Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  She froze in complete stupor, her eyes darting between Sokolov’s face and the Skorpion cradled on his lap.

  “Who are you? What do you want? I’ll call the police!”

  “You’ll do no such thing if you want to live. And to answer your questions, I’m Eugene Sokolov, Constantine’s brother. I’m here to listen to what you have to say.”

  Her face turned pale. Her knees buckling, she reached for an armchair for support and fell into the seat. Sokolov struggled to judge whether her display of emotion was real or she was putting on a show.

  She certainly possessed her father’s acumen.

  “Why don’t you just leave and let’s forget the whole thing,” she offered. “How did you get here? Did you break in? It’s against the law!”

  “Trust me, I’m not the least bit bothered about that. I’ll stop at nothing and it’s non-negotiable. Don’t get cute with me. All you can do right now is bargain for your life by telling me the truth.”

  Her breathing quickened. “Your brother. Is he okay?”

  “Perhaps you should be asking those who abducted him—with your help.”

  “It was Monsieur Henri’s idea. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, almost. All I had to do was make a call.”

  “Where’s your majordomo now?”

  “He took leave. I think he’s gone to France for a couple of weeks. I haven’t heard from him or his friend.”

  “His friend?”

  “The one he introduced me to and who asked to set up the meeting with Constantine.”

  Sokolov fished out his phone and showed her a photo of the SVR man.

  “Was it this guy?”

  “Yes, it’s him. He said his name was Phil.”

  “Philipp Korolev.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know how to get in touch with him?”

  “He gave me his number.”

  “Call him. Now.”

  With quivering fingers, she retrieved her phone, searched through contacts, and hit the dial button. She put the call on loudspeaker. After a few beeps, the connection dropped.

  “Try again,” Sokolov commanded.

  She did.

  Again, no answer.

  Desperation flashed in her eyes.

  “What are you going to do next? Kill me?”

  Sokolov said nothing. He let the silence hang in the air.

  “I don’t fight against women,” he finally replied. “Without any doubt, your treachery deserves punishment. But there’s something far more adequate for you than death. And just as terrifying.”

  She looked aghast at what the prospect might be.

  He produced a wad of bills from his pocket at set it on the coffee table separating them.

  “Are you giving alms? Or trying to buy me on the cheap? I’d rather die than let you take me!”

  “It’s neither charity nor your thirty pieces of silver. And don’t flatter yourself. It’s your air fare.”

  “What?” she asked, utterly at a loss.

  “You will leave and never set foot in London again. Your father was exiled here, while you will do the opposite. You’ll be condemned to living in Russia.”

  “No.” She stared at him. “No way. You can’t do this to me! No!”

  Tears streaked down her cheeks. The very thought of giving up her pampered lifestyle and the comforts of Western civilization, returning to the harsh, bleak urban jungle of Moscow, petrified her.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “The people I work with are very powerful. They control the courts. They will make your life miserable. You will lose everything you have in the U.K. My advice is, pack your bags and go back to your Motherland where your newly found friends will take care of you. You’ll even keep your money, it’s just that you’ll be forced to spend it inside your own country.”

  Sobs racked her body. He might as well have told her to spend the best years of her life in hell.

  He felt no sympathy for her. She was in for a rude awakening, getting in touch with reality. Rediscovering her roots would do her a world of good. She might even find some simp to get married to, have kids, and settle down.

  A ringtone sounded.

  It wasn’t her phone. It was his.

  Sokolov snatched the device, glancing at the screen.

  Constantine.

  He couldn’t hit the answer button fast enough.

  “Hello?”

  There was a lengthy silence at the other end.

  “Eugene?”

  The voice didn’t belong to Constantine. It was someone else.

  After another pause, the voice said, “I’ve got a couple of missed calls from Marina, so I’ve figured that you paid her a visit. It’s about time we had a straight talk without intermediaries. Well, congratulations. You’ve been dying to find me, so here I am.”

  “Phil, I promise you that I will kill you. You have my word.”

  “I wonder which desire is stronger for you? Killing me or rescuing Constantine? The number I’m calling from suggests that I’m still holding him prisoner. But my good will means that I’m ready to discuss the conditions of his release.”

  “What do you want?”

  “My terms are simple. As you probably know, I’ve put a lot of effort in to crush Project Jutland. But even my resources, and those of the Kremlin, are limited to a certain extent. I can’t reach my goal as long as the E3 lodge is still actively involved. To solve this problem, I need assistance from someone who can go inside. This is where you come in. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  “How?”

  “I want you to kill Sir Gray. Only when I get proof that he died at your hands, I might let one of the Sokolov brothers live. Who will it be? It’s up to you to decide, but I can spare either you or Constantine if you accept. If you refuse, you will both die.”

  “Screw you.”

  “The choice is yours. I might be wrong, but I think you’ll sacrifice yourself for the sake of your brother. A fitting end.”

  Phil hung up, leaving Sokolov in an impossible dilemma, a sense of helpless rage churning inside him.

  The SVR agent had him exactly where he wanted him, and they both knew it.

  52

  Pressing the phone to his ear, Sir Gray listened intently to Kane Gilmour’s report.

  “We’ve got mixed results,” the SO19 officer said. “We followed Sokolov’s trail and as expected he led us to Berisha. We’ve managed to capture the Albanian, but unfortunately he got wounded in the ensuing shootout. He’s currently in hospital.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “Critical but stable. The doctors are giving him a good chance of making it. But even if he does survive, it’ll be a few days at least before we can interrogate him. By that time it may already be too late.”

  “What about Eugene? Have you managed to neutralize him?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s managed to escape.”

  “What sort of mixed bag are you talking about, then? The result is an unmitigated disaster! Call me back when you have some good news for a change.”

  Angrily, the Worshipful Master of E3 punched the end call button and put his phone away.

  “Bloody hell.” His voice echoed in the tall atrium of the clubhouse.

  Time was running out. His hopes of stopping the SVR plot were quickly evaporating.

  And then Sir Gray saw that it wasn’t only Project Jutland that was hanging by a thread—but his own life was very much in peril as well.

  Death loomed in the human shape of Eugene Sokolov who appeared before him, holding a deadly looking submachine gun with an attached silencer.

  Sir Gray froze in his chair. His mouth felt dry. In the face of death, all the secret power he wielded meant nothing.

  “If you’re thinking about calling in the guards, don’t bother,” Sokolov said. “A delicate touch of the trigger is enough to splatter your brains all over the place. Have I made
myself clear?”

  “Quite. They’re bloody useless anyway, if you’ve managed to sneak in so easily. A shame that it has come to this, but I can’t really blame you, Eugene. Hostage-taking is a long-standing tradition in Russia, and the SVR have your brother. You’ve been blackmailed by Phil to come here and murder me, haven’t you?”

  “Correct,” Sokolov replied. “But I’m not going to kill you.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not why I’m here.”

  “That’s a bit of a relief. What do you want, then?”

  “Information.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sir Gray, you said that Prince Harry was your prime candidate for the Russian throne—but not the only one. I need to know who the backup option is. Give me the name.”

  “Why? So that the Kremlin would be able to assassinate that person as well? No chance.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s all a ruse, a distraction. Phil is toying with me, running a game straight by the playbook. He thinks he’s outsmarted me by planting fake clues and sending me on a wild choose chase. The ammonium nitrate, the Maldives, now this. He needs Constantine for something else. But I can’t figure it out. There’s a missing piece to the puzzle. And a reason why he wants you killed. Not simply because you are the driving force behind Project Jutland. It must be that you possess some vital information. If you want to stop him, I need you to share it.”

  Sir Gray pondered over his words, the thought process stimulated by the gun still in Sokolov’s hands.

  “You might be right, Eugene. Harry and his counterpart, the other pretender for Czardom, are set to meet at an event hosted by the latter. It was organized a few months ago by Dubrovsky, and if memory serves…” Sir Gray glanced at the date window of his wristwatch. “Oh yes. It will take place tonight. If I were Phil, I could think of no better opportunity to strike. Kill two birds with one stone. Or, in this case, two princes. The Kremlin may well have learned his identity through torturing Dubrovsky’s associates in Moscow. Or perhaps his daughter, Marina, found something in her father’s files and passed it on. In any event, it shouldn’t be too difficult to deduce.”

  “I’m running out of patience, Sir Gray. Give me the name.”

  “Come to think of it, they share a similar profile with Harry, despite their age difference. Both of them suffered the trauma of losing their mothers, who were true international icons, in horrific car crashes.”

  “I really have no time for your riddles. Who is he? Another Windsor? A Habsburg? A Bourbon?”

  The Worshipful Master shook his head.

  “I think I’ve made it plainly obvious that he’s a Grimaldi.”

  Sokolov stared at him incredulously.

  “The Prince of Monaco?”

  “Indeed. Albert the Second.”

  53

  Phil Korolev was peering through the window of his suite at the Hermitage Hotel, eyeing the palm-lined street outside the glorious, neoclassical building. To a casual observer, there wasn’t much going on, but a trained eye of a spy like himself spotted a flurry of activity. A beefed-up police force was crawling around the area. He saw a few Renault police cruisers parked in front of the building as uniformed officers began their patrol of Square Beaumarchais.

  They weren’t the only ones guarding the place.

  Private security contractors were entering the hotel to survey the premises and run all the necessary checks. Preparations were well underway ahead of the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

  They were due to make an appearance at the Monte Carlo Gala as guests of honor. As always, the fundraiser was being held by the Prince Albert II of Monaco Foundation, a leading environmental organization dedicated to saving the world’s oceans and all of humanity, one charity event at a time. The ceremony was presided over by His Serene Highness himself, who was a die-hard activist for planetary health, and would take place at the Salle Garnier opera house. On the stage, the special guest speakers would voice their concerns over the ongoing climate crisis and reaffirm their commitment to the foundation’s cause. Later, the evening would be topped off by the signature auction. This year’s auctioned items included a private dinner with HSH Prince Albert II, a day on the set of Leonardo DiCaprio’s next movie, an original artwork by Banksy—one that, hopefully, would not self-destruct—and, raising a few eyebrows as well, a week-long journey to Mount Athos in Greece for thirty-three guests.

  A trip to an Orthodox Christian monastery seemed at odds with the foundation’s stated mission of humanitarian activism, but it became less surprising if one took a closer look at the House of Grimaldi’s growing ties with Moscow.

  The Principality had gained notoriety for not always being scrupulous regarding shady Mafia-linked businessmen or African dictators, so it was no wonder that since the 1990s, the rulers of Monaco had been cozying up to the Kremlin.

  Mikhail Dubrovsky had been one of the oligarchs whose money had been welcomed in Monaco.

  But something else was on the cards. Dubrovsky’s interest had run far beyond financial investments. He had started cultivating ties with one eye on Prince Albert’s potential candidacy to be crowned Czar.

  The SVR had obtained the key piece of intel while interrogating Dubrovsky’s associates in Russia. And recently, Phil had learned from Marina that her father had mentioned the Monegasque Prince in an email relating to Project Jutland.

  But with Dubrovsky gone, Phil Korolev had entered the fray, taking up his place at the Monaco Gala.

  The Prince Albert II of Monaco Foundation had a new sponsor. Phil’s non-profit organization. The Korolev Fund.

  His charity had made a multimillion-dollar donation. The massive contribution had earned him top philanthropist status and an invite to the Gala event, as well as a room at the otherwise fully booked Hermitage.

  The hotel’s stunning, palatial, nineteenth-century façade overlooked the Port d’Hercule, its terraces offering magnificent views of the harbor. The building sat 200 meters away from the Monte Carlo Casino, which Opéra de Monte-Carlo was part of.

  Korolev had checked into a junior suite which featured an ethereal Belle-Époque decor. The room’s area only measured forty square meters, but it proved more than spacious enough for a single guest.

  He wouldn’t be staying there any longer than necessary.

  Waiting for the grand occasion, his freshly dry-cleaned tuxedo was laid out atop the bed sheets, delivered from the hotel’s excellent laundry service.

  Tonight would be a big night.

  He could feel a win at the Casino coming his way.

  At the auction, he was determined to outbid anyone in order to seal that private dinner with His Serene Highness. He would spare no expense to gain direct access to the Monegasque royal for a face-to-face talk about the most important project of them all. Project Jutland. It would be the Grimaldi’s last meal.

  But first, he had to wrap things up at the hotel.

  The main target was Prince Harry.

  The doorbell rang. Phil spun around and strode to the door, yanking the handle and swinging it open.

  A uniformed waiter stood behind a white tablecloth-covered trolley with champagne chilling in an ice bucket, wrapped in a napkin.

  “Room service. May I come in, Monsieur Constantine?”

  Phil nodded. “Of course,” he said and waved him on.

  He’d ordered a bottle of Moët.

  The waiter pushed the trolley inside the room. Phil slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Is it okay to leave it here?” the young lad asked as he positioned the trolley in the middle of the room.

  “That’s great.”

  Like the rest of the hotel staff, he was immaculately attired in a white jacket, black trousers, and shiny shoes.

  “I hope you’re enjoying your stay, Monsieur Constantine. Is everything fine?”

  “Perfect. Merveilleux.”

  “Shall I open the bottle?”

  “No need, merci.”


  “Very well. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

  “Yes, actually, there is. You may die.”

  The waiter frowned in confusion. Before he could open his mouth to ask whether he had misheard, Phil landed a jaw-breaking punch across his face.

  The waiter’s head jerked sideways and as he doubled over, crying out in pain. Phil locked his arms around the guy’s neck and twisted it violently. The vertebrae snapped, cracking audibly and the waiter’s dead body slumped to the floor.

  Phil quickly stripped the jacket off the corpse and slid his arms through the sleeves. It fit nicely. The shoes and trousers he was wearing already matched the outfit.

  Searching the pockets, he found a key to the service elevator.

  He was almost ready.

  Only the last details remained.

  He entered the bathroom where he completed his preparations by putting on a pair of custom-made latex gloves. Specifically molded for him in a natural, translucent color, they covered his hands like a second skin.

  The protection was absolutely vital for him to employ his weapon of choice.

  And there had been over fifty lethal chemical substances to choose from among those available at Directorate S.

  Finally, he picked up a refillable atomizer bottle with a spray nozzle attached. It resembled a hand sanitizer, but instead of an alcohol-based liquid, it contained an oily emulsion. Novichok-7. Even the tiniest dose, between one and two milligrams of the substance, was enough to kill a grown man weighing eighty kilos within a few hours.

  He pocketed the atomizer and headed out, pushing the room service trolley into the hallway.

  Then he shut the door behind him, locking the room which he’d booked in the name of Constantine Sokolov using a fake ID.

  That alone would be insufficient to implicate Constantine in Prince Harry’s murder—which was why Phil had planted a few other bits of indirect evidence as well, which, when amassed, would prove beyond doubt that the Sokolovs were behind the nerve agent attack.

  The Sokolovs’ presence in Monaco was well-known in established circles. The contact with Dubrovsky, when made public, would cast a negative light around them.