Bodyguard (Bodyguard 5)

by Chris Bradford

  ‘Not much,’ grunted Jason as they stood in line in the immigration hall of Sheremetyevo International Airport. The passport queue for foreign arrivals seemed to stretch on forever, snaking back and forth across the grey tiled floor like an over-extended concertina. Every so often the queue would shuffle a few steps forward, then come to a shuddering halt again.

  Connor glanced at his watch: 5:30 a.m. They’d landed an hour late and still had to collect their bags. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting Malkov’s contact in half an hour.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that,’ mumbled Jason.

  Connor sighed in frustration, irritated at Jason’s tetchy mood. He texted Charley to let her know they’d landed safely, but were held up at passport control. Despite it being three thirty in the morning there, Charley responded almost immediately:

  Will let client know. Stay safe C x

  Connor smiled. That was why Charley was team leader, and why he admired her so much. Quick to respond, quick to solve any issue – big or small. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, then turned to Jason. ‘So, did you sort things out with Ling before you left?’

  Jason scowled at him. ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Sorry, only asking.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Me and Ling are over.’

  ‘What! Why? You two have been going out for ages –’

  ‘I said, it’s none of your business!’

  Connor shut up and they stood in silence. Connor couldn’t believe that Ling and Jason had split up. No wonder Jason was so grouchy. They’d been an item since before Connor had joined Buddyguard. He just hoped Ling was all right. She was one tough cookie, but he knew she adored Jason. It was such bad timing. Now Jason was on a mission, the two of them would get little chance to make up. Connor glanced at the thunderous scowl on Jason’s face and hoped the break-up wouldn’t affect his judgement as a bodyguard.

  After another fifteen minutes the queue had barely shifted. Then an immigration officer pushed his way through the lines of people. Dressed in a dark grey-blue uniform with three gold stripes on the shoulder, and with a red-rimmed cap pulled down tight over his brow, the officer had a severe military bearing. His hawk-like eyes swept the hall of sleep-starved arrivals, scanning each face against a piece of paper in his hand. His gaze fell on Connor and Jason and he made directly for them.

  Connor nudged Jason as the officer approached. Double-checking their faces against the paper, the officer demanded in a thick accent, ‘Connor Reeves? Jason King?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Pojdem so mnoj,’ said the officer, turning on his heels. In their earpieces the translation app barked, ‘Come with me.’

  Connor exchanged an uncertain glance with Jason. However, after a curt order of ‘Now!’ from the officer, they picked up their Go-bags and followed. The queue parted, almost fearfully, as the three of them cut through the lines to the opposite side of the immigration hall.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Jason asked the officer.

  The man strode on without replying.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Connor.

  But still the officer remained tight-lipped as he halted beside a door, stabbed a code into the keypad, then escorted them along an empty corridor and into a private windowless room. As Connor stepped inside, a sinking feeling gripped the pit of his stomach. Overhead the strip lights burned harsh and bright. The beige paint on the walls was peeling. And there was an ominous dark stain in the centre of the threadbare carpet. The only furniture was a row of moulded-plastic brown chairs bolted to the floor, opposite a counter-and-glass partition that divided the room in half. An unpleasant smell of stale sweat, urine and cigarette smoke tainted the air. This wasn’t any ‘Welcome to Russia’ reception area, Connor realized. It was a detention room.

  ‘Passports,’ demanded the officer, thrusting out a hand.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Jason.

  ‘Passports!’ repeated the officer, his tone sharp and unforgiving.

  Reluctantly they handed them over. The officer gave their credentials and entry visas a cursory glance before striding out of the room. The door automatically locked behind him.

  ‘He’s got our passports,’ Jason snarled.

  ‘I know,’ Connor replied, his eyes darting round the room.

  ‘Do you think they –?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just routine,’ Connor interrupted before his partner blurted out any details of their operation and raised suspicion in the Russians’ minds. With a subtle nod he directed Jason’s gaze towards a CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Then he urged Jason to sit next to him on one of the plastic chairs, seemingly moulded for maximum discomfort.

  ‘Ah! I see what you mean,’ said Jason, taking his seat. ‘Probably routine.’

  But there was nothing routine about their detention. His brain in overdrive, Connor ran through the possibilities. The Russians obviously knew their names and faces. They could’ve been pulled aside simply because they were unaccompanied kids. Possibly the airline had alerted the authorities. But they had to assume the worst … that Malkov’s enemies were on to them already!

  Connor pulled out his mobile to text Charley, but he no longer had a signal. ‘Is your phone working?’ he whispered.

  Jason checked and shook his head. ‘Must be blocked in here.’

  Connor’s blood ran cold. They were cut off from help, in a foreign country notorious for disregarding human rights. They could be held here for hours, maybe days. With no communication to the outside world, they could simply disappear. The room, already airless, began to feel suffocating. Connor dry-swallowed. He noted there was no water fountain or toilet. He stared at the ominous dark red stain on the carpet at their feet, wondering what had happened to the last occupant of this room.

  Jason typed a text on his mobile, then tilted the screen towards Connor.

  We need to get our story straight.

  Connor was about to text a reply when the door burst open and two brutes of men strode in. Despite the smart suits they wore, their jackets couldn’t hide the hardened muscle beneath, nor the tattoos rimming their wrists and stout necks. One was tall and broad-chested, with a menacing air that tainted the room like bad aftershave. The other was short, squat and bald, with rings like knuckledusters on his fingers. Connor and Jason both leapt to their feet, instinctively on guard. If these two men had come to interrogate them, Connor realized they had little chance of resisting.

  Then the immigration officer entered the room. Unsmiling, he handed back their passports, their visas stamped and authorized.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said the taller of the brutes in heavily accented English. With a severe buzzcut of black hair, a heavyset jaw and a nose that must have been broken at least twice, he wasn’t a man to argue with.

  Still wary, Connor asked, ‘Where? Who are you?’

  Clearly aware of the surveillance, the man’s eyes flicked towards the CCTV camera, then back to Connor. ‘We’re your bodyguards. My name’s Lazar. Your uncle is looking forward to meeting you.’

  Connor allowed himself to breathe again. Lazar’s last line was the code phrase that had been agreed for the rendezvous with their contact at the airport. The uncle in question could only be Viktor Malkov.

  Jason whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Connor, ‘Bodyguards for bodyguards! We’re in deep trouble here.’

  Not wanting to stay in the detention room any longer than they had to, Connor and Jason seized their Go-bags and headed for the door. As they left the room, Connor noticed Lazar slip the immigration officer a fistful of roubles.

  Connor knew from the operation briefing notes that Viktor Malkov’s residence was set in a ninety-acre wooded estate in the super-rich suburb of Rublyovka, Moscow’s equivalent of Beverly Hills. With nine bedrooms, two swimming pools and every room lavishly decorated in mahogany, marble and gold, the mansion was more like a palace than a home. But the billionaire politician had spent his money on more than just decora
ting the property. As the silver Mercedes wound up the driveway to the gravel forecourt, Connor peered through the darkness and noted armed guards on the main gate, electrified fencing on the perimeter wall, surveillance cameras and floodlights every hundred metres, and the torchbeams of security men patrolling the pine-forested grounds. To Connor’s trained eye, the mansion was as much a fortress as a palace.

  The Mercedes rolled to a stop beside the forecourt’s central fountain – a Baroque-style marble masterpiece featuring an enormous white statue of Neptune spouting water. Lazar and the other bodyguard, Timur – his name the only word he’d grunted during the entire two-hour drive from the airport – opened the passenger doors. Connor and Jason clambered out.

  ‘Jeez, it’s freezing!’ exclaimed Jason, his breath clouding in the deep winter chill.

  Sunrise was another hour away, so it was still dark and the air bitingly cold. Zipping up his jacket, Connor was glad he’d packed that extra fleece. A porter collected their luggage from the boot as the two of them were escorted up a flight of stone steps into the mansion’s entrance hall. Inside they were met with a welcome wave of warmth and light.

  As their eyes adjusted to the brightness, Jason let out a low whistle. They both gazed in awe at the huge gleaming chandelier dangling over their heads.

  The grand entrance hall took Connor’s breath away too. This room alone had to be larger than his mother’s terraced house in east London. Encircling the chandelier, a viewing gallery on the upper level looked down on to a white marble floor inlaid with pure gold. Alabaster walls boasted expensive works of art from the Renaissance period, while ornate antique furniture completed the hall’s majestic design. Connor had never seen such a display of opulence and wealth in his life.

  A set of double doors swung open to reveal Viktor Malkov in a designer blue polo shirt, chinos and his trademark rimless glasses. The dark-haired politician smiled. ‘Welcome to my humble home,’ he said. ‘How was your flight?’

  ‘Good, thanks,’ Connor replied, shaking the man’s hand.

  ‘You lie! Aeroflot are the worst airline.’

  Connor flinched, wondering if he’d somehow offended the man.

  Then Viktor laughed. ‘You should have flown British Airways!’

  He shook Jason’s hand. ‘Sorry for the delay at passport control. The FSB’s border security service recently ordered the closure of fast-track services at airports. Security reasons, they say. More government restrictions is what I say. So now it takes a little more effort to ease people through the line.’ He rubbed his fingers together to indicate the extra money required. ‘But you’re here now and I’m sure you’re hungry. Have you had breakfast?’

  Jason nodded. ‘We had some on the plane.’

  ‘Another lie!’ exclaimed Viktor, wagging his finger. ‘Speak truth. Aeroflot meals are like cardboard. Come, let’s have a proper breakfast.’

  Flanked by the two bodyguards, Connor and Jason followed Viktor down a corridor to a magnificent conservatory overlooking an enormous garden covered with deep snow. A long table was laid with fresh fruits, yogurts, pancakes, cheeses and pastries – so much food it looked like a buffet at a five-star hotel.

  ‘Sit,’ Malkov ordered, as a housemaid poured out coffee for her boss. ‘You want some? Or juice?’

  ‘Orange juice would be fine,’ replied Connor, taking a seat.

  ‘For me too,’ said Jason.

  Lazar and Timur stationed themselves by the door, where they stood like granite statues as the maid filled the boys’ glasses with freshly squeezed juice.

  Viktor sipped from his coffee and took a bite of a pastry. ‘I’m very glad you’re both here. While I’ve complete confidence in Lazar and his men –’ Viktor nodded respectfully at his personal bodyguard – ‘it can never hurt to have too much protection. Especially in Russia. My enemies would dearly love to take me down – any way they can – which makes my son a target too.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep Feliks safe,’ said Jason, helping himself to a chocolate croissant.

  ‘Have you eaten syrniki before?’ asked Viktor.

  Jason and Connor shook their heads.

  ‘Then you must! You’re in Russia.’ He clicked his fingers at the maid, who served them each three thick fried pancakes along with a small pot of sour cream and another of jam.

  ‘Traditional cottage-cheese dumplings,’ Viktor explained, as he spread a layer of cream and bit into a steaming syrniki. ‘Always loved these as a child – and still do.’

  Connor tried one with jam. To his surprise, he discovered the outside was crisp and the centre warm and creamy.

  ‘You like?’ asked Viktor.

  Connor grinned and took another bite.

  ‘Good. They’re very nutritious and high in protein. Fill you up for the winter mornings. And the mornings in Moscow are enough to freeze the –’

  A knock at the conservatory door alerted them to a new arrival. Lazar let in a bearded man wearing a charcoal-grey suit. The top of his head was as bald as a boiled egg, as if his hair had parted and slid down to form his sideburns and neatly trimmed beard, peppered white at the tips. He had a slightly pudgy nose and small plump lips, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

  ‘Ah, Dmitry, you’re early,’ said Viktor, beckoning the man to join them at the breakfast table. ‘Please meet my nephews, Connor and Jason.’

  A slight frown wrinkled the man’s bald brow. ‘Nephews?’

  ‘Second cousins, once removed, really. On my mother’s side,’ Viktor explained with a disarming smile. ‘Dmitry Smirnov is my personal adviser,’ he told Connor and Jason. ‘He’s responsible for orchestrating the campaign for Our Russia.’

  ‘It’s a joint effort,’ said Dmitry humbly.

  Connor was intrigued to note that Viktor hadn’t revealed their role as bodyguards to his right-hand man. Viktor’s trust circle was evidently very small and he was taking no chances with the covert security measures for his son.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Dmitry as the maid filled his coffee cup. ‘In private.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Viktor. He waved a finger to get Timur’s attention. The squat bodyguard lumbered over. ‘Timur, take the boys up to see Feliks. I’m sure he’ll be excited to meet his cousins at long last.’

  Feliks Malkov spooned another pile of cornflakes into his mouth and continued to stare at the colossal TV dominating the end wall of the mansion’s recreation room. A horror movie about the living dead was on and the screen was so large that the zombies appeared almost life-size, the blood splatters gruesomely real.

  ‘That’s some TV,’ remarked Connor, trying not to wince as a young woman had her guts devoured. He was amazed their Principal still had an appetite watching this sort of stuff.

  ‘Mmm,’ Feliks agreed half-heartedly as he reclined further in his La-Z-Boy armchair, his spindly legs stretched out in front of him, eyes transfixed on the screen.

  ‘What would one of these TVs cost?’ asked Jason, nodding at the screen.

  Feliks shrugged as if to say, What does it matter? and shovelled in another spoonful of cornflakes.

  Exchanging a glance with Connor, Jason raised his eyebrows. Timur had left them with Feliks ten minutes ago, but they’d barely got anything out of the boy beyond a disinterested response to their questions. Their Principal certainly matched the photo in the operation folder: sullen, moody and pale-faced, as if he rarely saw the sun. With his flop of dark hair, narrow nose and thin lips, Feliks could easily be mistaken for a vampire. Connor got the sense the boy didn’t socialize much either – despite the rec room being kitted out with every game and entertainment imaginable. A one-lane bowling alley ran the length of the far wall. In the centre was a football table, air hockey and a full-size pool table. Arcade games machines were dotted around, including a vintage Space Invaders, pinball machine and state-of-the-art VR units. It was a billionaire’s toy shop – with no one but the billionaire’s son to enjoy them.

  The film ended with a suitabl
y grisly bloodbath and the credits began to roll. Feliks glanced up at Connor and Jason for the first time since they’d entered the rec room. ‘So, you’re my new bodyguards, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Connor replied, making a renewed effort to smile. ‘We’ll be ensuring your safety during your father’s campaign.’

  Feliks looked them both up and down. ‘Well, you look as if you can handle yourself,’ he said, nodding at Jason, whose broad chest puffed out at the compliment. Then Feliks turned to Connor, noting his spiky brown hair and slim, athletic build. His eyes narrowed. ‘Not sure about you, though.’

  Jason smirked and Connor tried not to appear offended. ‘I was the UK junior kickboxing champion,’ he replied defensively.

  ‘Was?’ Feliks questioned, frowning with disappointment. ‘Who beat you?’

  Connor bit back on his tongue. He was fast coming to dislike his new Principal. He reminded himself the boy had lost his mother – but that didn’t excuse his rudeness. ‘No one beat me. I’ve been working as a bodyguard ever since.’

  Feliks dumped his bowl of cornflakes on a table and ambled over to a large American-style fridge in the room’s refreshment zone. He took out a chocolate milk but didn’t offer them one.

  ‘So, my father thinks you two can protect me from the Bratva. The most feared and ruthless mafia organization in the world!’ He snorted a laugh, then shook his head in dismay. ‘My father’s finally losing it.’

  ‘We’re an invisible ring of defence,’ explained Connor. ‘Lazar and his team are obviously bodyguards. They draw too much attention and turn you into a high-profile target. But Jason and I can blend in. Follow you where they can’t. Go to school. Parties. Whatever. So wherever you are, you have a hidden shield protecting you.’

  Feliks drained his chocolate milk and wiped the froth from his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘Well, I hope you last longer than my previous bodyguard,’ he said, tossing the empty carton into the bin.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Jason, as Connor wondered why this information hadn’t been in their operation folder.