by A. R. Zander
“What would I need a new suit for?” said Cohen, standing up and walking towards the door.
“For the funeral.”
“What funeral? What are you talking about?”
“For the piece of shit undercover cop that put Ashansky in Belmarsh in the first place. Wherever he is, he’s finished.”
- Chapter 24 -
The Godfather
The gypsy cab pulled into the side of the road. Harper jumped into the passenger seat and stuffed all the money he had left into the driver’s hand. He tried Garrett’s number again, but this time there was no answer. As they approached the hotel, he opened the door and darted across the road down towards the entrance. He walked through the double doors into the reception and stopped, fixed to the spot. The normally bustling lobby was reduced to a few men scattered around the outside and the staff had disappeared from the reception desk. He took a few steps forward and stopped again.
“You’ve been a busy boy.” Harper turned towards the voice to see Varndon stood behind him with Walker to his side. He tried to get the measure of them and work out what kind of expat category they fitted into.
“Who are you?” said Harper, taking a few steps backwards and looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon.
“No one you know,” said Varndon.
“I figured that one out for myself,” replied Harper.
“But there is someone here that you do know,” said Varndon. “Someone that wants very much to talk to you.”
Harper searched his memory for the location of the lobby’s exits. If he could make the stairs, he could escape through the bar and out onto a road at the back. Walker seemed to follow his thought pattern and moved round to his right flank, blocking the route.
“Are we going to have a problem here?” said Harper.
“Oh you should’ve expected that Matt. It was inevitable. For my colleague here on the other hand, his problem is not so expected.”
Time seemed to slow as Harper looked from one man to the other.
Varndon pulled a pistol from his coat with the ease of a professional and pointed it at Walker. A stream of red hit the lobby’s marble floor as the bullet hit his skull and he slumped backwards into a crumpled heap. Harper lurched to his right and dived over the reception counter. He pushed his back against the wall and looked around for a door. The staff exit to his right was ajar, but there was a large gap in the counter where Varndon could get a clear shot at him.
“I’ll be leaving now,” said Varndon. “Enjoy your reunion.”
“What the fuck is he talking about…” Harper hissed to himself, rapidly pulling open some nearby drawers, searching again for something to defend himself. He looked towards the door again. It was the only option. His adrenaline spiked at the sudden sound of more people entering the lobby behind him and knew he had to move. He pulled himself onto his haunches and readied himself to sprint to the door. The aggressive Russian voices behind him got closer. And then one voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Get that little snake!”
It was impossible. There was no way…Ashansky.
- Chapter 25 -
The Yard
Morton picked his way through the scrum of reporters outside New Scotland Yard. They were gathered round a flunky from the press office, eliciting a steady stream of ‘no comment’ replies. He made his way to the top floor and into the meeting room where he had last seen Harper. Bailey was sat down making herself a coffee. “Morton, have a seat. This won’t take long.”
“Thank you Ma’am.”
“The Commissioner has asked me to pass on his admiration for how quickly you and your team have cleared up the Cavendish killings.”
“Cleared them up? But we haven’t even made any arrests.”
“Yes, I know. But I understand your main suspect is a Russian national by the name of Yuri Gershov?”
“That’s right. He was awaiting trial on assault charges and has skipped the country. We believe he’s back in Moscow.”
Bailey took a sip of her coffee. “And you are aware that Russia does not extradite its nationals to the UK?”
“Well, yes Ma’am, but…”
“Morton, you’ve done an outstanding job here, but the Russians are not going to hand Gershov over to us. The Commissioner will make sure the extradition request is filed, but in his eyes, the investigation is over.”
“What about Harper?”
“The UC operation is finished too. Bring him back as soon as possible.”
“Ma’am can I speak frankly?” said Morton.
“Please, go ahead,” said Bailey, leaning back in her chair.
“Did you read the report I sent you?”
“Yes. And the Commissioner has read it too.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just because a low-level pimp says Gershov was working for MI6 doesn’t make it true I’m afraid.”
“Ma’am, I’ve given you good intelligence to say our security services used foreign gangsters to torture and kill British citizens.”
“Yes, I said I saw the report.”
“And when they knew we were digging too deep, they got rid of the suspects. If that wasn’t bad enough, they’ve let them loose to hunt down the undercover officer that shut them down in the first place. These people are out of control…Ma’am.”
Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “You’re treading on very dangerous territory here detective. The Commissioner is satisfied we’ve been seen to do as much as we can on this. Nobody has lost face here. The press is being briefed on it as we speak.”
“And what about Katusev? What about Vitsin?”
“Katusev is Kent’s problem and Vitsin is none of our business. The Commissioner is concerned about the reputation of this police force, not running around pretending to be George Smiley. We’ll leave that to Vauxhall Bridge.” Morton felt the vein in the side of his head start to pulse and struggled to contain his temper.
“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear,” said Bailey. “But the Commissioner has to make decisions that benefit the whole force, not just individual officers.”
“Individual officers like Matt Harper you mean?”
“I shouldn’t have to remind you DCI Morton that we all went out on a limb over Harper’s deployment. He does not officially exist to this force.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Yes Ma’am. Good answer. Remind me to decline next time you offer to speak frankly.”
Bailey finished her coffee and left the room. The reporters had dispersed when Morton made his way back outside. He walked into the pub opposite the Yard and found Cohen sitting at a corner table.
“Fucking cowards are shutting us down,” said Morton.
“Shutting us down?” said Cohen. “But, how? Why?”
“The Commissioner’s playing politics. No one expects him to find a murderer that’s fled to Russia, so he’s lost his appetite for a result. It’s finished.”
“And what about Harper? They can’t just forget about him with that psychopath waging his vendetta.”
“I don’t get the impression they’re too concerned. But don’t underestimate Harper. Did you read his training history?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“He spent time at Hereford. He’s done more special forces training than any other UC in the country. If they want to take him out, they might get more than they bargained for.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.
- Chapter 26 -
Little Mishka
The sound of Ashansky’s voice reverberated around Harper’s head. There were more people now, but now there was only one voice he could hear. It boomed out from the lobby behind him, deep and guttural.
“Hey Misha,” Ashansky shouted in Russian. Misha. Harper had blocked the name Misha Kapralov from his mind since the operation. There were things Misha had done that Harper knew he would have to answer for some day. Things he didn
’t want to think about.
“Little Mishka,” said Ashansky. “Why do you not come out and say hello to your friends? We’ve missed you.”
A black shape came crashing over the counter and smashed into the back wall, landing just feet away from Harper. Walker’s body hit the floor and his dead eyes looked in Harper’s direction. The first of Ashansky’s team vaulted over the counter after the body and Harper made a dash for the open door. He emerged into the open for a second and bullets whizzed over his head from several directions. Shouting erupted behind him and another bullet whistled over his head. He found himself in a concrete corridor and darted for a nearby fire exit. The winter sun shone on his face as he broke out into the fresh air and crashed forward into some nearby bushes. He emerged out of the other side with pieces of razor wire wrapped around his arm and stomach. He ripped them away from his body, the blades cutting into his hands as he pulled at the metal. There was a river with concrete banks in front of him. He heard Ashansky’s men hacking at the bushes behind him and briefly considered diving into the icy water. He set off down a footpath. When he looked back, three men came through the bushes and started wrestling with the razor wire.
Ashanky’s voice chased him as he ran. “Miissshhaaa!” Harper pumped his legs as fast as he could. Another bullet skimmed off the bank and hit the water. He reached a small bridge and ran across it, emerging onto piece of flat waste ground. The smell of raw sewage crept out of some nearby pipes. He stood for a few seconds, assessing his options. The only cover he could see was too far in the distance. His pursuers would have a clear shot at him if he tried to make it. He jogged over to the sewage pipe. The smell got more pungent as he approached it. The pipe sloped downhill in line with the gradient of the city. There was no way to know where it came out. It was large enough for him to climb inside, but a sharp feeling of claustrophobia urged him to stay in the open air.
“Miiisha!” Harper turned around. Ashansky had crossed the bridge and was standing on the other side of the waste ground. He had shaved his head and wore mirrored sunglasses. The time in prison has slimmed his face, but taken away none of his menace. Next to him stood Yuri Gershov. His face projected pure hate in Harper’s direction. They all raised their guns as Harper took a few steps away from the pipe.
“I don’t want to kill you here Misha,” said Ashansky. “I’d prefer if we could just talk, but you are making this very difficult.”
He put his hands up as if to surrender before throwing himself into the pipe. He clawed at the ridges in the metal to pull himself further inside and get some traction. More shots echoed past him. He let out a grunt as he felt a sharp stab in his back. He realised it was a bullet as liquid started to flow from the wound. Darkness descended as he glided along in the dark tube. The circle of light leading out onto the waste ground got smaller as he picked up speed. It gradually turned into a white dot and then disappeared. He kept his eyes open as long as he could before he felt himself passing out.
*****
Alpha walked out of his office onto the main floor of his new department. He surveyed the plush new surroundings through the corner of his eye as he stood by the water cooler. The higher floor gave his people a better view. This should have happened years ago, he thought. This was his due. His secretary waved at him as he walked back into the office. “Mr Varndon on the line for you Sir.”
“I’ll take it now,” replied Alpha.
He sat down and picked up his phone. “Are you on a secure line?”
“It’s secure,” said Varndon.
“Good. Where are we?”
“I delivered Harper to Ashansky. We won’t be hearing from him again.”
“And Walker?”
“I took care of him myself.”
“Good. He couldn’t be trusted on this. It needed to be done.”
“We should never have recruited him in the first place. People like that are not cut from the right sort of cloth.”
“Well we won’t have to make that mistake again. We’ve got the money to do things properly now.”
“I got some more info on Vitsin.”
“Go on.”
“The CIA caught him coming in by train, but they didn’t spot him heading out the day after. I checked and it looks like he went by rail all the way to Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong? Why there?”
“I don’t know, but I’m planning to find out.”
“Keep that to yourself Will. Get to Hong Kong and let Langley waste their time in Almaty. And take Ashansky and his people with you. He’s keen to make up for the mess Gershov made with Cavendish.”
“What about the Met? Are we sure they’re out of the picture?
“The Met have closed down their investigation. Deputy Commissioner Bailey has been extremely helpful since her daughter’s little drugs incident.
“And what will they do about Harper?”
“Matt Harper doesn’t officially exist. They don’t have to do anything.”
Part 2
- Chapter 27 -
Past Sins
Harper felt a small pang of guilt as he stood over the unconscious maintenance worker. He quickly stripped the man’s clothes and put them on. He dragged him over towards the radiator and covered him with a nearby blanket before slipping out of the storage room and into the railway station. He winced as he walked across the main hall, the bullet shooting a searing pain up and down one side of his body. A group of policemen stood chatting in the ticket hall. One of them broke off briefly to smash a homeless man with his baton and shoo him towards the exit. Harper arced round them as best he could and bought himself a ticket with money he had just stolen. The departures board indicated his train was leaving in five minutes. He started to jog, but the pain was too much. He bought a small bottle of vodka from the kiosk on the platform and entered one of the back carriages. He walked up the train until he found a toilet, where he locked the door and sat down.
A weak overhead light buzzed as he stripped down to his underpants. A bruise was forming down his thigh where he had shot out of the end of the sewage pipe into a shallow pool. He prodded the bullet wound with his finger and gagged as the pain intensified. He sipped a little of the vodka and poured some over the skin. He took a few sharp breaths and dug his finger into the flesh, resisting the urge to scream as he scraped around inside for the small piece of metal. When he managed to clamp his fingers onto both sides, he yanked it out. The wound wasn’t deep, but a steady flow of blood started to seep out of the hole. He ripped up his vest and tied it around his waist, trying as best he could to stem it. He put his clothes back on and walked down the train. The smell of cabbage and sweat intermingled in the sleeping section, thickening the air. He reached the last carriage from the front as the train pulled out of the platform. The passenger numbers had thinned and he found himself alone. He pulled down the shutter on the window to ward off unwanted visitors and turned the silver handle on the entrance to the mail carriage. The only light inside came from a couple of partially opened grates on the ceiling. The dust danced around in the rays as he stared upwards. Harper stepped over a few packages and sat down on a pile of empty letter sacks. He finished the rest of the vodka and shook the bottle onto his tongue to get the last few drops.
Misha. Little Mishka.
Ashanksy had looked different. He was thinner and his shaved head had caused Harper not to recognise the man whose daughter he had been due to marry. He drifted off into a half-sleep, replaying some of the operation like a highlight reel in his head. He saw the smart Mayfair club where he had first approached Ksenia. She had appreciated the bottle of champagne he had sent over to her table. The police accounts department had appreciated it less, but they had to hold their tongues. She waited a few months before she introduced him to her father. He never pushed. It had to come from her. There was suspicion at first, but gradually he became part of the inner circle. Gershov never trusted him; that much was obvious. But the fonder Ashansky grew of him, the less of a voice Ger
shov had on the subject. The legitimate side of the business was always out in the open. Harper remembered his first day on the legal side of the trading operation. He worked hard and learnt the ropes fast, showing Ashansky he had promise. But the induction into the shadier side of the business empire only came with the proposal. He knew he had to be family, or soon-to-be family, to get close to what he needed to know. She cried when he asked. I love you Misha. I love you so much…I love you too.
But Gershov’s eyes never left him. Those sunken, dead eyes. They followed him around the room like the eyes of portrait. He waited for his chance to test Harper’s loyalty. The only test where there was no way back.
Kill him Misha. Kill him…
- Chapter 28 -
Anya Valentinovna
Anya took the steps two at a time as she made her way down into the underpass. Neo-Nazi graffiti was scattered along the walls. Messages of Black arses go home and Russia for the Russians were scrawled next to a clutch of swastikas. Metal shutters covered most of the kiosks, but it was still possible to browse in the few that had glass fronts. She stopped at one, casting her eyes over the watches, all bunched together on a plastic stand. The faces showed it was past midnight. A truck rumbled overhead as she continued walking towards the other side. She moved slowly, glancing in the remaining windows. She got a few metres from the end when a stocky man in a black coat sauntered down the stairs and stood still, facing towards her. She slowed a little and instinctively moved to the side, but he mirrored her movement. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Anya turned to walk back the other way. She waited until she was past the watch shop before she looked back over her shoulder. The man was advancing towards her, whistling slowly as he came further into the underpass. His burly frame suddenly slipped into darkness as the overhead lighting dimmed and he disappeared completely. Some make-up fell out of her bag as she sprinted towards the street, but she didn’t dare to turn and pick it up. She looked over her shoulder again, but all she could see was black. She screamed as a second figure appeared in front of her. He grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him before the other man walked up from behind and slapped a piece of cloth over her mouth. She tried desperately not to breath in, but eventually had to relent and took a deep lungful of the substance soaked into the material. Relaxation washed over her body and she stopped struggling, allowing herself to be carried up to the street. She could feel her cheek rubbing against the fur on one of the men’s coats. There was a voice in her head telling her to keep her eyes open, but it gradually faded, until she couldn’t hear it anymore.
