Dubrovsky smiled. “First of all, I need to know if I have you on board.”
“As a historian, I admit that your idea has some merit,” Constantine said. “Constitutional monarchy makes a lot of sense should Russia make the shift from authoritarianism toward democracy. But I have no idea how you’re going to effect your plan.”
“I’m glad to hear that we’re on the same wavelength,” Dubrovsky replied. “We still have much to talk about. Let’s meet tomorrow at my Belgravia home to go over the details, shall we?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you will find Project Jutland fascinating.” The oligarch flicked his wrist to consult his Blancpain timepiece. “But I’m afraid I have to leave you now. Tonight I still have some other business to attend to. See you in the morning.”
With that, Dubrovsky rose abruptly, and, with Andy at his side, stalked off.
Left sitting behind the table, Eugene and Constantine exchanged glances.
“Typical Mikhail,” Kendrick noted. “Always in a rush. We should get going as well. I’ll drop you off at your hotel.”
Sokolov turned in his chair, searching for a waiter.
“If you’re thinking about paying for dinner, forget about it,” the fixer said. “Mikhail is footing the bill. Misha is short for Mikhail in Russian, isn’t it? You see, he’s the owner of this restaurant. A true gentleman, despite what the ladies say.”
9
His parents had named him Zelimkhan in honor of the famous early-twentieth-century Chechen abrek—meaning avenger—who raided Russian and Cossack villages and towns, robbing banks and mail coaches. For the Russians, the abreks had become synonymous with mountain bandits. To the Chechens, they were folk heroes in a never-ending history of violence.
The word Chechen itself was Russian, derived from the name of a village in the foothills of the jagged Caucasus. Instead, he referred to himself as Nokhchi, the name his people had used to call themselves.
Zelimkhan Mahmoudov’s parents had been killed on a bitter New Year’s Day, 1995, in a firestorm of Russian bombs raining down on Grozny as the Russian war machine annihilated the Chechen capital, murdering over 40,000 civilians in a matter of weeks—Chechens and Russians alike.
The war had ended in the Russian army’s withdrawal, leaving a death toll of 100,000 in its wake, but the ensuing peace had been short-lived. The Kremlin had returned to bring more death in a military campaign to aid the ascension of Yeltsin’s successor. The FSB had blown up apartment buildings in Moscow and elsewhere in Russia, blaming it on the Chechens to unleash the second war. Turning eighteen, Zelimkhan had taken off to the mountains to join the insurgents.
But as Chechnya had been leveled to smoldering ruins, with tens of thousands more lives lost, the futility of their resistance had become obvious.
The Kremlin had installed its puppet as the new Chechen leader and an offer had been made. Give up your fight and switch sides—or face extermination.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
And so Zelimkhan Mahmoudov had turned from abrek—or terrorist—to member of the new security service. The Chechen extension of the FSB—the very same people who’d brought so much misery and destruction to his land. He’d sold out to the Russians—but the pay was too good. In the ranks of the secret police, he served the new Chechen regime faithfully, silencing its enemies—including those who’d accused him of spitting on his parents’ graves. He’d honed the skills he’d first acquired killing Russian soldiers, becoming the top henchman of the ruler of Grozny—and his trusted killer. Soon, he’d outgrown Chechnya, rising up the ladder and getting transferred to Moscow.
The SVR trusted him with international assassinations. Under false documents, he’d traveled to the UAE, Qatar, and an ex-Soviet republic to carry out several hits against dissident journalists and opposition leaders. His success rate was perfect.
Today, he was the Kremlin’s number one hitman. In between jobs he lived in his own suite at the Hotel National, located two hundred meters from the Kremlin. He’d earned unfathomable riches, owning a palatial mansion with a private zoo back in Chechnya, a collection of supercars, and even a gold-plated pistol which he carried around Moscow. But beside the money, he relished his position for the power to take away people’s lives freely. He was still a Nokhchi abrek at heart.
A host of assumed identities had replaced Zelimkhan Mahmoudov, his real name buried deep within his own psyche and erased from every database. His passport, driver’s license, phone bills, and other documents had all been issued for the fake personas he was operating as and who had never existed before.
A message on his backup phone had summoned him to an SVR training facility hidden in a forest outside Moscow. He’d been briefed on his next target, and spent the last four days on planning and preparation.
Along with the instructions, he’d picked up a fresh set of documents. Traveling by Aeroflot economy class to Zurich, he’d boarded a connecting flight to London Heathrow.
As Zelimkhan went through border control, the U.K. immigration officer paid no heed to the black-bearded man who carried a Russian diplomatic passport.
The British capital greeted him with an overcast sky. He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the London Central Mosque.
As they approached Marylebone, Zelimkhan tipped the cabbie and asked him to drop him off outside Regent’s Park instead. Heading toward the park, he crossed Outer Circle and found himself in a wide grassy area called Marylebone Green. There was a children’s playground. It was after dark, so nobody was around. Zelimkhan scanned the surroundings, trying to locate the pre-arranged spot. From the description he’d been given, the dead drop had to be in the undergrowth near the seesaw. He knelt on the grass and sweeping with his hands he found a mound of dirt under a bush. The stash was camouflaged with leaves and buried not too deeply in the ground. He uncovered the object wrapped in a piece of cloth.
It was a knife. A so-called zombie knife with a razor-sharp, horrific-looking, 15-inch-long serrated-edge blade.
Zelimkhan tucked it inside his windbreaker and hurried to leave before anyone detected him. The authorities were trying to curb the wave of knife violence flooding the streets. If he encountered a cop on a stop and search patrol, it would spell a disastrous end to the mission.
He quickly retreated back to the street and flagged down another cab.
With the abundance of CCTV cameras, he knew that his every move would be recorded and reconstructed later by the police, but it didn’t matter.
By that time, he would have already killed the target and left the country.
10
Dubrovsky reclined in the rear seat of the yacht-like Bentley Mulsanne as Andy eased the ultra-luxury vehicle through midnight traffic. It was a sumptuous ride, thanks to the plush diamond-quilted leather upholstery and sport-tuned suspension and steering. Details like metal knobs and wood veneers added to the feel of the car’s interior. Relaxing music was playing from the high-end, 20-speaker Naim audio system. But besides the comfort worthy of nobility, the car provided protection with custom armor. The security agent was skilled in defensive driving, and the Bentley’s 500-horsepower engine could unleash breakneck speed at a touch of the accelerator. But no evasive maneuvers were required as Andy navigated toward Knightsbridge. At Ennismore Gardens—a short walk from Hyde Park—Dubrovsky owned an exquisite three-bedroom duplex flat which he’d given to his lover and where he visited her frequently.
His wife had passed away years ago, and their daughter had grown up and lived her own life in London, so he felt free to chase women, his only weakness. And Lana was a whole lot of woman. She made him lose his mind.
He experienced a familiar rush of excitement as he texted her.
He’d be at her place in five minutes, he told her.
She’d be ready, she replied, sending a string of heart emojis.
Pulse racing, he put his phone away and produced something else from his pocket.
A pack of tablets to treat erectile dysfunction.
He popped a pill and washed it down with overpriced drinking water from Norway.
Her real name was Svetlana Shevchenko, but she’d changed it to Lana Diamond for her profession, which was prostitution. A Ukrainian farmer’s daughter, she wasn’t exactly spoiled for career choice to succeed in life.
Her acting and modeling aspirations had quickly evaporated upon her arrival to London, forcing her to lower her sights. Doing what she did best, she was a high-class escort girl—had been until she’d met Mikhail Dubrovsky as a client.
Misha. He’d fallen so madly in love with her that he’d demanded that she quit her job for him. And she’d snatched at the opportunity.
Ever since he’d bought out her contract from her pimp, he’d showered her with money and lavish gifts, from her iPhone and brand-name wardrobe to her Jaguar and the refurbished apartment near Harrods, where her daily shopping expenses were also covered by Dubrovsky. She owed him a lifestyle she could never have dreamed of had she stayed in Kiev.
He demanded her best years from her in exchange. At twenty-three, she was in her prime both physically and mentally. Her perfect body remained young and toned and her mind had acquired a wealth of knowledge and experience in her craft.
And yet, that very mind reeled when the messenger app bleeped.
Five minutes.
She had almost no time for preparation.
Misha always arrived unexpectedly. He was crazy about security measures and exercised caution even with her.
It put a strain on their relationship. She was his best-kept secret and they never went out together. He treated her more like a concubine than a girlfriend. Instead of a white knight, he turned out to be a jealous control freak who kept her in a gilded cage. The only kind of attention he offered was utilizing her each time he felt like dropping by. She believed she deserved so much more than wasting her life on the fat old bore. There were other men—young, hot studs—who could provide for her as well as, if not better than, Dubrovsky. He’d already admonished her for the incessant spending, and complained that his cash was drying up. She was growing sick of him but tried not to show it. If Misha got a hint that the affair had become a nuisance to her, not only would he cancel her credit cards, but he’d also sic his thug Andy to break her bones. So even though she was in no mood for intimacy tonight, she had to be at her stunning best.
In the master bedroom, she raced to the dressing table with a full-length mirror.
She softly touched up her makeup with a brush, applied fresh gloss to her natural lips, and admired her reflection. She sprayed a touch of Dior perfume on her flowing, honey-colored hair which framed her delicate face and the hazel-brown eyes that stared back flirtatiously.
She slipped out of her silk robe and peeled off her panties.
Checking out her naked, 170-centimeter-tall figure, she squeezed her gorgeous breasts together and turned around for a spectacular view of her firm, peachy bottom. He’d asked her for a nude, so she snapped a selfie in a sensual pose and sent it to him. Then she changed into provocative black lace lingerie and a pair of stockings that made her shapely legs even more beautiful.
Just as she completed her killer look, she heard noise coming from the lower floor of the duplex apartment. The front door slammed.
Misha’s voice sounded below. He always used his own key to enter together with his thug, who remained downstairs on guard duty.
Lana crossed the room over to the bed and crawled atop the satin sheets to show off her irresistible curves.
Finally, Misha appeared in the doorway.
“I’ve missed you, my teddy bear,” she said with a naughty smile, gazing at him with enchanting eyes.
He beamed. “I couldn’t wait to see you, Lana. You look amazing.”
She ran a caressing finger over her slim body and beckoned him invitingly.
Misha was unbuttoning his shirt as he approached, his eyes devouring the enticing sight.
Lana rolled around and perched on the edge of the bed.
As he drew closer, his breath reeked of alcohol. He bent over and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her neck, his silver stubble prickling the velvety skin. She could sense that he was really turned on. Groping her, he reached behind to undo her bra, and fumbled with the strap.
Dubrovsky moaned, and startlingly stopped his attempts to bare her bosom. He staggered back, color draining from his face, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. He gasped for breath, groaning, losing his balance, light-headed. He opened his mouth, wheezing hoarsely. A medical school dropout, Lana knew the symptoms of a heart attack when she saw them. The warning signs of an imminent cardiac arrest were no doubt accompanied by severe chest pain.
“Lana …!”
His face turned blue and he dropped to the floor.
Her hazel eyes stared with cold detachment. Her face showed no emotion.
Dubrovsky writhed, his body convulsing. Seconds later, he lay motionless.
As she watched him die, she felt truly aroused for the first time since she’d been with him. She teased herself, sliding a playful hand inside her parted thighs.
After several minutes, she got up to make sure Dubrovsky was dead. Sprawled, he was staring blankly at the ceiling. He wasn’t breathing. She knelt beside the body and felt his pulse. It was missing. The lack of blood flow to the brain caused irreversible damage and enough time had elapsed to kill him.
There was something else she had to take care of before her next step. She thrust her fingers inside his pants pocket and fished out a blister pack of pills. Stepping into the en suite bathroom, she flicked the light switch on and stood over the toilet bowl. Pushing through the foil, the remaining tablets plopped into the water, and Lana flushed them down, throwing the empty packaging into the bin. Then she opened the medicine cabinet, took out an identical-looking pack of pills, returned to the corpse in the bedroom, and replaced the pills inside the pocket of his trousers.
Now it was done, all evidence of foul play destroyed. Describing the effects of the poison, her handler had assured her that it would be impossible to trace during autopsy.
She grabbed her kimono robe and draped it over her body, examining herself in the mirror. The expression of feigned shock appeared convincing enough.
Then she let out a piercing screech.
Abruptly, heavy footfalls thudded on the staircase as Dubrovsky’s thug came rushing in, alerted by her high-pitched shriek.
“Andy! Help!” she cried in accented English, pointing a polished fingernail at the body on the floor. “Something’s wrong with Misha!”
“What the hell is going on here, Lana?”
“I don’t know!” she snapped, burying her head in her hands. “He’s not moving! Call nine-nine-nine!”
11
Trevor Kendrick was alone in his seven-bedroom home when his phone rang. He clutched it and glanced at the screen.
Andy.
Kendrick was the one who’d hired him in the first place to protect Dubrovsky. He would only call in case of emergency. Especially at that late hour.
Kendrick tapped the answer button.
“Andy, what is it, mate?”
“Mikhail’s dead.”
Kendrick gasped. The news came as a blow. “Bloody hell. How …?”
“Apparently, he’s had a sudden cardiac arrest. He was with Lana.”
“I see. Let me talk to the little tart.”
“She’s in the bathroom, bawling her eyes out. No use talking to her. She told me Mikhail just suddenly fainted and that was it. She thought he looked a bit jaded. You won’t get any more details from her. She’s practically hysterical.”
“Alright, mate, do you want me to come over?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, y’know. The police and medics will be here any minute. I just thought I should inform you first, before the media got whiff of the story.”
“You did the right thing. Are you sure
the cause of death was natural?”
“Yeah, it must’of been,” Andy said. “I’m pretty sure it looked like it. But we’ll know in a bit, won’t we?”
“Fine, you hang in there sort everything out, okay? And keep me updated.”
“Sure thing.”
Kendrick ended the call. His mind was working frantically despite the haze induced by the drugs and alcohol. Kendrick paced around the drawing room of the converted stone house, its vaulted ceiling supported by original pillars and oak beams.
A cardiac arrest?
Bollocks. Mikhail had been murdered. Kendrick was certain of it.
Everyone involved in Project Jutland was dead.
Everyone except him.
Those damned Russians. The Sokolovs. It had to be them, the tossers. Something about them had seemed dodgy from the start. They had to be the ones who’d killed Mikhail. Poison? Probably.
Sudden fear churned in the pit of his stomach. Had they poisoned him, too?
He stopped in his tracks. He felt a bit ropey.
It’s just the dope, get a grip.
He had to think clearly.
Still, if they’d failed to murder him thus far, it only meant they would be coming after him next. It was only a matter of time.
He swiped across the phone screen, switching to the smart home app controlling his security system. The house was fitted with expensive equipment, including video cameras and motion sensors, all connected to a professional, 24/7 monitoring service that would call the police in case of intrusion. He made sure that the alarm was armed.
But it wasn’t enough. He needed some real muscle. He had to act before they got him.
He switched back to the dialer and hit another number from the recent contacts list.
Freddie Berisha, Kendrick’s go-to guy for cocaine and hookers. He was also a gang boss. If there was anyone who knew how to deal with Russians, it was Freddie and his men. Even the bratva feared him.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 4
