“And if he manages to get out alive?”
“Saveliy Ignatievich, with all due respect, that’s a little far-fetched.”
“Trust me, Sokolov has been through worse, and managed to escape. Well?”
“We have every variable under control, every contingency assessed. In this particular scenario, Sokolov and the E3 will destroy each other. And we’ll still be able to use his brother for the backup option.”
“Excellent,” Frolov commended him, convinced. “I’m giving my seal of approval to this job. Just tell me one thing. Whose idea was it? Yours?”
“No. It was Philipp’s.”
Frolov nodded. “Your boy has done well.”
44
Sir Gray did not take the news of the failed Maldives raid kindly.
“Are you bloody serious? Dead? All of them?”
Sitting in a comfortable armchair next to him and nursing a Scotch, Kane Gilmour nodded.
“All of them bar Sokolov. He was the sole survivor. He called to be picked up by the seaplane and he was alone at the villa. The rest of the team was gone. Now he’s en route back to London.”
“So, what do you make of it?”
Kane Gilmour was a longtime E3 member. Sir Gray trusted the counterterrorism officer’s expertise. He’d provided intel support and assigned a couple of his former colleagues for the Maldives mission.
He replied, “It all seems dodgy as hell to me, sir. He was the only non-specialist team member during that assault. And he walks away uninjured while everyone else is killed in action. I knew Townsend and McGill, I’ve worked with them before. I can vouch that they were among the hardest couple of bastards I’ve seen. And yet they didn’t make it off that island. Sokolov did. Naturally, questions need to be asked.”
“And we shouldn’t forget he’s Russian, after all,” Sir Gray added pensively. “Has he been compromised? Perhaps he’s being blackmailed through his brother? Constantine has gone missing under rather strange circumstances. Do you have anything on that?”
“It was most unusual. He was nabbed during a walk in Hyde Park. Again, one of our agents assigned to him was killed. Witnesses claim that Constantine got tasered and was dragged to a car. But the whole attack could well have been staged to make it look like a kidnapping, in order to make him to vanish off our radar.”
“Do you believe the Sokolovs have been playing us the whole time? Mocking us? Such arrogance would be scandalous and absolutely unacceptable.”
“I wouldn’t discount that possibility. Remember, they showed up at Reto Hofmann’s house and he got killed as well.”
“Weren’t you there when that Russian assassin was released from custody? In fairness, wasn’t he the one who whacked the Swiss lawyer?”
“The decision came from the top and I was powerless to stop it. And we still don’t know exactly what happened at Hofmann’s house, or what Mahmoudov’s relationship with the Sokolovs was, but the fact remains that it all makes for yet another odd coincidence.”
Sir Gray concurred. Everything had gone astray ever since the Sokolov had shown up.
It remained unclear where exactly had they come from and what the source of their wealth was. It was highly unlikely that the riches had just fallen into their lap without some sort of a trail leading to the Kremlin.
“Tell me, Kane, how do we go about the Sokolov problem? Shall we just, how should I put it, eradicate it?”
Gilmour said, “I think it would be premature. I would advise any against rash decisions. I suggest keeping him under surveillance, for now. Why is he coming back? It could be that he’s seeking contact with his brother. And if he’s a double agent, he might lead us to Berisha.”
“You still haven’t managed to locate him?”
The SO19 man shook his head. “No, he’s gone into hiding. We’re keeping an eye on all the usual Mafia joints frequented by the Albanians, but he’s nowhere to be found.”
“I see,” Sir Gray grunted, his mouth twisting into a scowl.
Securing Project Jutland was paramount. The main item on the agenda remained unchanged, and since the Maldives fiasco, they haven’t moved a step closer to it. Phil Korolev was out there somewhere, plotting his next move, and Berisha gave them the only known connection to Korolev.
“We must exercise patience and caution regarding Sokolov,” Sir Gray said. “He might lead us to Berisha and, by extension, Korolev. Carry on tracking him. Later, we can solve all of our problems at once.”
“What if Sokolov proves his innocence?” Gilmour asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sir Gray said. “He has already let us down. He had a chance to prove his worth and failed. Such mistakes can neither be fixed nor tolerated. They should be punished—for good.”
45
Constantine levitated.
He was hanging suspended above the ground, his hands tied behind his back. Dangling his legs and curling his bare toes, he could hardly touch the tiled surface of the floor. The pull of the rope felt like his arms were being ripped out of their sockets. His skin felt raw where the rope was tightly secured around his wrists, and his fingers were getting numb. But it was the intense pain in his muscles that was truly mind-numbing.
The room he was in was windowless and unfurnished, dimly lit with LED spots in the ceiling. He’d only just come round.
He was stripped to his waist and he saw there was a double bruise mark on his chest, left by the electric barbs. He remembered being tasered. A dull headache throbbing in his head told him he’d been subsequently sedated.
He had no idea where he was and how long he’d been there.
Was he still in England? Or Russia?
Constantine screamed, his desperate cry echoing around the empty walls.
It was futile. Nobody but his captors would hear him. Attracted by his cries, they would only make his suffering worse.
He had to do something.
Or else he would die there. He knew it for certain.
Reverse hanging, or strappado, was a famed Inquisition torture method still widely used in Russian prisons and other institutions with no regard for human rights. Also known as Palestinian hanging, it resulted in shoulder dislocation and ligament damage. He wondered how much longer he could go on like this. A prolonged period of reverse hanging would lead to muscle necrosis and eventual death.
A door opened and a man entered the room.
Constantine had never met him in person before, but he nonetheless recognized the man as Phil Korolev.
“Little Phil,” Constantine croaked, his throat parched. “I knew your small size complex made you become a sick sadist, but this bondage stuff is a bit too much even for a pervert like you.”
The snide bastard gave him a wink as he punched Constantine across the face. Blood trickled from the split lip, filling his mouth with its coppery taste, but the sting of the blow felt like nothing compared to the excruciating pain in his shoulders.
“You still haven’t learned your lesson, have you?” Phil said. “You dare mock me. You must have thought you were so smart, trying to dupe me, using that whore. And in the end you were the one who fell your own trick. That broad, Dubrovsky’s daughter, set you up and you took the bait like an idiot. You and your brother both did. And now I’ve got you right where I want you. Cry more, call for help, Eugene won’t be coming to rescue you. He hasn’t been any good at saving whores, anyway, and you’re definitely one—a traitor who sold out his country to the West. As we speak, your brother is begging for mercy, weeping like a girl. He’d do anything to have his life spared. He’s practically disavowed you to save himself. He stabbed you in the back. I bet you never saw that coming, did you? So, Constantine, where’s your bravado now? Cat got your tongue, wise guy?”
Constantine spat at him, and the blob of saliva mixed with blood hit Phil in the face.
The SVR stood there for a moment, stunned and infuriated. An ugly grimace contorted his face but he quickly regained his composure as he drew a knife.
&
nbsp; “How disgusting, yet unoriginal,” Phil said. “I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”
He pressed the serrated blade to Constantine’s throat.
“Just for that, I should flay you alive and leave you hanging like this until you bleed out,” he threatened. “The problem is, I have something else in store for you.”
“A dose of Novichok?”
Phil chuckled.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
Korolev drew the knife away from Constantine’s neck and slashed the rope. Constantine landed hard on the floor. The fall rattled his bones and knocked the wind out of him. Catching his breath, he tried to get up but his muscles and ligaments were on fire.
Phil planted a heavy shoe into Constantine’s chest and pressed down with his weight.
“You only succeeded in sealing your own fate when you tried to derail my mission. You and your brother killed my man, Zelimkhan, before he could complete it. Someone will have to take his place now. No matter. Sometimes this line of work requires a bit of improvisation. Dead or alive, both of you will help me finish the job.”
46
A cold and clammy morning mist enveloped London when Sokolov returned. He bypassed inspection as he entered the country, but he couldn’t slip away unnoticed by a couple of E3 spotters anticipating his arrival. They followed him out of the terminal.
He had his guns, packed into a duffel bag, with him, but he found himself without a car, and he needed to get one quickly.
He hailed a cab and jumped into the rear seat, keeping the bag at his feet.
“Where to, sir?” a gray-templed cabbie inquired.
“Harrods,” Sokolov replied.
The cabbie looked over the sportswear he was dressed in and gave him a subtle nod.
As the cab pulled away, Sokolov noticed a white Volkswagen Tiguan trailing it at a distance. The two E3 agents occupied the SUV.
When the taxi reached Knightsbridge, Sokolov said to the driver, “Do you see that white Volkswagen behind you?”
“The one that’s been tailing us from the airport?”
“Yes,” Sokolov said. “Lose it.”
“Hey, I don’t know who you are, but I’m not playing any of your games.”
Sokolov waved a wad of hundred-pound notes at the driver.
“I’ll tip you really rather well.”
Glancing at the rearview mirror and seeing the money, the cabbie said, “On the other hand, why not?”
“That’s better. Do you know the car park on Pavilion Road? Drop me off there.”
“Okay, guv’nor.”
The cabbie proved just how good he was at his profession. London had been the world’s first city to introduce licensed taxi trade some 350 years ago, and even today, black cab drivers relied on the ‘Knowledge’ instead of GPS—they had to commit to memory every street within a six-mile radius of Charing Cross in Westminster, and know every point of interest on each of the thousands of those streets.
Sokolov’s driver didn’t need to resort to any dangerous, high-speed maneuvers to shake off their pursuers. He used his brain, precise steering and little bursts of acceleration to leave the Tiguan stranded in traffic while the cab found pockets of space and navigated corners, weaving through a series of streets until it popped up on Pavilion Road somehow and slid into the car park.
“Brilliantly done, thanks,” Sokolov said as he stuck the bills into the driver’s hand.
“Any time. Good luck.”
Grabbing his bag, Sokolov leaped out of the cab and slammed the door shut. The driver performed a hairpin turn and sped away.
Sokolov stood behind a row of parked cars and observed the main access lane. His wait didn’t last long. A couple of minutes later, the Tiguan entered the car park, LED running lights glowing.
Someone from the E3 probably had access to CCTV footage, which enabled them to find him.
Sokolov had counted on that.
Dropping off his bag on the ground, he ducked and hid behind a concrete pillar.
The SUV eased down the main access lane until one of the E3 men spotted Sokolov’s bag. The Tiguan braked sharply and the two agents scrambled out of the vehicle.
They were looking him, and they knew he was somewhere near.
Both were middle-aged and neither seemed to be in really good shape. Ex-cops, most likely, whose fitness levels were a far cry from those of SAS commandos. That didn’t make them less dangerous, though. There was always a possibility that they carried firearms, and Sokolov didn’t want to give them a chance to use any weapons against him.
He caught the sound of their footfalls as they wordlessly scanned the parking area.
When one of them was level with the pillar, Sokolov was onto him in a flash. Before the man could realize what was going on, Sokolov rushed out, grabbed him, and propelled him at the column with enormous force. The E3 member slammed against the concrete and sank to the ground.
His partner lunged forward, attacking Sokolov with a flying fist. Sokolov parried the punch and countered with a bone-crunching blow to his ribs. As the man staggered back, gasping in pain, Sokolov lashed out with a sweeping roundhouse that connected with his jaw, fracturing it, and sending him to kiss the floor, out cold.
Sokolov snatched the VW key fob off him, patting him over and finding no gun. Just as well. It meant that the two men had been sent just to spy on Sokolov. Getting rid of them should give him enough breathing space.
He needed some leeway for what he was about to do.
He tossed the duffel bag through the rear door of the Tiguan, climbed behind the wheel, and sped out of the parking garage.
Now, for a start, he had solved the car problem, getting a set of wheels at the E3’s expense.
It should make things a little easier. Perhaps just enough for him to survive and find his brother.
47
Sokolov was back at the so-called Red-light Towers, the high-rise whorehouse which Taulant, Lana’s pimp, had previously showed him and Andy into.
On his way there, Sokolov had stopped over at the nearest petrol station and convenience store, where he’d stocked up on all the necessary supplies to produce Molotov cocktails—a can of kerosene, alcohol in glass bottles, lighters, paper towels for wicks.
He parked the Tiguan curbside, climbed out, opened the rear door, and picked his inventory. He slung a submachine gun over his shoulder and tucked a pistol under his belt. Then he pocketed lighters, grenades, and spare mags, a couple of each. Finally, he pulled on a balaclava, left in the car by one of the E3 men, to conceal his face and grabbed a pair of Molotovs.
Entering the brothel block, he encountered no resistance in the empty lobby, and took the elevator, hitting a random button. The lift stopped on the third floor and he stepped out.
In the corridor, he heard R&B music blasting from inside one of the rooms. He approached the door, which was slightly ajar, and kicked it open.
Two thots in tees and thongs, a blonde and a brunette, stared at him in startled amazement.
There was no one else in the room. They must have been having some downtime in between clients.
“Get the hell out of here! Now!” Sokolov shouted.
The call girls obeyed, needing no further encouragement having seen his hardware, and ran out screaming.
He set a Molotov bottle down on the floor while he held the other one, lighting it. The flame danced along the wick, burning through the soaked paper rapidly. Sokolov flung the Molotov into the corner of the room. The glass bottle shattered and the mixture ignited, flames swooshing, the carpeting, wallpaper, and cheap curtains all catching fire.
Sokolov lit up the second petrol bomb and tossed it into the middle of the room to increase the inferno. Moments later, the entire room was ablaze as he made his escape.
He charged down the fire stairs and exited the building. Crossing the street, he headed back toward the SUV.
Sokolov sat behind the wheel and watched. Smoke billowing from the third-fl
oor window. The blaze was intensifying. Soon it would spread into the neighboring rooms and across the entire floor.
A central smoke alarm must have gone off inside the building because a procession of partially dressed women and a few men began filing out of the exit and fleeing the whorehouse in mild shock.
Sokolov waited until the fire brigade arrived six minutes later, making sure that no people would be trapped in the fire before he left.
He’d achieved the desired effect, sowing panic and confusion within enemy ranks.
The arson was a message to the Albanians, signed, sealed, and delivered.
He hadn’t intended to inflict any real casualties—not here and now, at least.
At any rate, the prostitutes were only doing their job. Many were sex slaves and didn’t deserve to die or suffer any more than they had already. It wasn’t them he was fighting against.
He’d seen enough of the show he’d put on, so he threw the Tiguan into gear and sped away.
This was just the warm-up.
He had some bigger fish to fry.
48
Still in his twenties, Armando Strakosha was among the youngest street crew bosses in the gang, but he was also one of Freddie Berisha’s key men. He was the king of retail, pushing the dope on the streets and raking in the cash. His crew of dealers and enforcers did not shy away from violence, keeping his home turf in an iron grip. Strakosha also had a penchant for bling, wheeling around his territory in a Bentley convertible, flashing a diamond-studded Rolex and wearing thick gold chains over his hoodie, all of which openly taunted the British bobbies he encountered.
Strakosha was sitting alone at a table inside the Albanian café in Soho. A money counting machine whirred as he tallied the previous day’s proceeds, arranging the stacks of banknotes into a neat row atop the tablecloth. Under the table, he kept an AK, affectionately referred to as kalash.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 18
