“If your theory proves true, then we’re in a no-win situation,” Sokolov said. “How the hell are we supposed to act now?”
“The only way out of this mess is to fight both sides. We must do whatever we can to stop Project Jutland,” Constantine said, “and save Prince Harry from assassination by the Kremlin.”
30
Yaroslav Nikitin was summoned to the Novo-Ogaryovo residence to report to President Frolov.
A crew-cut FSO security guard snapped to attention as he ushered him inside.
“Comrade General, welcome.”
Nikitin nodded. He proceeded into the large sitting room and sank in one of the two plush, Baroque-style armchair next to a fireplace covered with ornamented tiles of white porcelain.
A general in the SVR, Nikitin wore civilian clothes—a tailored Italian suit of cashmere and silk blend, a starched white shirt, and a polka-dot-patterned tie. At sixty, he had a thick mane of white hair, combed back. Although he wasn’t the chief of Russian foreign intelligence or even the highest-ranking SVR officer, he commanded respect from everyone who knew him, including the president.
Respect born out of fear.
Nikitin was the head of Directorate S.
Illegals.
The S stood for Sudoplatov, Stalin’s henchman who had specialized in wet work, killing enemies of the Kremlin anywhere in the world.
The President wanted him to deliver the progress update in person.
Nikinin’s manicured fingers held a manila folder.
Frolov arrived twenty minutes later.
“Congratulations on a job well done, Yaroslav,” Frolov said as they shook hands and the Directorate S chief handed him the folder.
Frolov opened it as he sat back in the other chair and examined the contents. He thumbed through the first few pages showing pictures of Dubrovsky’s dead body, and translated news clippings from the U.K. media.
“How did you do it?” the President asked.
“Everyone has a weakness,” Nikitin said. “And women are the biggest weakness of them all.”
“Good. The bastard got what he deserved. He was the architect of his own downfall. Dubrovsky should never have crossed us, but he got involved in that nonsense instead. What’s it called?”
“Project Jutland,” Nikitin said. “We’ve dealt a significant blow to it.”
“It’s not enough, however. Project Jutland must be crushed once and for all, with no chance of revival. You know what that means.”
Nikitin nodded. “We are continuing our efforts and progressing toward our goal as planned. There has been, however, an unexpected complication.”
“What is it?” Frolov frowned. He didn’t like surprises.
“It’s better that you see it for yourself. It’s on the next page.”
Frolov flipped a sheet over and saw surveillance photos from the Directorate S team in London.
“The Sokolovs?”
“You know of them?” Now it was Nikitin’s turn to be surprised.
“These young men are my old foes. Eugene and Constantine first appeared on the radar back when I worked at the FSB. They’ve become a bit of a nuisance to me ever since. What do they have to do with this?”
“The photos were taken outside Trevor Kendrick’s office,” Nikitin explained. “They showed up for a meeting with Dubrovsky. By all appearances, they have considerable financial resources at their disposal, acquired from unknown sources. And in all likelihood, they have taken over Project Jutland from Dubrovsky. There can be no other logical explanation for their sudden presence. If I may, I would suggest taking care of them as well.”
“I’m giving you the green light. They must be eliminated, regardless of their involvement,” Frolov said. “Project Jutland must be done away with for good. And there’s only one way to put an end to it. Kill Harry. Then I will be able to sleep peacefully at night.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Saveliy Ignatievich,” Nikitin replied. “The Duke of Sussex will die, along with anyone standing behind him.”
31
They were back in London. The clouds were a familiar dark gray. The wipers swept away a drizzle falling on the windshield.
“Starting to feel like home, isn’t it?” Constantine asked.
“I sure hope not. I wouldn’t want to stay here longer than necessary. Not with this kind of weather. And I’ll never get used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“Do we have a home?”
“We are nomad warriors,” Sokolov said. “We’re bound by duty and honor, not geography.”
“Well said.”
Sokolov’s phone bleeped.
“Incoming call from Jeff Monteith,” the built-in AI assistant announced.
“Answer,” Sokolov commanded.
After a beep, Monteith’s voice came through the loudspeaker.
“Hey, Gene. I ran a check on the photo of the passport you sent me. Seems legit, issued by the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Something interesting has cropped up. Turns out this Zelimkhan is the same guy who killed Trevor Kendrick. The Brits detained him but then they had a change of heart and let him off the hook. His real name is unknown, but his face matched a few records. It’s believed that this guy is doing hit jobs for Directorate S.”
“Directorate S?”
“Founded in 1922 by Pavel Sudoplatov,” Constantine said. “Sabotage and extra-judicial killings in foreign countries.”
“That’s right,” Monteith confirmed. “The guy is an international assassin. He’s a known associate of SVR General Yaroslav Nikitin. I’ll ask around some more and I’ll let you know if anything else comes up. I have no idea what kinda mess you’ve got yourself into this time, but you guys had better watch your backs.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
“Over and out.”
The call ended.
“So, that proves the Kremlin’s complicity in the murders beyond any doubt,” Constantine said.
“We figured it from the beginning, but now we have confirmation that it’s an SVR op, we’ll know what to expect. Their MO doesn’t change. Considering how the Kremlin has acted against Project Jutland, they will want to go all the way. Frolov won’t rest easy until Prince Harry is dead.”
“It also means that either Andy or Lana is an SVR agent. And one of them killed Dubrovsky.”
Sokolov glanced at his brother.
“Or both.”
“Complicity means nothing,” Constantine mused, “without accountability.”
They walked to the Airbnb flat after Sokolov parked the Porsche a few blocks away.
At the front door, Constantine pressed the buzzer. Andy opened and they went inside.
“Where’s Lana?” Sokolov asked.
“I locked her up in her bedroom.”
“Why? What happened?”
“She attacked me while trying to escape.”
“Let her out. It’s time to ask her a few questions.”
Andy unlocked the bedroom door.
“Come on out,” he called. “The lads would like to have a word with you.”
She stormed out of the room and faced Eugene and Constantine.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded angrily. “Why am I being treated like some sort of slave?”
“You have any complaints?” Sokolov asked.
“Damned right I do! This oaf of yours tried to take advantage of me!”
“Bollocks!” Andy protested. “She’s lying!”
“All right, calm down, both of you. Lana, sit down. We need to talk.”
She perched on the edge of the couch.
“Did you murder Dubrovsky?” Sokolov asked.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t do anything!”
“Who told you to do it? The Albanians or the Russians?”
“I did no such thing, I swear. What’s wrong with you? I just want to go home. Give me back my phone.”
“It’ll be easier fo
r you if you come clean.”
“That’s enough. I’ve already talked to the police, and I have nothing else to say. Not to you, anyway.”
Constantine said, “Lana, listen to me. First, I will tell you how you did it, and then you will tell us why, okay?”
She stared at him with indignation. “How dare you! I’ve suffered enough already and now I have to put up with these wild allegations. Three grown men picking on a defenseless girl. What do you really want from me, boys? If you’re sadistic perverts and it gives you the kicks, just say it.”
“You poisoned him,” Constantine continued. “It was quite simple, really. He was taking some medicine, wasn’t he?”
“You mean his hard-on pills?” Andy asked.
“Yes, to put it bluntly.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but something flashed in her eyes—a shadow of creeping fear.
“I know for a fact that Mikhail was very cautious about it,” Andy said skeptically. “He bought the pills himself and always kept them close to his chest. He wouldn’t even let me fetch them for him from the pharmacy.”
“See! I told you so!” Lana threw up her hands. “Misha took his pill before he visited my place and I never gave him anything while he was there.”
“That’s right. But you switched the pills during his previous visit. So as he was about to go to your flat that night, he’d already taken the poison. Later, when he died, you switched the pills back and destroyed the evidence. But you made a mistake. A childish error.”
All color had drained from her face.
“It’s quite amusing that you were let down by math, Lana,” Constantine said. “Or, rather, your grasp of basic arithmetic.”
“What?”
“How many tablets were there in the blister?” Constantine asked. “After you’d switched the pills the night before, Dubrovsky took another, making it one less than the previous number. You failed to take it into account as you replaced the packet. You didn’t pop out and throw away the extra pill, keeping the total the same as before. The numbers didn’t add up.”
“Maybe he …” Lana’s voice quivered. “What if Misha forgot to take it?”
“What a load of rubbish!” Andy barked. “I saw him swallow the pill inside the Bentley. You killed him, you whore!”
“There’s no way out of it for you now, Lana,” Sokolov said. “We know exactly what you did.”
The floodgates opened. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she sobbed uncontrollably, burying her face in her hands, her body shaking.
“They forced me,” she moaned through the sobs. “They have my family in Ukraine hostage. They threatened to kill my parents and little sister if I didn’t do it.”
“You said you had no family!” Andy objected. “Are you lying now or were you lying then?”
“It doesn’t matter, Andy,” Sokolov said. “I’m sick of this woman’s deceit and duplicity. We’re done here. You can do whatever you want with her.”
“No!” She glared at him, red-eyed. “Spare me! I’m telling you the truth! Andy has my phone. I can show you the photos! Give it to me. I beg you!”
“Don’t,” Sokolov said. “I’ll have a look at it myself.”
Andy handed him the device.
Sokolov opened the photos app and flicked through the wall of picture thumbnails. Most of the photos were selfies or snaps of assorted food or luxury items. A few images of Dubrovsky. He kept scrolling through the gallery, going all the way back to find what he was looking for.
A picture from a few years ago. Lower quality, obviously taken on an older phone model. A younger Svetlana Shevchenko, long before she’d become Lana Diamond, wearing pigtails and almost no makeup, still in high school, dressed in inexpensive clothes. She was with a middle-aged couple who seemed like they might resemble her father and mother, and another girl, a middle schooler, probably her sibling. Cheap wallpaper in the background which looked like it had remained unchanged since the days of communism.
Apparently, that part of her story checked out.
Sokolov swiped over to the messenger app. At first glance, there was nothing untoward. Dubrovsky topped the recent messages list, followed by random contacts from her address book—Lana’s bank manager, her beautician, a shop assistant from Harrods, and the like.
Sokolov cleared the chat history and opened the app’s preferences pane, hitting a button to restore from backup.
He tapped on the option dated a week ago.
The app downloaded archived messages from the cloud.
Another chat appeared in the recents list—one she had deleted. No name, just a number starting with +44, the U.K. country code. He opened it, reading the last couple of messages.
“luv u bae xxx”
“I love you too, miss you ❤️”
He scrolled back, going through some smutty sexting, but he’d already seen enough.
Sokolov enlarged the profile picture.
The guy was full of himself. Aviator glasses, coiffed hair, trimmed beard, biceps-hugging tee.
Sokolov turned the phone screen at Lana.
“Who is it? Is this your handler?”
“Yes,” she said. “He was the one who told me to start a relationship with Misha.”
“Are you sleeping with him as well?”
She nodded slowly.
“You will spill everything you know about him.”
32
His name was Philipp Korolev, anglicized to Phil for short. A perennial fixture on the social scene, partying in London’s nightclubs and shisha bars. When he was younger, he’d been known as Little Czar among friends, but with age the friends had dropped off and the diminutive had dropped away. Today, he liked to be called Czar of England. He belonged to the new breed of the super-wealthy Russian elite. His father was a metals magnate. Iron ore and crude steel. And just as tough.
“Phil didn’t talk about his father much,” Lana said. “All I know is that he made his fortune by being friends with someone from the Russian intelligence service. Very close to the Russian government.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“Something like Nikitin. I think.”
“Yaroslav Nikitin, SVR,” Sokolov said. “Go on.”
“When he was fourteen, Phil’s parents sent him to a boarding school in Merseyside. After his pampered life inside his Moscow mansion, it came as a shock. He felt like he’d been thrown into prison. He didn’t speak the language. His grades were poor. The other boys bullied him. He was alone and miserable in a foreign country, with nobody he could turn to for support. He didn’t make any friends. He didn’t go out. His parents visited him once every three months for a couple of days. He withdrew into his shell. Ten months in, his mental condition had deteriorated so badly that he had to be put in a clinic. Some sort of a psychiatric institution which specialized in treating severe anxiety and depression. He spent several weeks there. He said it was pure hell. He still hates Liverpool. I’m not a doctor, but, you know, I don’t think it was depression he was suffering from. More like schizophrenia.”
“How come?”
“He can be funny and sociable one moment and distant and emotionless the next, as if a switch goes off. I think he went a little insane from whatever trauma he had suffered back then—if not before. He’s not right in the head. The way he would stare at me with his black eyes. That stare. Cold. Cruel.” Lana shuddered. “Anyway, when he returned to school, he got transferred to Eton. Afterwards, he went to Oxford. His father wanted him to become an investment banker. But he dropped out during the freshman year. He never finished his studies. Then he disappeared for a couple of years.”
“Where did he go?”
“Moscow, I guess. He never mentioned it. But he came back to London later. He suddenly became an Internet entrepreneur. He still is, or claims to be. Apparently, his business has become so successful that he’s also involved in a lot of charity work. It’s all a scam. Nobody knows the real source of his income. Everyone ass
umes it’s his daddy’s money. But he’s got close ties to Freddie Berisha.”
“It was Phil who got to pick you from Berisha initially, wasn’t it?”
Lana nodded.
“And he set up your affair with Dubrovsky and had you poison him.”
“Yes, dammit.”
There wasn’t a trace of guilt in her voice, just annoyance.
“Why?”
“He’s my Little Czar and I’m his little love.”
When she finished her story, they followed it up with some OSINT as Andy referred to it—open source intelligence—to back up the details.
His social media profile checked out. Flashy cars, gaudy Gucci and D&G gear, hot chicks. Public events and private parties, hanging out with British and Russian celebrities. Summer beaches, from the hectic nightlife of Ibiza to the canopied cabanas of Forte dei Marmi. Winter vacations spent skiing in St. Moritz and Courchevel. Bucketloads of beluga caviar and rivers of champagne and vodka. The typical excesses of Russian oligarch offspring.
What made him stand apart was not visible on the outside. His background and his undercover activities, including ties with the Albanian Mafia.
The two years back in Russia were a yawning black hole which had caused a break in his stream of photos and Kremlin-supporting posts. During that time off the grid, he had most likely been schooled at an SVR training facility. Upon graduation he had been sent back to the U.K. as an intelligence asset. He was an illegal, operating without diplomatic cover.
They had to dig deep into the Pavlova Papers to find a match. But it was there. Phil Korolev’s company had been pumped full of dirty Kremlin money. The charity organization was an SVR front to launder illicit profits and bankroll covert action. Hence the Albanian connection.
And his family’s close links with Directorate S Chief Nikitin meant that he’d been groomed for the role of running SVR black ops in London.
“Do you know anything about the plot to kill Prince Harry?” Sokolov asked.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 12
