going around to see him as we speak to make sure that he doesn’t deviate from that line.’

  ‘You realise they were probably after me, too?’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘I’m not a virgin at this,’ he said. ‘Of course it was you they were after. If it was Vasilyev they’d have taken him out at the same time as they killed Koshkin. They only sent in the killers when you arranged to meet Vasilyev. But there’s no need for anyone else to know.’

  ‘What’s going on, Spider? Why was Koshkin killed? And why are they making such an effort to make it look as if Bobby-Ray did it?’

  ‘Matty told you about Koshkin’s business partner?’

  ‘Erik Markov?’

  Standing nodded. ‘Sure. And Vasilyev seemed to think that either Markov, the Russian mafia or the Kremlin wanted Koshkin dead. Or a combination of all three.’

  ‘I’ve been checking the files since we last spoke, and I agree that Markov is a likely suspect,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his coat and took out a manila envelope. ‘I’ve got some details here.’

  He passed the envelope to Standing. Standing opened it. There were two photographs – one a head-and-shoulders shot and the other of a middle-aged bald man climbing out of the back of a Mercedes – and two typewritten sheets.

  ‘Markov is definitely in bed with the Solntsevskaya. There are photographs of Markov meeting with Solntsevskaya godfathers in London, Moscow and New York. They’re not for public consumption, obviously. But I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Is it something you’d take an interest in?’

  ‘MI5, you mean? Markov is on our radar, obviously. But he pays taxes here and is a major donor to Labour and the Conservatives and is close friends with the usual suspects in the House of Lords.’

  ‘But you think he had Koshkin killed?’

  ‘Thinking and being able to prove are different things,’ said Shepherd. ‘And with Markov’s connections, no one is going to go off half cock. There’s no evidence at all linking him to the attack in the UK, and the cops in LA seem sure that your pal Bobby-Ray did the dirty deed.’

  Standing’s eyes flicked over the first typewritten sheet. Markov’s full name in English and Russian, date of birth, passport details, a brief CV and a list of addresses.

  ‘You’ll be interested to know that two days after Koshkin left for LA, Markov flew out to New York on his private jet. He was on the ground for just six hours before flying on to LA, which is where he is now. He’s taken a full floor of the Four Seasons.’

  Standing looked up from the sheet. ‘That can’t be a coincidence, surely?’

  ‘That he was in town when Koshkin was killed? Who knows? Coincidences happen. But coincidence or not, you’re going to have to be careful.’

  ‘I always am.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Shepherd. ‘How much do you know about the Solntsevskaya?’

  ‘Russian mafia.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘But they’re not just a gang of thugs. They’re a sophisticated, well-organised, well-connected criminal organisation. They’re the most powerful crime syndicate in Russia, bar none.’

  ‘Okay …’ said Standing. He looked at the second sheet of paper. It was a list of Russian names and addresses. He frowned, wondering what they were.

  Shepherd tapped the paper. ‘I thought it might be helpful if you had those. It’s the main Solntsevskaya players in the US.’

  There were a dozen names on this list, mainly in New York.

  ‘The organisation was set up in the late Eighties by a former waiter turned fraudster,’ said Shepherd. ‘Within ten years the gang was big enough to challenge the Chechen mafia and shortly afterwards they expanded into the east coast of America. They moved into banking and started laundering money for the oligarchs. Then they set up in Israel and now they do a lot of laundering through Israeli banks. In the last ten years they’ve expanded their drugs operations by linking up with the Colombians. Drugs, arms, extortion, people trafficking, there’s nothing they won’t do to make a profit. And there’s nothing they won’t do to keep their operations secret.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Standing.

  ‘What I’m saying is, if they did kill Koshkin and they think you might be on to them, they’ll come down on you hard.’

  ‘You think they were the ones who attacked me today?’

  ‘It’s possible. Just watch yourself, Matt. Especially when you get back to the States.’

  ‘What are you doing to stop them?’

  ‘Me personally?’

  Standing chuckled. ‘Your guys. MI5.’

  ‘There’s a section within Five devoted to the Russian mafia, and they do what they can. But the Solntsevskaya is a tight group, you almost never get an informer or a man on the inside. If they get caught they don’t deal, they just serve their sentence. The only time anyone has ever turned informant, they’ve been dead within the year, usually tortured along with their families and friends. They’re a vicious bunch.’

  ‘And what about this Markov?’ He held up the photographs. ‘Are you after him?’

  ‘Markov isn’t the sort to get his hands dirty.’

  ‘Plus he has friends in high places?’

  Shepherd grimaced. ‘It’s the way of the world,’ he said. ‘We don’t put people in jail without evidence and a trial. That’s why so many of the oligarchs choose to live here, it’s a safe place for them.’

  ‘Even when they’re gangsters. That sucks.’

  ‘If the cops get evidence they make a case. But guys like Markov, as I said, they never get their hands dirty.’

  ‘And anyone who grasses on them gets killed?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Standing held up the papers and photographs. ‘Can I keep these?’

  ‘Sure. But for your eyes only.’

  Standing put the papers back into the envelope and slid the envelope into his jacket pocket.

  ‘So what’s your plan now?’ asked Shepherd.

  Standing shrugged. ‘I’ll head back to the States and see if I can track down Bobby-Ray.’

  ‘Are you going to confront Markov?’

  Standing tilted his head on one side. ‘Do you want me to?’

  Sheph
erd smiled but his eyes stayed hard. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if you planned to have me go in as some sort of cat among the pigeons.’ He held up the list. ‘And you’ve even given me the names and addresses of said pigeons.’

  ‘Hawks would be a better analogy than pigeons,’ said Shepherd. ‘But Markov isn’t a target of ours. Whether or not he should be is a different matter, but there’s no way my bosses would approve an operation targeting him and I certainly wouldn’t be launching an operation off my own bat. I understand what you’re doing, and I’ve always been a supporter of the underdog. If I can help you and Bobby-Ray with intel and guidance then I will, but that’s the limit of my involvement. If you do find that Markov is behind Koshkin’s death, then what happens then is your call.’

  ‘Message received and understood,’ said Standing.

  ‘At the risk of repeating myself, be careful,’ said Shepherd. ‘And if it does turn to shit, make sure you keep my name out of it.’ The tour bus came to a halt and the doors hissed open. Tourists came clattering down the stairs and out onto the street. ‘I’ll leave you here,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and clapped Standing on the shoulder. He reached into his pocket and gave him a SIM card. ‘If you need to talk to me again, use this.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Standing. He put the SIM card into his wallet as Shepherd got off the bus and walked away without a backward look.

  Standing sat back in his seat and folded his arms as the doors closed and the bus resumed its journey. Spider Shepherd was one of the good guys, but he couldn’t help but wonder why the MI5 officer was so eager to help. Was it because he had an affinity for the underdog as he’d said, or was there an ulterior motive at work? Not that it mattered. All that Standing cared about was getting back to LA and saving Bobby-Ray. But first there was someone he needed to talk to.

  19

  Standing stayed on the bus for another ten minutes, then got off and went back to his hotel, taking a circuitous route to check that he wasn’t being followed. He waited until he was back in his room before calling Kaitlyn on FaceTime. It took her a while to answer. When she did, he could see that her room was in darkness and he realised that it was still the early hours in Los Angeles. He held the phone so that she could see his face and spoke clearly. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I can never get the hang of the time difference with LA.’

  She smiled sleepily. ‘That’s okay, I had to wake up to answer the phone.’ She laughed at her own joke and sat up blinking, her hair tousled. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘All good,’ said Standing. ‘Hang on, if you’re asleep, how do you know the phone is ringing?’

  ‘It’s in the bed with me, and I set it to vibrate,’ she said. Then she laughed. ‘That didn’t quite come out the way I meant it to.’

  Standing grinned. ‘Have you heard from Bobby-Ray?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m flying back today or tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll text you with my flight once I’ve got my ticket.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at the airport,’ she said.

  ‘I can get a cab,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll be there.’

  He ended the call, pulled out the bits of the gun and silencer from under the mattress, then walked to the Thames. The Golden Jubilee Footbridges had been built either side of the Hungerford railway bridge that carried trains from the South Bank to Charing Cross Station. The bridges were popular with tourists but Standing was able to find a quiet spot near the middle where he dropped the gun parts into the water far below.

  He crossed over to the north side of the river and there he caught a black cab to St John’s Wood. He had it drop him around the corner from where Lipov lived. It was an apartment in a white-painted three-floored conversion. He pressed the bell for Nikolai’s apartment and a few seconds later a Russian accent growled, ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

  ‘Mr Lipov? This is the police. I need a word with you.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m investigating the attack on your former employer.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But we still have some loose ends to tie up. Look, I’d rather talk to you in person, Mr Lipov,’ said Standing. ‘It won’t take too long. Or if you’d rather, we could go down to the station.’ The door lock buzzed and Standing pushed open the door. Lipov’s flat was on the second floor and the door was already open when Standing reached it. Standing took out his Military Identification Card and flashed it just long enough so that Lipov could see the photograph. He hoped that his English wouldn’t be up to realising that it wasn’t a police warrant card.

  The Russian barely glanced at the ID. ‘What do you want?’ he said. He was big, an inch or two over six feet, and like most Russian bodyguards that Standing had come across, he had a weightlifter’s build, with massive forearms and a thick neck. His head was pretty much square with slab-like teeth and a chin that looked like it would shrug off most punches. He was wearing a Lonsdale sweatshirt and jogging pants and had a large black G-Shock watch on his left wrist.

  ‘I need to talk to you about what happened in Los Angeles,’ said Standing.

  The Russian frowned. ‘I already spoke to the American cops.’

  Standing smiled and nodded. ‘Absolutely you did, but there was an attack on Mr Koshkin in London and that case is still open.’

  ‘He’s dead. Why do you care what happened in London?’

  ‘Because the case is still open,’ said Standing. ‘Can we do this inside, Mr Lipov, I need to take notes and it’s hard to do that while I’m standing up.’

  For several seconds it looked as if the Russian wanted to slam the door in Standing’s face but eventually he stepped aside to let him in. The door opened into a large high-ceilinged sitting room with a big TV on one wall and two windows overlooking the street. A door led off to a small kitchen and another opened into the bedroom. There didn’t appear to be anything of a personal nature in the room other than a small MacBook laptop on a dining table by one of the windows.

  There were two grey sofas set at a right angle around a glass-topped coffee table. Standing sat down on one. Lipov dropped down onto the other sofa and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He stared at Standing aggressively with pale-blue unblinking eyes. It was the typical bodyguard’s stare and with most people it would have worked, but Standing wasn’t most people and he smiled amiably. ‘So, when Mr Koshkin was poisoned, where were you?’

  ‘In the car outside. He wanted to have the meeting in private.’

  ‘Was that usual?’

  Lipov frowned, clearly not understanding the question.

  ‘Did he usually have meetings in private, or were you always there?’

  ‘Fifty fifty,’ he said.

  ‘And who was with you in the car?’

  ‘Max and Boris.’

  ‘The men who died with Mr Koshkin in Los Angeles?’

  Lipov nodded.

  ‘They were your friends?’

  Lipov shrugged. ‘We worked together.’

  ‘You joined the team after them, right?’

  Lipov stared at Standing for several seconds. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I’ve interviewed Mrs Koshkin,’ said Standing.

  Lipov nodded slowly as he continued to stare at Standing.

  ‘So, you were a recent addition to Mr Koshkin’s security team?’ asked Standing.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he took you with him to Los Angeles?’

  ‘He took the three of us. And then he hired more security there.’

  ‘Including the man who went on to kill Mr Koshkin?’

  Lipov nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must have been quite something,’ said Standing. ‘Having a member of your team go rogue like that?’

  Lipov shrugged. ‘Shit happens.’

  ‘You would have thought that Mr Koshkin would have taken more care over who he hired,’ sa
id Standing. ‘I mean, how does that happen? How does a man as smart as Mr Koshkin manage to hire a man who then kills him? And kills the other bodyguards?’

  Lipov shrugged again but didn’t answer.

  ‘What was his name? The bodyguard who went rogue? Bobby-Joe?’

  ‘Bobby-Ray. Bobby-Ray Barnes.’

  ‘That’s right. He was some sort of special forces soldier, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Navy SEAL.’

  Standing nodded. ‘I hear they’re tough, the SEALs.’

  Lipov sneered and sat back. ‘They’re not so tough,’ he said. ‘The Spetsnaz, they are tougher.’

  ‘Spetsnaz? What’s that?’ asked Standing, pretending to be ignorant of the Russian special forces term. In fact, Standing knew that Spetsnaz was a catch-all term for many special forces units in the former Soviet Union, including the Army, Navy and National Guard, plus various government departments.

  ‘They are the Russian special forces,’ said Lipov. ‘Better than the Navy SEALs, better than the SAS, better than anybody.’ He folded his massive arms. ‘Best in the world.’

  ‘Were you in the Spetsnaz?’

  Lipov nodded. ‘Five years.’

  ‘Did you see any action?’

  ‘Of course. Why not?’

  Standing was pretty sure that Lipov was lying. Big muscles were okay for a bodyguard, but bulk was a hindrance when it came to combat. Virtually every SAS trooper Standing had ever served with had been below average height and whippet-thin. They tended to put on weight after they left the Regiment, but while serving they were usually as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ asked Standing.

  Standing was sure the Russian was lying by the way he shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. ‘The Ukraine,’ he said. ‘And the Caucasus. Why are you so interested in what I did?’

  Standing smiled and waved away the question. ‘Just background,’ he said.

  Lipov’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said you would take notes.’

  ‘I will, when I hear something I need to write down,’ said Standing.

  ‘Background is a waste of time,’ said Lipov. ‘Koshkin is dead.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Standing. ‘There’s no doubt about that. Did you actually see Bobby-Ray shoot Mr Koshkin?’