Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  Firing up the engine and stomping the accelerator, he raced away.

  The Macan purred.

  As he sped down the street, Sokolov banged a fist against the steering wheel in frustration.

  He drew a long breath. He had to assess the situation with a clear mind.

  He’d sent Lana straight into a trap. Like a spider catching a fly in his web, Phil Korolev would have gotten her anyway, eventually. The Albanians had already snatched her in order to dispose of her following the Dubrovsky job. But Sokolov hated to think he’d had a hand in bringing her death forward. And at what cost? He’d lost the match, completely outplayed. The SVR man had been toying with him, showing him who was in control.

  And it also meant that the safe house had likely been compromised.

  The Kremlin was hunting for Sokolov and his brother. But the two knife-wielding thugs attacking him just now had been rushed into action, coming unprepared for the task. Phil hadn’t expected to see him outside the hotel. He’d probably only spotted Sokolov at the last moment as he was driving away.

  The main attacking force would assemble elsewhere.

  They were about to hit the safe house.

  Constantine and Andy faced imminent danger.

  He stepped on it.

  35

  Constantine applied a fresh dressing to the wound using a sterile gauze pad and some antiseptic ointment from the medicine cabinet. Eugene had stitched him up and given him strict directions to adhere to. The sutures were holding up well. The wound was clean and dry, healing. It still hurt, though, so Constantine popped a painkiller and washed it down together with the antibiotics. He’d wanted to accompany his brother, but Eugene had deemed it too dangerous and told him to stay behind and get some rest.

  “How’s your recovery?” Andy asked after he emerged from the bathroom.

  “Improving, I guess. It isn’t anything new. I’ve been wounded before. Left arm. I’ll catch up with my brother soon for the number of scars we carry. Is it something you get used to?”

  “I can’t say I enjoyed getting shot the second time more than I did the first. So not really, no.”

  “How many times have you been hit?”

  “More than I care to remember. Still got a piece of shrapnel stuck somewhere in me. Doesn’t bother me as much as it used to, and on the plus side I can predict the weather fairly accurately. The physical injuries will heal,” Andy said, tapping his forehead with a finger, “but the mental ones stay with you for a long time.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Afghanistan,” Andy replied and quickly changed the subject. “Oh, I loved how you nailed it with the number of pills. I wonder why I hadn’t thought of it. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Really?”

  “I bluffed. And she fell for it. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. And I’m not entirely convinced about the role you’re playing, either.”

  “What are you getting at, mate?”

  Constantine decided to play it straight. Face to face, Andy could tell him to piss off if he got it wrong. Or he could reach for the Browning and shoot him on the spot. Misjudgment could prove fatal, but Constantine’s gut told him it was worth a punt.

  “Who are you working for, Andy? It’s not the Russians and it wasn’t Kendrick. Who hired you to protect Dubrovsky? The same people he was fronting Project Jutland for? You’re part of the cabal, aren’t you.”

  The ex-SAS man held his gaze and said nothing for a few seconds.

  “You’re rather smart. Congrats, you’ve figured it out,” he admitted finally. “They are very keen on meeting you. I’ve been asked to arrange it.”

  Constantine noted that he was given no choice whether to accept the invitation.

  Screeching tires sounded from the street. He approached the window and pulled the blinds away just enough to get a view of the road and avoid being seen. Below, a BMW X5 had pulled up in front of the terraced building and a group of goons piled out of the vehicle.

  Five men in total, toting Skorpions.

  “Are these some of your co-conspirators?” Constantine asked.

  “No, they must be Albanians,” Andy replied, peering out. “Freddie Berisha’s muscle. And they’re going after us. Looks like we’ve got some unwelcome visitors.”

  The front door of the apartment flew open as Berisha’s thugs burst inside. They were ready to gun down anyone they encountered.

  Constantine observed as they searched every corner of every room, dispersing from the lounge and going through the bedrooms, the barrels of the Skorpions sweeping for targets.

  Finding none.

  The flat was empty.

  Constantine watched them move around on his phone screen. The video stream came from a nanny camera, installed in the living room by the Airbnb host, an anti-burglary measure for the guests’ peace of mind.

  Knowing that Lana couldn’t be trusted, Constantine had relocated to a different apartment upstairs. Better safe than sorry. Apart from the insurance against treachery, they’d needed the extra pad anyway. If anything, it would relieve any potential awkwardness of having three grown men sharing a flat with a murderous prostitute.

  Finding a suitable alternative among a several other Airbnb offers in the same building had presented no difficulty, and he’d checked into the new flat minutes after Lana’s departure. Located on the third floor, directly above the other flat, it provided an excellent view of the street.

  “You were right, after all,” Andy said.

  The simple precaution had saved their lives.

  For now.

  “Let’s hold off the celebrations until they’ve gone,” Constantine said. “Something tells me they won’t be fooled so easily.”

  Having cleared every room, the Albanian goons returned to the lounge. A heated and animated exchange between them followed. As they shouted at each other in exasperation, one of the thugs turned toward the nanny cam spying on them.

  It caught his eye.

  He barked at the others and motioned for them to calm down as he discovered the device and picked it up, his face filling Constantine’s screen.

  “Smile, you bastard, you’re on Candid Camera.”

  The thug grabbed the nanny cam and threw it on the floor violently. The video image shook and went dead as the device smashed into pieces.

  Phil Korolev took Berisha’s call.

  “You got them?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “My men arrived to the address you provided and broke in. They found only her stuff there. The girl’s clothes and toiletries. Nobody else was there. But the flat was being monitored.”

  “What?”

  “A security camera was streaming video.”

  The SVR man laughed.

  “The fools must be thinking they’ve outsmarted us. Constantine and the bodyguard are somewhere inside the building. Tatiana and Olga have kept the house under surveillance: they would’ve seen anyone leaving. Have your men go through every floor and check every apartment. Knock down every door if necessary, do whatever it takes to find them.”

  “Understood. There will be no escape.”

  “And tell your men to be on the lookout for a Porsche Macan with Swiss plates. Sokolov will be rushing back to save his brother.”

  The Albanian thugs had no intention of retreating. Only the driver returned to his car, scanning the street from his position behind the wheel. The rest remained inside the building.

  “Where are they?” Constantine wondered.

  “They’re searching for us,” Andy said. “And they’ll find us eventually. We’ve got to make a run for it before they get here.”

  He grabbed his Browning and headed to the front door. Constantine followed. He pressed the video doorbell button. There was nobody outside. Now was their chance.

  They rushed out of the apartment and ran toward the fire stairs. As they reached the ground floor, an armed Albanian stood in their path, blocking t
he exit. Seeing them, he raised his weapon.

  The gunshot boomed as Andy’s Browning blew a hole in his skull, spraying flecks of crimson on the nearest wall.

  The gunfire drew alarmed shouts from above. Thumping feet charged down the stairs. Berisha’s men were hot on their heels.

  Andy and Constantine hurried through the exit door. Out in the street, the BMW’s driver detected them and aimed his Skorpion through his vehicle’s rolled-down window. Andy blasted a few rounds at the SUV, the shots hammering the windshield, hitting the driver who dropped his weapon before he could fire.

  Passersby scampered away, their cries echoing in a cacophony.

  Another vehicle braked suddenly in front of Constantine. The Macan. He lunged to the rear door, yanking it open, and dived inside. Andy jumped into the passenger seat and Eugene sent the Porsche flying to safety, chased by bullets. Firing their Skorpions, the thugs missed. The distance between them and the Macan was increasing.

  Eugene swung the car into a sharp turn.

  Seconds later, the BMW X5 loomed in the rearview mirror. The thugs were gaining in on them, fast.

  Instead of firing at the pursuers, Andy was tapping furiously on his phone screen.

  They were down Brompton Road, a wealthy shop-lined strip which ran toward the ultimate luxury retail destination, Harrods.

  “Make a right turn,” Andy said. “There’s a car park on Pavilion Road. We’ve got to reach it.”

  Eugene veered in front of oncoming traffic, almost colliding with a red double-decker bus as he threw the Macan into the adjacent street. Horns blared in his wake.

  In a few moments, he found the parking garage. At the entrance, the barrier snapped off as the SUV powered straight through it.

  The BMW followed them in. The Albanians were getting within shooting distance now.

  The covered parking lot lacked any room to maneuver. The parking spaces on either side were taken up. Heading down the central access lane, they would hit a dead end. Turning off and going around in a circle, they still had nowhere to hide. They’d get cornered eventually.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, because I don’t!” Constantine muttered from the rear seat, watching their chasers gain ground.

  As the thugs tailed them across the parking lot, a black Mercedes Vito van pulled out and cut in front of the BMW.

  The X5 braked to a halt, tires squealing against the paved surface.

  The van’s side door slid open and three men jumped out. They wore balaclavas to hide their faces. In their hands they were holding Kalashnikov rifles. They leveled the weapons at the BMW and opened fire.

  The roaring unison filled the indoor car park with thunder. The AKs unleashed a slug storm that peppered the BMW mercilessly, riddling it full of holes as it perforated metal, blew out rubber, and demolished glass, killing everyone inside the vehicle, blood splattering around the SUV’s interior. A chilling stillness fell after the gunmen had emptied their magazines.

  Two more masked men appeared in front of the Macan, aiming their AKs, forcing Eugene to stop the car.

  “I’m sorry,” Andy said as he leaped out of the Porsche.

  It was a trap, but the Albanians weren’t the only ones it had been set up for.

  The trio of shooters dropped the AKs and pulled out handguns, surrounding the Macan. Threatening with the weapons, they made the Sokolovs leave the vehicle. As soon as they got out, the balaclavaed attackers dragged Eugene and Constantine toward the van. Black bags were pulled over their heads and the Sokolovs were pushed unceremoniously inside, landing on the floor.

  The sliding door slammed shut.

  In the darkness, they could only hear the rumble of the diesel engine and feel the bumps vibrating through the van’s body as the Vito exited the parking lot and merged into traffic.

  36

  Sokolov counted off numbers in his head to keep track of time.

  He struggled to pick up any outside sound, hearing only the noise of traffic. No voices. No indication of where they were being taken.

  Just as his mental stopwatch was about to hit one thousand seconds, the van bounced and halted.

  The sliding door rolled open and he was shoved out, almost tripping as his feet landed on the ground.

  “Hey! Easy!” Constantine protested as he was being manhandled.

  Sokolov’s hands were free, but his urge to strip the bag off his head was curbed by a gun muzzle jammed into the small of his back.

  At gunpoint, they were led through a door. Sokolov’s sense of spatial awareness recorded his movement, in order to retrace the steps should they manage to escape.

  Left turn. A stretching corridor. Right turn. Another set of doors. Then they were escorted inside a large room that smelled of cigars and old leather and wood. Thick carpeting under his shoes.

  A push on his shoulder, forcing him down, seating him in a deep armchair.

  Finally, the hood was removed from his head.

  Sokolov and his brother found themselves in a cavernous hall. Massive columns supported a domed glass atrium, giving the enclosed area an imposing, palatial feel. The mahogany-paneled walls bore nineteenth-century oil on canvas portraits in gilded frames. Sokolov had no idea who the pictured men were, but they were covered in regalia and must have been important historical figures.

  The gunmen retreated and disappeared.

  There was nobody else in the room except for a bespectacled man in a three-piece suit who sat facing them. He was motionless, as if posing for another painting which would adorn one of the walls. His face had sagging skin, with baggy eyes and a turkey neck. When his thin lips parted, he spoke in an upper-class accent, the long vowels dripping with prestige.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Who are you?” Sokolov asked.

  “We are called E3. It stands for our motto. Enlightenment, Empowerment, Enigma. As for me personally, you may address me as Sir Gray, or better yet, Worshipful Master.”

  “So, we’re in the hands of the cabal,” Constantine said. “Some kind of a Masonic lodge, is that what it is? And you’re the leader? A bit of a letdown, really. It’s not how I imagined it.”

  “What did you expect?” the man replied. “Funny handshakes? Black mass at midnight? How silly. We never resort to vulgar theatrics. You might call our organization quasi-Masonic, however. After all, we were part of the Grand Lodge of England until 1873, when we splintered off. Our founders were radical thinkers. Since then, our influence has grown far beyond even their wildest dreams. E3 operates as a sort of shadow government. Prominent politicians and bankers are all vying to join this ultra-exclusive club, but they have to be put on the waiting list. We may number fewer than fifteen hundred members, but our organization is a state within a state.”

  “Complete with its own private army,” Sokolov noted.

  “Indeed. And it has rescued you from those vicious Albanian thugs. Not that I expected any you to show any kind of gratitude in return.”

  Constantine said, “A secret society ought to remain secret, so why are you telling us about it? Are you going to kill us as well?”

  “My boy, don’t be silly. I wouldn’t have saved your lives in the first place,” the Worshipful Master said. “No, the brief introduction was a means of initiation. After the untimely demise of Mikhail Dubrovsky and Trevor Kendrick, a couple of vacancies have opened up in Project Jutland. I’m inviting the two of you to fill those positions. A unique privilege is bestowed upon you. You will jump ahead of many others in the queue, but being Russian, I believe you’re perfectly suited for the role. Plus, I imagine that you already know more about Project Jutland than almost anyone else.”

  “Yes,” Constantine said. “And that makes your proposition all the more surprising. Sir Gray, do you really think we’ll agree to work for a bunch of predators who wish to plunder our country?”

  The Worshipful Master of the E3 Lodge was taken aback.

  “H
ow amusing. I see that you are men of principle. A dying breed. You won’t last long in this dark world.”

  “We’re getting by, thanks,” Sokolov said in support of his brother.

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course. But throughout history, Russia has only ever been good at exporting raw materials and women. It’s been like that for more than a millennium, and it isn’t about to change any time soon. Do you really care about whoever is going to exploit Russia’s resources. Unlike the Chekists, I can promise you that we won’t stage acts of terror across Europe and the country’s nuclear arsenal won’t end up in the hands of a madman. Isn’t that a fair trade-off for peace and stability? Think about it,” Sir Gray said. “You’ll be the richest men in Russia.”

  Sokolov was adamant. “I’m afraid we’ll have to turn down your magnanimous offer.”

  The man’s face turned to stone as he voiced a veiled threat.

  “Nobody has ever turned us down. Your arrogance will cost you dearly.”

  Sokolov studied him. The decision had been made by this shadowy group, and it was final. Sir Gray was merely delivering it to them. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was going to kill them unless they cooperated. They hadn’t been brought here for a cup of tea, they were being coerced to work for E3 like Dubrovsky, whether they liked it or not. The gunmen were still waiting outside, ready to take them out and dispose of them if they bucked.

  Sokolov and his brother exchanged glances. Despite their opposition to Project Jutland, they had to test the waters first and see where things stood. They had no other choice if they wanted to survive.

  “What about Prince Harry?” Constantine asked. “Has he accepted your offer?”