by A. R. Zander
- Chapter 13 -
Garrett
Harper adjusted his sitting position as a dull pain throbbed in his hip. He was alone in the park apart from the dancers. Couples in their seventies and eighties glided around an open-air dance floor as the tinny sound of Soviet music flowed out of rusted speakers. One middle-aged woman danced around solo with a phantom partner, smiling at her beau as convincingly as anyone else. A sudden burst of feedback from the sound system triggered a pulse of anxiety in Harper and he felt his senses heighten. He rolled his shoulders back and scratched at his neck as the noise subsided. The man from the attic emerged at the far side of the dance floor, weaving his way through the couples and briefly swinging the partnerless lady round before heading in Harper’s direction.
“They’re here every week you know,” he said, plonking himself down next to Harper. “It’s amazing. It’s like going back in time. Do you fancy a dance?”
“Not right at this minute,” said Harper. “I hurt my hip when I fell over.”
“Oh, sorry about that. Probably my fault.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. There’s enough cheap vodka in this part of the world to numb the pain,” said Harper, taking a slug of his hip flask and passing it on.
“That’s the good stuff,” said the man.
“Yeah, why not. The good stuff is nearly as cheap as the bad stuff.”
“You’re right there mate. You’re right there.”
Harper sniffed a little and the cold froze the hairs on the inside of his nose. “So I presume you’re a journalist?”
“I prefer reporter,” said the man. “It’s only the Yanks that tend to call themselves journalists. Sounds a bit too high-minded to my ear.”
“So you weren’t searching for truth and justice in Katusev’s attic then?” said Harper, turning his head towards the man.
“I was stealing documents actually. Same as you I presume?”
Harper said nothing and watched the dancers. Some small children joined their grandparents on the dance floor. A boy of around five dressed in a waistcoat and bow tie approached a small girl and bowed deeply before extending his hand towards her. Once she had curtsied and accepted, they walked to the centre of the floor and began to waltz.
“You wanna walk round the military museum,” said Harper. “It should be nice and quiet this time of day.”
“Sure,” said the man, standing up. “Why not.”
They walked out of the park and towards the pillars of the Central Armed Forces Museum. Harper gave a couple of banknotes to the old lady on the front desk and they entered the grand reception hall. A mound of captured Nazi banners were stacked in a big pile straight ahead and a MiG 29 hung menacingly from the ceiling. The two men walked through the building out into the paved outdoor section. They passed a line of missile launchers and fighter jets and found a secluded spot behind a huge transport helicopter.
“You never told me your name,” said Harper, sitting on the chopper’s steps.
“Danny Garrett.”
“Danny Garrett. So, what do you want from me Danny Garrett?”
“I’m not sure yet. Seems neither of us wanted to bump into anyone in that attic. But then again, it was probably lucky we bumped into each other rather than someone else. If you know what I mean.”
“I’ll agree with you on that one.”
“So what do you do?” said Garrett. “Journo? Corporate investigations? MI6? Nothing would surprise me out here to be honest.”
“Garrett, I’m only here because I’d prefer if you didn’t tell anyone you caught me snooping around in Katusev’s study.”
“You don’t have to worry about me telling anyone. But it seems to me we’re after the same information. I could be a useful friend for you.”
Harper took another slug from the flask. “And what if I just walk away now? What happens then?”
“Nothing happens. I’m not here to blackmail you. But I think you’d be stupid to do that. I’m working the Cavendish killings for my paper. If you’re interested in the case, we could help each other out. But I’d prefer it if I knew who you were.”
Harper stood up and looked across the yard for any sign of company, but there was no one else around. “I don’t normally trust people I don’t have to,” he said, “but I’d prefer we have a relationship than risk you asking around about me elsewhere.”
“Okay,” said Garrett. “So who are you?”
“I’m a private investigator putting together a profile on Katusev.”
“You’re a PI? That’s a new one.”
“Well, not many of us would take this sort of kamikaze job on, but I needed the money.”
The tinny Soviet music crept over the fence from the park. Garrett turned and paced towards the fence and back, trying to organise his thoughts. “Look, I understand you’re putting a lot of trust in me by telling me that. I want you to know I won’t betray that trust.”
“Well, I hope you won’t. My gut tells me I can trust you and I normally go with my gut. But remember, you were sneaking around in that study too. I reckon we have a mutual interest in keeping that quiet, you know what I’m saying?”
“Of course.”
“So, now everything is out on the table, how about you tell me what you know about Cavendish? I hope I haven’t just blown my cover for nothing.”
This time Garrett checked the yard. They were still alone. “Okay, well, let’s take it from the beginning. Cavendish and Katusev were working together on some secretive project. Word is it was some sophisticated algorithm to make money on the stock markets. Big, big money. Anyway, from what I heard the Kremlin muscled in on the project a few months back, threatened to destroy Katusev if he didn’t oblige.”
“That chimes with what we’ve heard,” said Harper. “Anything else?”
“You heard about the missing researcher?”
“Seva Vitsin.”
“That’s him. He was the main brain. Bit of an eccentric apparently. Didn’t like to keep notes or anything like that. That’s why when he disappeared they were so screwed. They have very little left without him.”
“Do you know where Vitsin might be?”
“That’s why I was in the study,” said Garrett. “I was hoping to find out.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I don’t know where he is, but I do know where he’s from. He was born in Kazakhstan. He’s ethnic Russian, but he grew up in Almaty.”
“Almaty huh? You speak Kazakh?”
Garrett laughed. “I barely speak Russian. So you think Vitsin disappeared back to Kazakhstan?”
“I know Katusev thinks he’s there.”
“How’s do you know that?”
Harper pulled the USB stick from his pocket. “I found this in the study before you arrived. Katusev hired some ex-KGB sleuth to go out there and look for him. This report is what he came back with.”
“And what’s on there?”
“Nothing. He talked to Vitsin’s family and friends. They all drew a blank. They might be lying, but it sounds like they don’t know where he is.”
“Might be worth looking for ourselves? You fancy a little holiday?”
“That’s a bit forward, we only just met.”
“I’m a reporter, it’s my job to be forward.”
“Is that right.”
Garrett checked his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to meet a mate to watch the football. Here’s my number. Have a think about Almaty.”
“I will,” said Harper. “Who’s your team?”
“Arsenal.”
“Jesus, hard luck on that one.”
“And you?”
Harper pulled up his sleeve and showed Garrett his Tottenham tattoo.
Garrett laughed. “Now that is a huge disappointment.”
“I’ve got nothing against Arsenal,” said Harper. “They’re the best team in South London.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah blah fucking Spurs fans. You lot need to get over it.”
They walked back through the museum and out onto the main road. The temperature had dipped and Harper pulled his scarf tighter and tucked it in his coat.“So until next time,” said Garrett, taking his mobile from his pocket and checking his messages.
“Next time,” said Harper.
Garrett suddenly looked paler as he stared at his phone. “I don’t believe it,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
“What?” said Harper. “Have they lost already?”
“He’s dead.”
“Who?”
“Andre Katusev.”
- Chapter 14 -
Inside Job
“I just don’t understand how you get past a small army of Foreign Legion mercenaries,” said Russell, as he drove back up the road towards Stanmore Hall.
“Looks like they’ve got half the Kent force up there,” said Cohen.
“Let’s face it, no one would want to miss this.”
An officer in plain clothes waved them round the side of the house as they approached. “I’m DC Burrows,” he said, as they both got out of the car and flashed their badges. “You’re from the Met right?”
“Yeah, we interviewed the guy a couple of times on a connected homicide. We don’t want to get in your way, but it would help if we can have a look around.”
“Be my guest. Its sounds like you’ve got more of a steer on what’s going on with this guy anyway. We don’t get too many dead Russian oligarchs in this part of the world.”
“You know you’ve got a reporter running around with a long lens in those woods?” said Cohen.
Burrows looked off towards the trees. “What? Shit. Jonno! Si! There’s some fucking reporter in the woods, get down there and get his camera off him.” The two uniformed officers jumped into their car and screeched down the path towards the trees. Cohen and Russell watched the car disappear from view and headed up towards the front door. There were two white tents on the grass in front of the house and the top of a third was just visible on the roof. A larger tent covered the lobby area. Forensics walked in and out, busily filing evidence and shipping it to the vans outside. Cohen pulled back the white flap and saw three legionnaires side-by-side on the floor, all dead, all with a single bullet in the forehead.
“Where’s Katusev,” Cohen asked one of the forensics kneeling down next to the bodies.
“He’s in his gym. Just go down those stairs over there.”
Russell followed Cohen over to a side door and walked down into Katusev’s gymnasium. Another Legionnaire was slumped over a running machine, part of his skull blown off and his eyes still open. A detective beckoned them over to the far corner where more forensics and several uniforms were gathered. Cohen could see Katusev’s cream loafers as he approached, spots of blood staining the material.
“I’m DS Cohen. This is DC Russell. We can do a preliminary ID for you if you want.”
“Please do.”
The group parted to let them get a clearer view of Katusev. His barbell was pinning him to the exercise bench by his neck. His hands were clamped around the metal and he looked like he was still straining to push the weight upwards. A bullet entrance wound sat in the middle of his forehead.
“That’s him,” said Cohen.
“Where’s the eighth bodyguard?” said Russell. “He had a team of eight people guarding him.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said the detective. “You better have a look at this.” The three men walked back up the stairs and into a small room packed with monitors near the back of the house. “You might have noticed the amount of cameras in this place. It’s a bit of an open and shut case really.” The detective pulled up several sharp colour images of the different parts of the property and skipped the tape back to several hours previous. “Give it a few minutes.”
They watched the monitors. The guards sauntered around, looking a little disinterested. Katusev was lifting weights with the guard from the running machine spotting him.
The detective tapped his finger on one of the screens. “This guy, watch.”
They all leant into the screen as a Legionnaire emerged from one of the bedrooms and screwed a silencer onto the end of a pistol. He went to the roof, smiling at his colleague before gunning him down in cold blood. He sneaked back down to the stairway overlooking the lobby and waited for three more of his team to convene just inside the front door. Again, he struck up a conversation before slotting a bullet into each of their heads.
“Did you see his gun jam?” said Russell. “One guy looked like he got a shot off, but nothing happened. He must have tampered with their weapons.”
They watched as the black figure headed outside and continued his killing spree before turning his attention to the gym. The monitor in the bottom left corner showed Katusev wiping his head with a towel before laying back down. As the spotter gave him the bar, the man who had just killed six of his colleagues walked casually into the gym and shouted some encouragement towards Katusev before opening up on the last Legionnaire. The mercenary was hit in the throat and staggered towards the running machine, blood spurting from his neck. Finally, Katusev tried to push the bar back onto its rack, but lost control and squirmed as the metal slammed down on top of him. The killer stood over him, watching as he struggled, and then executed him.
“Cold bastard,” said Russell.
“Have you got any idea where this guy went?” said Cohen.
The detective rolled on the tape a little bit more. The black figure emerged from a shed at the back of the house on a motorbike and drove off towards the woods.
“We need to start tracking him,” said Cohen. “It’s probably a good idea to see if there are any cameras in the nearby villages that might help.”
Cohen and Russell walked back outside and toward their car. The uniforms drove back out of the woods and approached the house. Cohen could see the photographer in the back seat, looking a bit edgy as they pulled up onto the gravel.
“No story for you today then mate,” said Russell, as they pulled him out of the vehicle. The photographer said nothing, instead leaning on the squad car and vomiting onto the floor.
“Jesus,” said Russell. “Is he nervous about getting banged up?”
“He’s had a bit of a shock,” said one of the uniforms, handing the photographer a can of Diet Coke from the front seat. “He’s just stumbled across a corpse in the woods. It was the gunman.”
- Chapter 15 -
Kramer’s
Dupont Circle’s morning rush was coming to an end as Alpha crossed the road from Massachusetts Avenue and sat down facing the fountain. A few hungover interns scurried through, dressed beyond their years and carrying the ubiquitous Starbucks. A small but enthusiastic group of Tibetans waved a Chinese flag with a cross through the middle and handed out leaflets to passersby. Alpha averted his eyes as a black man with a grey beard wandered from person-to-person, thrusting a paper cup in front of them and asking for change. The man collected seven refusals before he moved on to try his luck downtown.
Washington had changed since the time he called it home. It was more crowded now. There was more government in this town. And more government meant more lobbyists, more lawyers, more reporters, and more entertainment. The role of MI6 liaison had seen some changes too. Relations were more cordial these days. Back then, the stench of Philby still hung around the corridors of Langley, polluting the atmosphere for anyone that followed in his footsteps.
He felt a firm hand squeeze his shoulder and remembered Lonaghan’s habit of never approaching people from the front. “Glad you could make it.” The CIA man’s familiar Boston drawl had faded, but was still detectable. “I’m sorry to drag you all the way out here John. But the higher-ups insisted we have a face-to-face.”
“You know Patricia would never forgive me if I passed on an opportunity for her to go shopping in Georgetown,” said Alpha, standing up and turning to face the man behind him. “Besides, I always like the opportunity to come over here and sni
ff the air. You never know what you might smell.”
“Very wise my friend, very wise.” Lonaghan walked round the bench and shook Alpha’s hand. “How are you John?”
“I’d be better if we had what we needed.”
“We all would John. Look, let’s walk.”
Alpha followed Tom Lonaghan out of the Circle and they headed up the hill on Connecticut Avenue. Lonaghan dressed in a style that only worked in DC. His raincoat covered a well-fitted grey pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a red cravat. His wide-brimmed hat sat nonchalantly on top of his head, drawing attention away from his face. They walked silently past the rows of bars and crossed Florida. The Washington Hilton loomed up on the right hand side. Presidents probably still keep one eye on the crowds there, he thought. Even long after Reagan. They carried on past Kalorama’s grand stone buildings, a haven for embittered wasps and high earners with a taste for city living. The area was a testament to DC grace. Lonaghan fit the scene.
“This part of the city always makes me feel less claustrophobic,” he said, as they emerged onto the bridge over Rock Creek. “I always try to find a reason to walk over here. Even if it’s out of my way.”
Alpha stayed silent, leaning on the faded green railing and looking out over the trees. A helicopter buzzed through the sky in the distance and a steady stream of traffic swept across the bridge behind them.
“The bosses are getting impatient John,” said Lonaghan, removing his hat for a second to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Alpha stared straight ahead. “I need a bit more time.”
“You convinced me to let you run with this. You know I’ll always back you, but it’s starting to make me look bad. I won’t be able to hold the dogs off for much longer. Langley wants Vitsin found. Fast.”
“I’m doing everything I can. I’ve got Walker and Varndon on the their way to Almaty as we speak.”
