Moscow City

by A. R. Zander

  - Chapter 32 -

  A Special Relationship

  The newspaper seller spotted Lonaghan as he emerged from the underground. The American’s polish marked him out from the crowd. His posture was straighter. His skin was smoother. And then there was the hat. He grabbed a Daily Telegraph from the pile and handed over a few coins. He flicked through the first few pages as he meandered over the road. He remembered now why he hated this shitty little island so much. Forget the condescending attitude. It was the inability to understand that they no longer mattered that made them more insufferable. It was like having to placate a child that wanted to join in an adult conversation. The voice was loud, but everything they said was ignored. Lonaghan made his way through security and walked out into Alpha’s new domain. An overweight woman got up from her desk and greeted him in that annoying way some British people greet you, like they are apologizing at the same time.

  “Mr Lonaghan, hello, I’m Sandra, welcome to our new home.”

  “Hey, it’s great to be here.” He beamed widely at her. “I think I’m a bit early. Is John around?”

  “Let me take you over.” Lonaghan took in Alpha’s new hive as he walked through the desks. Share prices and currencies flashed across large television screens mounted to the walls alongside government hearings from around the world.

  “Pleasant trip?” said Alpha, walking out of his office to greet them.

  “Right up until the point that I arrived at Heathrow,” said Lonaghan, following him in and shutting the door.

  “There’s no need to be like that.”

  “This country’s a toilet, I resent you for making me come here.”

  “Making you? I didn’t make you do anything.”

  “My guy in Kazakhstan tells me Varndon has done a little disappearing act. Are you trying to fuck me John?”

  Alpha sat down. “No one is trying to fuck anyone. If Varndon has disappeared, he has his reasons for doing so. As soon as he gets in contact, you’ll be the first person I call. Take a seat.”

  “I’d prefer to stand,” said Lonaghan, picking up a pin badge from Alpha’s desk with a Stars and Stripes crossed with a Union Jack. “We’ve always had a good relationship John, but I can see what’s going on here.”

  “And what’s going on?”

  Lonaghan looked over his shoulder out at the office. “This new department must have cost some real dough.”

  “And?”

  “Your superiors may be looking for a return on their investment.”

  “That’s not the way things work around here.”

  “What, you’re commies now? Seems to me a big kill like Vitsin would look good for you right now.”

  “I think you’re getting a bit paranoid.”

  “Paranoia is part of our trade. I like to nurture mine. Keep it in shape.”

  “Well, this time, I think you’ve let it run away from you a little.”

  “Maybe so,” said Lonaghan. “Maybe I’m too paranoid. But then again, maybe I’m not.” He spun the pin badge round in his fingers and put it back on the desk. “The Russians have disappeared too. I suppose you don’t know anything about that either?”

  “Nikolaev and his crew are murderous gangsters. That’s not the type of company I keep.”

  “If you say so.”

  Alpha’s face darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “Enlighten me. Please.”

  Lonaghan took his hat off and walked up to Alpha’s desk, looking down into the old man’s eyes. “Just remember that the bodies that are littering the path on your climb to the summit of this organisation may come back to haunt you if you forget who your friends are.”

  “I didn’t think threats were your style Tom.”

  “They’re not.”

  - Chapter 33 -

  Seva

  Harper waited for Nikolaev to disappear before emerging from behind the banner. An eclectic mix of religious statues and oriental ornaments packed the shop. He looked around and his eyes settled on the far wall, where a selection of Japanese weapons adorned the shelves. Harper picked up a miniature Tanto sword and pulled the weapon from its sheath. He ran his finger along the blade and felt it cut into his skin.

  “How much?” he said to the shop owner, who looked up from reading a magazine.

  Harper gave him some cash and slipped the blade into his inside jacket pocket. The smell of apple tobacco filled the air. He walked over and looked into the front of the cafe, but the place was deserted. He opened the door and locked it behind him, pulling down the small blind. A white and grey canary twittered behind the counter, hopping along its metal bar. The cage stood in front of a small archway on the back wall, which was covered by a thick curtain. There were no others exits or entrances. Harper stepped lightly as he walked over towards it. He listened first and then pulled the curtain back just enough to see through. There were more tables and chairs, but the room was a lot smaller. He pulled the curtain back a little more and saw the back of one of the Russians, standing at the top of a flight of stairs.

  He put his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out the blade.

  Japanese symbols stretched along the length of the metal. A small drop of Harper’s blood had dribbled down and stained the silver. He looked through the curtain again. The Russian stood with his hands behind his back, looking to the bottom of the stairs. Harper clamped the knife firmly in his hand. He opened the curtain a bit more, pushing the blade through first. The Russian was only a couple of metres away from him, back straight and feet shoulder-width apart in a military style. As Harper moved forward, the canary launched itself at the side of its cage. The Russian spun around at the sound of feathers banging against the wire and reached for his gun. Harper lunged at him, grabbing the front of his shirt and driving the knife up through the bottom of his jaw and into his skull. The Russian’s body tensed and his eyelids flickered as Harper held him up, waiting for the life to drip out of him. He squeezed Harper’s shoulders and collapsed forward. Harper dragged the body to the side and crouched down in the corner. He heard footsteps and a second Russian came flying out of the stairwell with his gun drawn. Harper ran at him and lodged the knife in between two of the vertebrae in his lower back. The man’s legs went limp and he squealed in pain. The sound evaporated as the knife ran across his throat. Harper took the pistol from the agent’s hand and knelt down, pointing the gun at the top of the stairs.

  “Hey policeman,” said a voice in English from the bottom of the stairwell. Harper recognised it as the FSB man from the Katusev house. “Mr British policeman. Come down here. I want to talk with you.”

  Harper edged closer to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a brick wall at the bottom and a room to the left. He kept the gun pointing straight ahead as he descended. He could hear Russian voices muttering in the basement and stopped just short of the bottom.

  “Your men are dead,” said Harper. “Give me Vitsin and you won’t go the same way.”

  The sound of Nikolaev laughing boomed around the small room and up the stairs. Harper heard a door open and a small canister rolled in front him, spitting grey smoke into the air. He recognized it as CS gas and ran forward with his forearm over his mouth. Professor Ruminenko was slumped in a corner with a bullet in his chest. He was dead. Cooking facilities and a large pile of books sat next to a dirty mattress. A fire exit straight in front of him was ajar. He pushed it open as the CS seeped into his nostrils. Harper bounded up the metal stairs, three at a time and emerged onto the road where he had entered the market. He scoped the area and spotted Nikolaev and one of his agents bundling Vitsin into a black Land Rover. As they sped off, Harper saw Ruminenko’s Renault. He ran back down the stairs, holding his breath, and fished the keys out of the dead professor’s pocket.

  “Sorry about this professor.”

  He sprinted back to the street in time to see Nikolaev’s car disappear round a corner. He started up the Renaul
t and put his foot down, the car straining to gain speed. His nose started to stream as the gas entered his system. He saw the Land Rover up ahead going through some traffic lights and pushed the gear stick into fourth. The lights started to change so he slammed it into fifth and put his foot flat to the floor. A chorus of horns blared as he careened round the vehicles coming from his left and right. Harper followed them onto the highway and dodged around the other vehicles as best he could in a bid to keep up. He looked up at the signs overhead. They were heading into mainland China.

  “Come on you piece of shit,” Harper shouted at the car as Nikolaev edged further into the distance.

  He looked up at the sound of a horn blaring up ahead. The Land Rover came back into view as it swerved around behind a large lorry just ahead of a tunnel. The HGV sat stubbornly in the middle of the road as they probed around the edges for a way forward. A sudden crash shattered the windscreen as a bullet hit the Renault. Harper ducked and punched a hole in the broken glass. He peered through the small opening and saw the Land Rover shoot up the inside of the truck. He slammed his foot back on the accelerator and headed for the gap, scraping the side of the car as he emerged into the tunnel. Another bullet hit the windscreen, spraying shards of glass over the seats and into his face. As he looked up, he saw Nikolaev’s agent slide himself out of the back window and fix his aim. Harper turned left and right to shake him, but the barrel stayed trained on him.

  “Come on. Take a fucking shot then you wanker.”

  His vision was blurred as tears rolled down his face from the CS. The Land Rover slowed down and the agent smiled as he prepared to pull the trigger. Harper closed his eyes as he heard the shot, but the bullet ricocheted off the road. The Land Rover started to shake from left to right and the agent disappeared back inside. Through the back windscreen, Harper saw Vitsin with his arms around Nikolaev’s neck. The Land Rover suddenly crashed into the side of the tunnel and flipped onto its side, sliding down the road until it came to a stop.

  Harper pulled up alongside the wreckage. The lorry behind them had stopped and traffic started to back up behind it. The agent with the gun was hanging out the smashed back window, impaled on a shard of glass. Harper mounted the vehicle and pulled open the passenger door. Vitsin’s small frame was crumpled in a heap. Harper stuck a hand in and pulled him out. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and his lip was split. They climbed off the car and Vitsin sat down on the road.

  “Are you hurt?” said Harper

  “I’m okay,” he replied, wiping the blood from his face.

  A group of motorists had gathered near the lorry. Harper pulled out his gun and climbed back onto the car. He opened the driver’s door. Nikolaev was trapped between the steering wheel and his seat. Harper pressed two fingers to the pulse on his neck. As he touched the skin, the Russian snapped awake and went for the gun sitting in his belt. Harper tried to restrain him, but he wrestled himself free and grabbed the weapon from his holster. Harper pushed his own pistol into Nikolaev’s head as the Russian lifted the gun.

  “Drop it,” said Harper.

  Nikolaev said nothing, keeping his finger on the trigger.

  “Drop it!” shouted Harper.

  Nikolaev looked at Harper with disdain before swinging the gun round towards him. The bang echoed in the narrow confines of the tunnel as blood covered the front of the car and Nikolaev slumped downwards. Harper slid back down onto the road and knelt down next to Vitsin. The sound of police sirens blared in the distance.

  “We have to move.”

  “The girl.”

  “What girl?”

  Vitsin pointed at the boot of the car. Harper rushed over, pushed the corpse of the agent back into the car and opened the boot. The girl was face down. He untied the rope binding her wrists and ankles and turned her over. She took a deep lungful of air as he pulled off the tape covering her mouth. She cried as she saw his face.

  “Anya.”

  - Chapter 34 -

  Friends in Low Places

  There were less people in the seedier part of Waterloo. Morton hurried past the pubs and charity shops and towards the station. The smell from a cheap bakery wafted down the street, tempting customers into the shop. A tramp sat on the pavement trying to inhale a bottle of strong cider, stopping only to vomit before clamping his mouth back onto the neck. The Special Branch man sat reading a paper in the small park just off the crossroads. A couple of enthusiastic volunteers were pulling weeds from the flowerbeds as Morton walked in.

  “You wanna go somewhere else?” said Morton, sitting down on the bench.

  “No, I’ve seen them here before. They’re just gardeners.” The Special Branch man folded his paper and put it down. “Your man’s name is John Tremaine. But they call him Alpha.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s head of the Financial Security Division at MI6.”

  “We have one of those?”

  “We do these days.”

  Morton picked up the paper and waved away some midges from above his head. “What else do you know about him?”

  “I know he’s not someone you want to mess with.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s on his way up. Talk is that he’ll take over the service soon. You really want to be pissing off a guy like that?”

  Morton watched the gardeners. “I’ve already pissed him off. I think it’s too late to worry about that.”

  “Just be careful Morton. The people I asked about Tremaine. There was this, well, fear in their eyes. There are stories.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “One of the boys heard that his interrogations are pretty brutal.”

  “Brutal how?”

  “Instead of going to work on the subject, he prefers to bring in someone important to them instead. Apparently, he once brought in a guy’s elderly mother and sat her down in front of him. First he broke her arm with a baseball bat and then started to pull her teeth out with fucking pliers.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, Jesus. The nice old man act is exactly that. An act. These guys play a different game Morton. The rules can be…ambiguous.”

  “Ambiguous? Where’s the ambiguity in killing your own agent and leaving a police officer to be murdered?”

  The Special Branch man looked away. “It’s way out of order. I agree.”

  “I appreciate this Jim,” said Morton. “And I won’t ask you for anything else.”

  “It’s no bother. Anytime.” He picked up his paper and walked away towards the station. Morton got up and walked out of the gate over towards the theatres. He found an empty coffee shop and sat down, mindful of anyone that may be following him. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket as he sat down in the corner.

  “Morton speaking.”

  “Deputy Commissioner Bailey is on the line for you.” The phone clicked and buzzed as Morton waited to be connected.

  “Morton?”

  “Ma’am.”

  “I’m only going to ask you this once. Why the hell have your detectives been sent to Hong Kong?”

  “To help out a colleague Sir.”

  “Matt Harper is not your colleague, do you understand that? He’s nobody. We’ve wiped his file. He never has existed and never will exist. I told you to back off from that case and you chose to ignore me. You’re suspended.”

  “Suspended? You can’t do that.”

  “I can and I have. And I’m warning you Morton. If you don’t get Cohen and Russell back here soon, you’ll be the one sitting in Belmarsh.”

  *****

  Cohen and Russell ducked under the police tape and followed Detective Li further up the tunnel. The road was clear of traffic and the sound of the strip lights buzzed up above.

  “They found another load of bodies up by the market in Kowloon,” said Li. “Some Russian professor from Hong Kong University and two unknowns.” He pulled out his camera phone and showed them some pictures of Ruminenko and the dead agents. “Either one
of them this guy you’re looking for?”

  “No,” said Cohen. “Neither one is Harper.”

  Li waved his badge at one of the uniforms standing near the cars and turned back round to face them. “Just pretend like you should be here. Morton’s an old friend and I’m happy to help. But take a look at what you want quickly and let’s get out of here. I’d prefer if I didn’t have to explain you to my chief.”

  Cohen walked over to the Land Rover and bent over to get a better look inside the back window. The gunman was still impaled on the shard of glass, his eyes staring blankly ahead. “It’s not him,” said Cohen.

  Russell approached the front of the car, where Nikolaev’s body was still crumpled up inside. “There’s not much of this one’s face left, but it’s not him either.”

  Li noticed the uniform speaking into his radio and walked over and started to talk at him in rapid Cantonese.

  “Wait,” said Russell, beckoning Cohen over towards Nikolaev’s body. “I recognise this bloke. It’s the FSB hood from Moscow that shut down our meeting with Katusev.”

  Cohen looked a bit closer at Nikolaev’s face and tried to imagine him with his cheekbone still intact. “You’re right.”