Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  Sokolov reached inside his coat pocket, gripping the closed hunting knife tightly, feeling the wood texture of the handle in his clenched palm.

  The driver set the funi in motion and it pulled away from the station.

  The railway track led to a tunnel and the jagged, snow-capped peak beyond which looked postcard-picture-perfect.

  The Sierre-Montana funicular ride was the longest in Switzerland, stretching more than four kilometers and gaining an altitude of over 900 meters. Going at a speed of 8 m/s, the direct route took 12 minutes to complete.

  The funi went through the tunnel and the railroad wound up the incline, cutting past a vineyard. There were patches of snow on the grass and fallen leaves. More snow covered the hillside, the almost-naked trees and the rooftops of neighboring houses as the funi rattled along the tracks rhythmically.

  Sokolov paid no attention to the autumn view outside. He concentrated on the man sitting to his left. The baldie. He was so close that their shoulders almost brushed as the funicular clattered along.

  The other passengers in front of them were oblivious to the danger.

  A couple of minutes stretched with agonizing slowness, making the ride feel even longer.

  Then, suddenly, as the funi passed under a stone bridge, the bald thug made his move. Swiftly, he thrust his right hand inside his coat and whipped out a handgun with an attached suppressor.

  Sokolov was already throwing his arm forward, flicking the blade out.

  The Swiss pocket knife was a far cry from either a Cossack dagger or his EMERCOM dive knife, but it did the damage.

  The bald killer grunted as Sokolov slashed his wrist, severing ligaments. Blood spurted. The gun dropped to the floor. Sokolov grabbed the wounded thug by the lapel and rammed the knife blade into his chest, planting it deep into his heart and pushing him back against the seat. Dying, he let out a gasp which drowned in the noise of the funicular’s motion as his body sagged.

  The dead man’s blond partner jumped to his feet, leveling his own silenced pistol. Sokolov threw himself at him, wrestling for the gun. He wrenched it upward as the blond pulled the trigger. The weapon spat out muffled shots that hit the glass roof, punching holes through it, a web of cracks shattering.

  Passengers screamed and cowered as shards rained down, suddenly aware that something was going on. Then someone saw the gun, and more screams echoed across the car, alerting the driver.

  Fighting for the gun, the blond assassin broke free from Sokolov’s grip and punched him across the face. Sokolov went down, hitting the floor. The thug aimed instantly.

  A double tap of the trigger sent slugs tearing into flesh. The blond staggered back, incredulous that the bullets had found their mark, fired by Constantine from his fallen comrade’s gun. Then he sank to his knees and crashed down lifelessly.

  “You okay?” Constantine asked as he helped his brother up.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Looks like it was us they targeted, after all.”

  “They knew we’d be here. And they might not be the only ones.”

  The funicular braked sharply, coming to a halt at the next stop, and the doors flew open. The panicked passengers fled, rushing down the narrow platform, terrfied by the sight of blood and dead bodies.

  The brothers followed suit, deciding not to wait until the police showed up. The driver had surely contacted the authorities already. It was the end of the ride.

  On their way out, Constantine threw the pistol aside, but Sokolov tucked his piece inside the ski jacket. It might still come in handy later, he decided.

  Then they ran through the sliding doors.

  24

  As expected, Zelimkhan’s flight reached Zurich without incident. The British had been powerless to stop him. His diplomatic immunity meant that they’d had no choice but to release him from custody. They’d even driven him to the airport like royalty. Zelimkhan couldn’t help but grin thinking about it.

  But now he had to concentrate on the new mission awaiting him.

  His 24-hour layover in Switzerland before the last leg of the return trip to Moscow had been planned for a reason.

  Exiting the terminal, he followed a covered walkway to the carpark, where he found his vehicle. A silver Mercedes CLS four-door coupé. Fake Swiss plates, although it had been stolen in Germany through his Chechen diaspora connections and delivered to the airport for him to pick up. It required no key fob; remote engine start and keyless entry were done via mobile app. Zelimkhan had it installed on his phone, so he used the device to unlock the car. He opened the door and slipped inside. The red-leather interior was tender to the touch and had a new-car smell. A seat belt presenter extended automatically and he buckled up. As he hit the engine start button, the car’s massive twin screens lit up—the main display in the dashboard and the virtual cockpit behind the steering wheel replacing the analog gauges. He switched over to GPS navigation. The fellow abrek who’d arranged the vehicle had pre-programmed the target’s location in the favorites list.

  An address in Crans-Montana.

  Zelimkhan hit the bookmarked entry and followed the navigation system’s Russian-speaking voice guide.

  The trip would take just over three and a half hours, according to the directions. He turned to the A1 highway out of Zurich. The road surface was as smooth as a mirror, unlike anything he’d seen in Russia, let alone Chechnya. The Mercedes was cruising effortlessly through every bend.

  Mountain peaks loomed in the distance. To Zelimkhan, the Alps weren’t as good as the Caucasus, but he felt strangely at home. The mountains were an abrek’s hunting ground, and he’d have a couple of guides to help him familiarize with the target area.

  With the phone connected to the car’s media interface, he dialed a number from his saved contacts. He wanted to check in with his support team. A two-man SVR crew arriving from France, where the SVR maintained a secret base camp in the Alps, a large, multi-acre facility that was being used for planning, training, logistics, and some R&R in between missions across Europe. Up to fifteen SVR operators were covertly stationed there at any given time.

  The phone’s dial tone droned monotonously through the speakers of the hi-end Burmester audio system.

  There was no answer.

  A few minutes later, Zelimkhan tried again. Nothing. Very odd.

  The SVR men were supposed to get in touch with him once they’d arrived in Crans-Montana by train. Failure to contact them was cause for genuine concern. It couldn’t be written off as sloppiness or lack of discipline. At their level of military precision, it was impossible. Something was wrong, but Zelimkhan was ready for any contingency.

  He opened the glove box and checked its contents, finding a silenced Glock 26 gun. The compact pistol didn’t offer a ton of firepower but he could conceal it easily, carrying it with the attached suppressor. It would have to make do. He’d finish the job on his own, if necessary.

  Whoever had taken the SVR men out of the game would be in for a surprise. Zelimkhan was going to get them, too.

  The abrek would kill anyone standing in his path.

  25

  Several hiking trails ran parallel to the railway. Eugene and Constantine quickly made their escape from the funi stop, disappearing behind a row of pine trees as they followed a pathway. Fresh snow squished under their boots.

  Beyond the trees, they had a view of the street, lined with neat village houses with stone fencing. A Škoda police cruiser flashed by, siren wailing as it sped toward the funiculaire.

  “That was close,” Constantine breathed.

  “And it might get even closer,” Sokolov said. “We need to reach Hofmann before the police start searching for us and combing the area. They’ll find us easily, they know every rock around here. How far is it to his house?”

  Constantine consulted his phone’s map software.

  “It’s seven kilometers away. So about one and a half hours.”

  “Then we’d better step on it.”

  A
signpost directed them off the hiking trail. Twenty minutes later, they finally reached the outskirts of Montana. They emerged onto a paved rural road, snaking through the mountains, surrounded by a fantastic view of the alpine peaks. They marched along the roadside. At first they were breezing. Before they knew it, the incline became ever more challenging. Sokolov was sweating under his coat. Every step became strenuous.

  He checked his watch. They’d been pumping their legs for an hour.

  “You okay?” he asked Constantine.

  “Fine,” his brother replied, panting, his breathing coming out in puffs of vapor. “Feels like someone messed with the settings on a treadmill. I could do with a short break, though.”

  “Quit whining, you need the exercise, you spend too much time sitting around and reading books. If we stop for a rest, the muscle pain is only going to get worse. We’ve got to push on. Come on, only thirty minutes to go.”

  A few motorists had driven by initially, but now as they plowed on they were completely alone. There were no cars or houses in the remote part of Crans-Montana. There was only the winding road, hugging the edge of a hill, and the forested valley below, dominated by the craggy Alps touching the cloudy sky.

  Their pace slowed and instead of ninety minutes, the trek took them just shy of two hours.

  But they found the place.

  Approaching it from the road, they had an excellent view of the surrounding area.

  The chalet was positioned in a prime location at the base of a hill, set against the scenic backdrop of Mont Bonvin. The property’s boundaries were marked by a wire strung between evenly spaced pegs, denoting a land plot of about an acre, accessible from the road by a paved driveway that led to the garage at the back of the chalet. The sheer size of the garden ensured privacy for the homeowner.

  On the outside, the house itself looked like typical Swiss affair, but a closer look revealed a luxury take on the traditional cabin. It was a sprawling, three-storied building of wood, stone, and glass. Visible behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, the ground floor included a gigantic indoor swimming pool.

  Twilight was fast approaching, and the façade was illuminated by outdoor lighting.

  “Looks like someone might be in,” Constantine said.

  “Let’s try the doorbell.”

  They easily stepped over the barrier and headed toward the house.

  Looking around, Sokolov didn’t notice any sign of an alarm system on the premises, but it didn’t mean that security cameras or sensors weren’t hidden somewhere.

  Then he saw that the chalet had another kind of protection, something far more efficient than any electronic device.

  The four-legged kind.

  An intimidating-looking Bullmastiff came galloping from behind the house. Growling, the huge guard dog charged toward Sokolov at full speed. It could have knocked him down easily in a single leap.

  Instead, the dog stopped suddenly in front of him, sniffed over his boots thoroughly, and started wagging its tail enthusiastically.

  “Attaboy,” Sokolov said, scratching the Bullmastiff behind the ear.

  “Good dog,” Constantine said. “I was scared he might rip our throats out.”

  The Bullmastiff had most likely been trained to do just that, and standing at over sixty centimeters at the haunches and weighing well over fifty kilos, was more than capable of doing it, but gave the Sokolovs a warm welcome instead.

  Emerging from inside the house, the dog’s master greeted his visitors in a lot less friendly fashion.

  The rugged-faced man, his close-cropped hair almost as white as his snow-colored parka, was pointing the muzzle of a shotgun at them.

  “Willy, komm zu mir,” he said, calling the dog over.

  Obediently, Willy retreated to stand beside his owner, his playfulness gone.

  Switzerland had a serious gun culture, with about two million privately owned firearms, and the Swiss knew how to handle them. It was the birthplace of William Tell, after all.

  The shotgun looked like the widely used Remington Model 870. A reliable, no-nonsense weapon. One wouldn’t want to end up on the wrong side of its barrel when it fired off a hard-hitting Magnum shotshell.

  “Herr Hofmann,” Constantine said in precise German. The brothers both spoke the language fluently, having grown up in East Germany. “Please lower your gun.”

  The man shifted his aim at Constantine.

  “How do you know who I am?” Hofmann asked, his accent tinged with a distinctive Swiss lilt.

  “Marina showed me a photo of you and Mikhail Dubrovsky.”

  “Why should I believe you? Mikhail is dead. I’ve seen the news. So is Trevor. How do I know you’re not a couple of assassins the Russians sent after me? There’s a strong police presence at a funi stop where deaths have been reported. And now you’ve shown up on my doorstep. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It isn’t,” Sokolov snapped. “The men who died in the funicular were the killers. And they were heading your way. We had to stop them.”

  “Who are you, then? What’s your name?”

  “Sokolov.”

  Hofmann’s eyebrows arched.

  “You are brothers, gäll? I know of you. Mikhail told me about you the other day. But you could be lying, of course. Let me see your ID.”

  Hofmann remained skeptical, keeping the shotgun level with Sokolov’s chest.

  Carefully, Sokolov reached inside his ski jacket. The silenced pistol was within grasp. He could have attempted to snap a shot at Hofmann to incapacitate him, but besides the risk, it would serve no purpose. He pulled out his wallet instead and tossed in Hofmann’s direction. Willy jumped at it, snatching it in mid-air with his teeth and fetched it to his master. Hofmann picked it up from the dog’s mouth, still holding the Remington one-handed. He flicked the wallet open and saw Sokolov’s EU residence permit in the transparent card holder. He threw the wallet back and Sokolov caught it.

  Hofmann brought the gun barrel down.

  “Very well,” he said, satisfied. “Would you care to join me inside for some punsch?”

  “Absolutely,” Constantine said. “I’m glad we’ve managed to convince you.”

  “You haven’t, really.”

  “You don’t believe us?”

  Hofmann motioned at the dog.

  “What matters is that he does. You’ve passed the test. If Willy trusts you, so do I.”

  26

  The chalet’s interior showed that Reto Hofmann was no penny pincher. The finishing was premium quality. The walls were completely covered with teak instead of larch. Intricately woven Persian rugs were spread out on the stone floors. Next to the indoor pool, sauna, and gym, the ground floor opened into a huge living room, measuring at least eighty square meters, with a soaring cathedral ceiling supported by thick oak beams. Eugene and Constantine seated themselves on a kidney-shaped sofa facing a fireplace which cracked with burning wood. A maid, Matilda, brought them cups of punsch on a tray and returned to the kitchen, letting them hold their conversation in private. Apparently, Hofmann had no family and there was no other house staff. He took his cup and sat opposite them in an opulent chair. Nursing the fruit-flavored syrup, they enjoyed a wonderful sunset view of the Alps silhouetted against the flaming pink sky.

  Despite the comfortable couch and the hot, soothing drink, Constantine felt ill at ease. Memories of a different alpine house flashed in his mind, the one across the border into Liechtenstein, where another old man had confided his secrets in him. Secrets that carried false hopes of bringing down the Kremlin. It haunted him like a premonition. Nothing seemed to change, no matter who the Russian ruler was. You could put anyone in charge in Moscow. Every new leader was almost guaranteed to become just as bloodthirsty and brutal as their previous one. How many more people had to die before the madness came to an end?

  “How much did Mikhail manage to tell you about Project Jutland?” Hofmann asked, breaking Constantine’s reverie.

  “Not a whole lot. We
were supposed to meet with him and go over the details in the morning, but he died later that night,” Constantine said. “We’d like to know why. Is Project Jutland real, or is it some deranged fantasy?”

  “It’s real, all right. No doubt about it. And it’s reached quite an advanced stage.”

  “Could you give us the whole picture?” Eugene asked. “You’re the only person who is privy to it.”

  “Essentially, Project Jutland is a plan to oust President Saveliy Frolov from the Kremlin. A coup organized by Dubrovsky. I know what I’m talking about because I was involved in it from the start. Someone had to do the heavy lifting to make the lofty ideas possible, you know.”

  “Of course,” Constantine agreed. “I’m certain that your role is indispensable.”

  “I was setting the stage for the real actors, linking the project’s three main aspects—economic, military, and political. First, the money. Any revolution requires financing, or else it will lose steam quickly. The most difficult part was swaying any Russian businessmen to get them on board. Fear overwhelmed them, but the economy trumps everything else. When your business incurs losses because of disastrous geopolitical decisions, your loyalty to the great leader begins to fade. Mikhail and I managed to bring in the support of one of the heavyweights. Boiko. Without his backing, the project would never have got off the ground. Dubrovsky made some investment as well with his own money, but it wasn’t enough to bankroll the project entirely. He wasn’t going to risk it all. So he was also exploring alternative sources.”

  Boiko vanished and then we came along, Constantine thought. How timely. No wonder Dubrovsky had started courting them.

  “Where would the money go?”

  “We would hire a team of mercenaries. About three thousand heavily armed men, ready for action.”

  “What were they going to do? Storm the Kremlin?”