Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  Plan B was taking shape quickly.

  Perhaps he could manage to intercept Harry at the heliport in Nice. With his credentials of the Gala event sponsor, he would be allowed to meet the Sussex. A simple handshake would be enough for Phil to get it done, a brush of his second-skin glove smeared with Novichok-7.

  If not, another option formed in his mind.

  He would activate Azizi’s Taliban contacts to deliver a small batch of ammonium nitrate and carry out a bombing at Prince Harry’s residence in Montecito, CA.

  As for the Novichok canister, he would bring it back to the U.K. in his luggage under diplomatic immunity and use it to eradicate the E3 lodge.

  He was not going to give up.

  But above all, he had to reach the heliport.

  The Aventador raced along the winding road cutting through the Mediterranean hillside, away from the Monegasque coast. He’d crossed into France now, passing the invisible border.

  The A8 highway would take him there in another twenty minutes.

  Even less, if he pushed the Lambo to its limits.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, he spotted another Lamborghini tailing him. The luxury Italian automotive make was hardly a rare sight in Monaco, but seeing who the occupants of the vehicle were made Phil’s jaw clench.

  The Sokolovs. Eugene and Constantine.

  But of course. Who else.

  The damned bastards had turned out to be a fair bit annoying.

  He grinned as he smashed the accelerator, torque pressing him hard in his seat.

  Constantine yelled, “He’s getting away! Go after him, we can’t let him escape.”

  And Sokolov knew it.

  The Urus was a different beast to the Aventador. Sokolov wouldn’t stand a chance on an arrow-straight section of a racetrack, but a countryside road in Aix-en-Provence made the contest more evenly matched.

  If he was going to have a go at Phil, he would only have one opportunity. Time was running out. He had to attack before they reached the highway or the tunnel, and pick a moment when the road was empty of other vehicles and there were no residential buildings nearby, for fear of casualties among innocent bystanders. Even doing so didn’t guarantee their own survival, however.

  The serpentine road was reaching higher up, and a sharp bend loomed as it curved the edge of a hill, the sheer blue of the Med visible beyond.

  Now.

  “Brace yourself!” he told Constantine.

  It all happened in an instant.

  Just as Phil’s Aventador decelerated to swing inside the turn, Sokolov gained on him with a burst of speed and rammed straight into him.

  A jarring clash of metal sounded as the two sports cars collided.

  Sokolov wrenched the steering wheel and smashed the brakes, doing whatever he could to regain control and soften the crash.

  The Urus went on sideways trajectory that sent the SUV offroad, bouncing over a rock outcropping and slamming into a wild olive tree, the loud impact shaking his body, the airbags deploying as the windshield cracked, the seat belts tearing into him to keep him from being thrown around like a rag doll, and then everything was still and he could only hear Constantine groaning next to him.

  “You okay?” he asked his brother.

  “Yeah … Still in one piece … I think.”

  “Let’s move it.”

  Constantine didn’t need convincing.

  Once they got out of the damaged vehicle, they saw that the front part of the SUV had been totaled. Miraculously, both of them seemed to have come out of the accident injury-free, at least until a thorough examination revealed anything. The SUV’s robust safety features, from the carbon ceramic disk brakes to collision sensors and seat belt pre-tensioners, had probably saved their lives.

  As they surveyed the crash site, something else quickly caught their attention.

  Phil’s car was gone.

  Upon impact with the SUV, the Aventador had skidded and crashed into the stone barrier lining the road, going right through it and hurtling down the slope and finally coming to a stop as it smashed head-on against the rocky side of the hill and flipped over, landing on its side.

  Phil hated playing by the rules. He never wore a seat belt. Unrestrained, his body had been launched forward forcefully to hit the windshield and the dashboard. Blood streaked down his face from a laceration in his scalp. He’d suffered broken knees and fractured femurs, but he felt no pain in his legs because he’d all lost all sensation from the waist down due to his snapped lower spine.

  Concussed, he tried to push himself up and reach the passenger door which was now above him, his fingers groping for the door handle.

  The scissor door had jammed and he was stuck inside. Trapped.

  “No …”

  He felt a slickness on his fingers, but it wasn’t blood.

  The front-facing trunk had caved in from the collision and a liquid was leaking inside the car.

  The Novichok.

  It was seeping through cracks in the windshield and dripping down on him like lethal rain.

  The dose was high enough to kill him in a few seconds.

  Exposed to the nerve agent, Phil Korolev felt nauseous, sweating profusely. His heart thudded and he was breathing rapidly.

  “NOOO …!”

  The scream froze in his throat.

  He took his last breath—and was unable to breathe out. The nerve agent blocked the neurotransmitters, breaking up the brain signals that controlled his muscles and he died suffocating.

  Epilogue

  Sokolov was back in South Kensington, sitting on a park bench when another man joined him.

  They were in a small public garden tucked away just south of Hyde Park and the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was the location of the Yalta Memorial, a bronze sculpture commemorating the victims of Operation Keelhaul. It had been personally approved by Margaret Thatcher as an apology on behalf of the British for their complicity in Stalin’s atrocious crimes, despite staunch protests within her own government.

  The memorial had been previously vandalized by leftists. A stone plinth at its base bore an inscription which read:

  THIS MEMORIAL WAS PLACED

  HERE BY MEMBERS OF ALL PARTIES

  IN BOTH HOUSES OF THE PARLIAMENT

  AND BY MANY OTHER SYMPATHISERS

  IN MEMORY OF THE COUNTLESS

  INNOCENT MEN WOMEN AND

  CHILDREN FROM THE SOVIET UNION

  AND OTHER EAST EUROPEAN STATES

  WHO WERE IMPRISONED AND DIED AT THE HANDS OF COMMUNIST

  GOVERNMENTS AFTER BEING

  REPATRIATED AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR

  MAY THEY REST IN PEACE

  “I thought we’d be meeting in Hyde Park, but this choice of venue seems appropriate,” said Sir Gray. “I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad to see you again, Eugene. What about your brother? Where is he?”

  “I sent him off for some R and R to a wellness resort in Switzerland. His mind and body could use some of their treatments to heal and recover. He came out of this mess worse off than he thought, but in a couple of days he should be as good as new. Now, what have I missed?”

  “You’ve caused quite a stir in Monaco. When the emergency responders arrived on the scene of the car crash which had killed Phil Korolev, they sealed off the area immediately. Someone had tipped them off about a potential chemical hazard. I wonder who that might have been.”

  “No idea.”

  “It looked like a full-blown military operation, with a small army of personnel in hazmat suits arriving to clean up and safeguard the health of civilians. Anyway, they managed to limit the environmental contamination. Obviously, the soil absorbed a lot of the nerve agent in the immediate vicinity of the car wreck. Local residents from nearby villages were evacuated due to the danger of a cloud of toxic fumes sweeping along the coast. There were numerous cases of reported illnesses and hospitalizations, but thankfully nothing serious. No fatalities. The publicity fallout from
a potential WMD attack has been much greater. Analysis of soil samples detected the presence of a highly toxic substance that matched the composition of the Novichok-7 that was stockpiled by Russia. It has resulted in a huge uproar in the media. Western leaders have laid the blame for the foiled act of terrorism at the Kremlin’s door. The pressure on President Frolov is unprecedented—in no small part with the help of the E3, I might add. New sanctions are an almost certainty and it has been communicated to Moscow. Suffice it to say, it will force Frolov to shelve his idea of constitutional reform and subsequent coronation, unless he wants to find his country in total economic isolation—something he will try to avoid no matter what. An international backlash such as an oil and natural gas trade embargo against Russia would spell his doom.”

  “What about Project Jutland?”

  “I’m afraid it has to be put on hold as well—indefinitely. The assassination attempt at the hands of the SVR and the outcry surrounding it has made any approach to the Duke of Sussex or the Prince of Monaco nigh-on impossible. They will steer clear of anything that has to do with Russia, and rightly so.”

  “I’m terribly sorry about that.”

  “Ha. I’m sure you banked on it. But don’t worry, I won’t hold that against you. You deserve some credit. After all, some of that Novichok was meant for me, so perhaps I owe you.”

  “I know. That’s why you’re here, Sir Gray.”

  “You’re really audacious. One day it might prove costly. Directorate S will want to exact revenge. Be careful.”

  “They’re the ones who should be watching their backs. I have some unfinished business to attend to—and I might use your help to get it done.”

  “Oh? What can I do for you?”

  “Reto Hofmann told me about the muscle for Project Jutland. A group of mercenaries who were fighting in Ukraine. Is it true?”

  After brief consideration, Sir Gray nodded.

  “A nasty bunch. Ruthless cutthroats, the lot of them. But I guess that’s the breed of men required for this sort of business. They were raring to go. Why do you ask?”

  “I need their contact details.”

  Kiev, Ukraine. Sokolov was drinking cold cappuccino at a hip coffee shop in the old town center, on a cobbled street facing the banks of the Dnieper, when a wiry man toting a backpack, dressed in a faded jumper, sporting cropped blond hair and a goatee, walked in and sat opposite. Sokolov had studied his bio. Andriy Dobritsa, a Donbass native who’d fought in the ranks of the Russian-backed separatists, currently unemployed.

  Sokolov produced a couple of photos from his Burberry zip pouch. He slid the first print across the table. It was a picture fetched from Lana’s cloud drive, showing her family.

  The mercenary examined it. There was an address scribbled on the reverse side.

  “Some gangsters are holding these folks captive here in Kiev. I want you to free them and take them to a safe location.”

  “Understood.”

  Sokolov handed him the other photo. It was a blurry image of a gray-haired man.

  “Who’s this?” Dobritsa asked.

  “A powerful general in Moscow. His name is Yaroslav Nikitin.”

  “What do you want to do with him?”

  “I want him gone.”

  Dobritsa nodded.

  Sokolov took a fat envelope out of his leather pouch and passed it to the former guerrilla.

  Dobritsa thumbed the hundred-dollar bills inside it. Content, he stuffed the envelope and the photos deep into his backpack and departed without another word.

  Sokolov finished the coffee, paid the bill, and promptly left.

  A leaden sky matched the somber mood of Directorate S Chief Yaroslav Nikitin as he marched across the landscaped courtyard of his sprawling mansion outside Moscow toward a chauffeured Mercedes-Benz S600 waiting for him.

  He had no family, so he lived alone in the heavily guarded Rublyovka villa. Nikitin had never married. In his line work as an illegal spy, carrying out assignments for Directorate S ranging from sabotage to assassinations and acts of terrorism, he’d learned early on that family was not so much a luxury as a liability that could be used as leverage against him.

  The only serious relationship he had experienced in his life had been an illicit affair with a married woman. She’d become pregnant, but her husband had never suspected that the child wasn’t his, so she’d decided against an abortion.

  Nikitin had befriended the couple to keep a close eye on the child growing up. Ironically, he had also helped propel the husband’s career, so that his son would never suffer need. Pulling the strings from the shadows of the Kremlin, Nikitin had turned a fledging businessman named Korolev into one of Russia’s wealthiest tycoons.

  And his son, Philipp, had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

  The boy had been his biggest secret.

  All his life, Nikitin had taken care of the kid, grooming him for a future role that he had in mind for him. Phil Korolev was to become Nikitin’s successor at the SVR and, rising to the top of the new Russian aristocracy as the security apparatus billed itself, the sky was the limit.

  Potentially, Philipp would also follow in his footsteps to ascend to the Russian throne.

  But now his illegitimate son was dead.

  And Nikitin was unable to retrieve his remains from the British.

  Grief and anger churned inside him.

  He would avenge Phil’s death.

  He would make the Englishmen and the Americans pay—even if it meant going rogue and defying direct orders from President Frolov to stand by.

  Once he reached his office, he would give out the order to attack.

  The full-sized Mercedes exited his property passing through wrought iron gates and rolling along a driveway. The S-Class luxury sedan was fully armored, with bulletproof glass and reinforced steel plates shielding him from sniper fire.

  But no amount of underbody protection was enough against a hundred-kilogram IED.

  As the vehicle’s tires hit the roadside bomb, the tank-buster charge detonated, lifting the car off the ground in a cloud of fire, mangling metal and flesh, and sending Yaroslav Nikitin on a journey to hell where he would meet his bastard son.

  If you liked this, you may enjoy: Devil’s Dance, Trackdown Book 1

  By Michael A. Black

  SURVIVAL OR DEATH ARE THE ONLY OPTIONS.

  When Military Intelligence team Army Ranger Sergeant Steve Wolf with a Private Military Company known as the Vipers, he subsequently finds himself blamed for the deaths of some Iraqi civilians after a botched raid in Baghdad.

  Upon his release from prison four years later Wolf’s friend and mentor, former Green Beret Jim McNamara, invites him into the bounty hunting business. Wolf reluctantly agrees and the pair cross paths with some undesirable characters as they head down south of the border to apprehend a wanted fugitive. Unbeknownst to Wolf, his old enemies from Iraq, the Vipers, are also in Mexico on the trail of the same fugitive, who is in possession of a priceless stolen artifact being sought by a very rich and unscrupulous man. The trail leads them all to El Meco, the abandoned Mayan ruins, where Wolf finds himself suddenly battling alone against a small army of vicious foes.

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  Thank you for taking the time to read Czar of England. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.

  Thank you.

  Ian Kharitonov

  About the Author

  A Cossack by birth, Ian Kharitonov lived in South-East Asia from the age of four before returning to Russia. Back in Moscow, he graduated from college with a degree in Economics and turned down diplomatic work in Sweden and a position in a Swiss commodities-trading company to pursue his dream—becoming an act
ion-adventure novelist.

  Seeing a dearth of authenticity in stories dealing with Russia, he spent the next five years researching and writing his debut thriller, The Russian Renaissance. In 2010, the book won the Adventure Writer’s Competition held by the Clive Cussler Collectors’ Society. Receiving the Grandmaster Award from the hands of Clive Cussler himself was a tremendous honor to Ian as a lifelong fan. He would go on to join the judging panel in subsequent editions of the writing contest.

  Ian Kharitonov has traveled across Russia, the U.S., and Europe, settling on the Mediterranean coast of Spain before moving closer to the Black Sea shore where his ancestors hailed from. He continues writing the Sokolov series, carving a niche in the genre of Russploitation—a term he coined. His thrillers are filled with action, adventure, espionage, international intrigue, and a dose of Russian history, providing a deeper insight into the country alongside the entertainment.

  His naysayers have claimed he is a CIA asset who betrayed his country—an accusation he can neither confirm nor deny.

  It has also been said that he would never be confused with Dostoyevsky.

  In his opinion, it is the biggest praise a thriller author could earn.