Viktor put a hand on his adviser’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Listen, losing Lazar was like losing a brother for me. He’d been at my side since I started my political career back in Salsk. But he of all people wouldn’t want me to pull out now. Timur might not be as sharp as Lazar, but he’s loyal. Besides, we have the guarantee of our backer.’
Dmitry sighed. ‘That may be the case. But we haven’t been able to check all areas.’ He gave Viktor a hard look. ‘The authorities have denied our security teams access to certain buildings surrounding the square. They say only the police have the jurisdiction to carry out such searches. But I suspect foul play.’
Viktor stared out across the crowd, eyeing the windows that looked blankly down on to the square. Any one of them potentially harboured a sniper. ‘I know the risks. I always have. There’s trusted security in place round the stage. I’m wearing my bulletproof vest as always, and just look at the police presence,’ he said, pointing to the ranks of officers lining the square. ‘No one would be foolish enough to attempt anything today.’
‘Yes, but the police aren’t here to protect you,’ Dmitry reminded him. ‘They’re here to disperse the rally.’
‘Then let’s start with my speech before they do.’
From the lofty heights of the church-like spire that topped the Peking Hotel, the assassin had a bird’s-eye view over Triumfalnaya Square. Below, the mass of demonstrators swelled like a rippling ocean. The cause of Our Russia was gaining ever-increasing momentum and thousands of supporters had flocked to see its leader and vent their fury and frustration at the current government. At the far end of the square, like a lifeboat among the waves of flags and banners, was the stage. And upon the stage stood a lone microphone, awaiting the presence of Viktor Malkov.
Sniper rifle assembled. Magazine loaded. Sights zeroed. Bullet chambered. The assassin too was awaiting the billionaire’s appearance.
Keeping an eye on the wind speed, the assassin focused the rifle’s scope on the microphone stand. Even at a distance of a hundred and fifty metres, it would be child’s play to knock the stand over with a single shot.
Then the real target strode on to the stage.
The crowd erupted with cheers, whistles and whoops as Viktor Malkov raised his fists in a two-handed salute. There was a squeal of feedback from the PA system, then the leader of Our Russia spoke, his voice booming across the square.
‘For over half a century, this square has been a symbol of protest,’ he declared. ‘From the banned poetry readings of the sixties, to the anti-Communist rallies of the eighties, to the Strategy-31 demonstrations of the past decade. And now today we stand here to make our protest! To make a change! To make Our Russia ours again!’
The crowd burst into applause.
‘The voice of the people will be heard!’
More cheers and shouts of approval echoed round the square.
‘Our protests will turn into a mighty river and sweep away the pillars of lies and corruption!’
The square became a blur of banners and a roar of noise, the people’s cheers rising up like a wave and breaking against the rooftop parapet that concealed the assassin.
Once the crowd had calmed, Viktor continued in a quieter, grave tone. ‘The fish rots from the head,’ he told them. ‘And the head of Mother Russia is infested with maggots. The government is plagued with members of the Bratva, who feed and grow fat on your labours –’
The assassin’s earpiece crackled. ‘Execute the Black King now!’
With a final check of wind speed and a measured slowness of breath, the assassin lined up the target in the rifle’s sights. It would have to be a head shot. The assassin had been warned that the target would be wearing body armour.
Viktor Malkov’s face appeared sharp in the scope, his eyes dead centre of the cross hairs.
The assassin’s finger rested upon the trigger, a light squeeze all that was now required.
Three breaths. Then the assassin would fire in the momentary stillness following the final exhale.
Three … two …
The hard snub of a gun barrel was pressed against the back of the assassin’s skull.
‘What’s the victim’s name?’ asked the FSB Director, staring down into the shallow grave. The deep snow had been cleared to reveal a muddy hole in the forest floor where a decomposing body lay at the bottom. Apparently a hiker had discovered the murder victim when her dog, hunting for rabbits, had dug up the remains.
The FSB agent, an eager young man with a slick of black hair and sharp inquisitive eyes, glanced at his notes. ‘Nikolay Antonov. A financial manager for Vorstock Bank. His wife reported him missing three weeks ago.’
He knelt down beside the hole and pointed at the corpse’s wrists where the skin had been rubbed raw. ‘His hands were bound. And you can see here and here …’ He indicated the burn marks on the man’s chest. ‘The victim was tortured, most likely electrocuted, before being –’ he pointed to the dark circular hole in the man’s forehead – ‘executed.’
The agent stood up and, clearly wishing to impress his boss, continued with his report. ‘From my initial research, the victim appears to be a high-profile banker with suspected connections to the Moscow Bratva. In fact there’s a very good chance he was their primary money-launderer. With your permission, I’d like to launch a full –’
‘Bury it,’ said the FSB Director, cutting him off mid-flow.
The agent frowned. ‘You mean … the body?’
‘No, I mean the whole investigation.’
‘B-but this could be the FSB’s biggest lead into the Moscow Bratva in years,’ argued the agent. ‘This man may have had direct contact with the Pakhan himself. There’s even a possibility that we could uncover the mafia boss’s actual identity!’
The FSB Director gave the agent a hard stare. ‘Are you disobeying a direct order?’
The agent stiffened. ‘Of course not, sir!’
‘Then bury it,’ he commanded as a red-headed woman strode over, her black leather boots crunching in the thick snow. The FSB Director turned to his assistant. ‘What is it?’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Gurov, but I’ve an urgent update on the Malkov rally.’
Roman Gurov nodded and headed back towards his car with his assistant at his side. He glanced back over his shoulder at the agent, who was now instructing his team to remove the body from its shallow grave. ‘Reassign that agent to a Siberian outpost.’
‘Of course, Mr Gurov,’ replied Nika with a thin smile. She almost pitied the poor agent, who had no clue that the mighty head of the FSB, Roman Gurov, was also the merciless leader of the Bratva.
In a harsh low whisper, Roman added, ‘And punish whichever krysha enforcer was responsible for Nikolay’s death. I said to dispose of the banker permanently. I cannot have corpses coming back to haunt me! Not in my position.’
‘Of course not,’ said Nika, stiffening. As both FSB Director and Pakhan of the Moscow mafia, her boss walked a razor-thin line. In fact, the lines often blurred. On the outside, the FSB and the Bratva appeared to be two very different organizations: the former upholding law and security; the latter spawning crime and disorder. But, on the inside, much of the same blood flowed, her boss having recruited a dozen or so FSB officials to operate in the interests of the Bratva, and Nika being his first and most loyal employee.
As they approached his car, Roman asked, ‘So, do you have good news for me?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Nika replied, coming to a stop by the passenger door. ‘After giving the order to execute the Black King, we lost communication with the asset. I sent an agent to investigate. The asset was found dead, a bullet to the back of his head.’
Roman’s expression became stony. He didn’t even blink. ‘Are you telling me someone assassinated our assassin?’
Nika swallowed, sensing the rage building in her boss. ‘It would appear so.’
‘And what’s happening at the rally now?’
‘Malkov is still a
ddressing the crowd.’
Roman slammed a fist on top of the car roof, denting the metalwork. ‘He must be silenced! Do whatever it takes to stop him!’
‘It is better to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie,’ Viktor Malkov declared to the crowd. ‘The government is the Bratva; the Bratva is the government. They claim your economic woes are the result of foreign intervention, but the truth is they are bleeding Mother Russia dry!’
Boos and jeers rumbled through Triumfalnaya Square at the mention of the Bratva and a shadow fell over the rally’s jubilant atmosphere. Connor sensed the change in mood and his alert level shot up another notch. Feliks was by his side, the boy lapping up his father’s rousing speech. But Connor was barely listening; his entire focus was on the crowd and their surroundings, watchful for the slightest hint of danger.
‘But I vow to fight for you, the good people of Russia,’ Viktor went on. ‘To represent a new Russia. Our Russia.’
The boos transformed into cheers and applause, and the rally’s euphoric atmosphere returned.
Viktor gripped the microphone in both hands. ‘So let’s take a stand. Vote for change! Vote for Our Russia!’
Chants of ‘MALKOV! MALKOV! MALKOV!’ exploded from his supporters and grew so loud that the windows in the surrounding buildings literally shook in their frames. As their leader raised his arms in his customary two-fisted salute, a cheer went up like the roaring launch of a fighter jet.
Connor was relieved the speech was almost at an end and that they could soon head back to the safety of the mansion. The crowd had swelled to an almost unimaginable size. Half the city seemed to have turned out to hear the billionaire speak. And all the time Connor had been on edge, waiting for some threat against Viktor or Feliks to materialize.
When it did, the attack came from the least expected quarter.
Without warning, as Viktor began making his closing remarks, the police suddenly moved in to disperse the crowd. Although the supporters were behaving peacefully and within the law, the police acted as if a riot was taking place. They fired tear-gas canisters, the toxic smoke spewing out like dragon’s breath across the square. As people tried to escape the choking fumes, the police hemmed them in with riot shields. And when the crowd pushed back, the police beat them viciously with their batons.
Viktor appealed for calm, but the police appeared to have their own agenda. They tore into his supporters, goading them to react, then arresting any who did.
A unit of heavily armed police officers made a beeline for the stage.
‘Get Viktor out of here!’ Dmitry ordered Timur.
The hulking bodyguard hustled Viktor off the stage and down the scaffolded steps. Joined by three of the security team, they formed a defensive human shield round the billionaire and made for the evac point, with Dmitry close behind. Following them, Connor and Jason grabbed Feliks and bundled him down the steps, Anastasia hot on their heels.
Acting like a snowplough, Timur and his men drove a wedge through the crowd and headed for Viktor’s limo and the back-up SUV. The vehicles were parked in a nearby side street that had been barricaded off so that the route remained clear on to the main Garden Ring Road. But with people and police pressing in on all sides Connor and the others started to trail behind. He noticed the FSB agent on their tail too.
‘Keep up!’ Connor shouted at Anastasia, not wanting to lose her in the crush. Buffeted like lifebuoys in a storm, Connor and Jason fought to hold on to Feliks. The square was so packed they were drowning in bodies, and a few times Feliks was almost torn from their grip. At the same time the police continued to tighten their net round Viktor and his men.
A tear-gas canister whizzed past, acrid smoke clouding the air.
Feliks began coughing and Connor’s eyes started streaming.
‘Jason!’ cried Anastasia, her ice-blonde locks disappearing in the haze of smoke as she fell further and further behind. She desperately reached out to them, but the crowd swallowed her up.
‘We can’t leave her!’ Jason gasped, the tear gas searing his throat.
As much as he hated to say it, Connor reminded him, ‘Feliks is our priority.’
‘That’s right,’ said Feliks, coughing and his dark eyes shining with terror and tears. ‘I’m your priority.’
The boy’s total selfishness appalled Connor. He couldn’t believe Feliks was so quickly abandoning his friend, perhaps his only friend, and one who’d recently fought to help him. Through stinging bloodshot eyes Connor looked at Jason, who was furious and distraught. They both knew their duty was to protect Feliks first. Yet, after everything they’d been through with Anastasia, Connor considered her one of them. He made up his mind. ‘I’ve got Feliks,’ he gasped. ‘You get Anastasia.’
With a brief nod, Jason turned back and disappeared into the sea of bodies. Connor pressed on with Feliks. The tear gas was starting to disperse the crowd, enough for them to close the gap on his father. But it had also allowed some of the police through.
A gas-masked officer seized Dmitry from behind. As two more pounced on him, Timur and the other bodyguards were forced to leave the adviser. Clear who their priority was, they forged on with Viktor. Connor and Feliks – not recognized as targets by the police – managed to slip past while the three officers subdued Dmitry with a heavy barrage of blows from their batons.
The rest of the police unit continued to fight its way through the crowd, aiming to cut off Viktor’s escape route. But his supporters, recognizing the threat to their leader, closed ranks and blocked the police advance. Batons rained down and more tear gas filled the air. In spite of the police’s efforts, the crowd held firm just long enough to allow Viktor and his bodyguards to reach the side street. Connor and Feliks weren’t far behind, their tail of an FSB agent lost in the carnage. Clambering over the barrier, they raced for the limo, its engine already running.
Timur almost threw Viktor into the limo’s back seat. Connor shoved Feliks through the open door, then leapt in after. Timur clambered into the limo’s front passenger seat as the other bodyguards piled into the escort vehicle.
Coughing and spluttering, Viktor asked, ‘Where’s Dmitry?’
‘He was arrested,’ Connor replied.
‘Nothing we can do. Let’s go!’ Timur commanded the driver.
‘Not yet!’ shouted Connor, desperately looking back for Jason and Anastasia. Beyond the barrier, chaos reigned. The square looked like a battle zone, blood streaming down people’s faces, women and children screaming, smoke rising like bomb blasts into the sky. But there was no sign of Jason or Anastasia.
‘SHUT THE DOOR!’ Timur barked.
‘No, wait – I see Jason!’ Connor pleaded as he spotted his partner vault the barrier and come sprinting down the road with Anastasia in tow.
The escort vehicle honked impatiently for them to depart. Timur ordered the driver to go. Even as they pulled away, Connor kept the door open, praying the two of them would catch up. By now the police had mounted the barrier and were firing warning shots. As Jason came up alongside the limo, he bundled Anastasia through the open door. Connor grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.
‘My bag!’ she cried.
‘Leave it,’ Connor shouted as the limo gained speed.
But, with a deft swipe, Jason managed to snatch up the black bag. Then in one last-ditch effort he sprinted after them.
‘Come on, Jason!’ Connor cried as more shots ricocheted down the street. But Jason was flagging, his breathing harsh from the tear gas. He wasn’t going to make it.
Then, as they slowed to take the corner on to the ring road, he dived head first into the limo.
Like a sleek black tank, the armoured stretch limo cruised along the Garden Ring Road unchallenged, the escort vehicle behind, an ever-watchful guardian. Inside the air-conditioned limo, Viktor began laughing, his voice slightly hoarse from the after-effects of the tear gas. ‘That was close,’ he said.
‘Too close,’ Connor agreed, blinking the acrid t
ears from his eyes.
‘No, not really. The wolves may be howling, but they’re no longer biting.’
‘But what about Dmitry?’ asked Connor.
Viktor waved away his concern. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have my lawyers on to it straight away. If they can get me out of jail, then they can certainly free Dmitry.’
Connor just hoped Dmitry was in jail. By the looks of the beating he’d had from the police officers, he could just as easily end up in hospital.
‘But why did the police attack in the first place?’ demanded Feliks angrily, wheezing from the tear gas. ‘I couldn’t see any reason for it.’
‘They didn’t need a reason, my son,’ said Viktor with another hoarse laugh. ‘Our Russia has become a force to be reckoned with and that scares the establishment. It was inevitable they’d try to break up the rally at some point. I’m just surprised they let me talk for so long. But the police can’t have anticipated such huge numbers attending. That’s why they hesitated.’
‘I wouldn’t call tear gas and riot police exactly hesitating,’ said Jason.
‘No, but they failed to stop the rally. And that’s what counts,’ replied Viktor, his tone triumphant. ‘In the forthcoming elections I’ll sweep away the old guard. It’s time for a new Russia.’
‘Will it really be a new Russia?’ asked Anastasia.
Viktor nodded. ‘I promise to root out all the corruption and make those responsible pay for their crimes. The Russia you’ll grow up in, my dear, will be a far cry from the Russia of today.’
Anastasia responded with a brief smile. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, before breaking into a hacking cough.
‘Are you OK?’ Jason asked, putting an arm round her.
Anastasia nodded. ‘Just … the tear gas.’
‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’ said Feliks, wiping at his bloodshot eyes. ‘If I had my way, I’d gas the whole police force.’ He noticed Jason’s arm round Anastasia and put his hand on her knee. ‘I was worried for you. I really was. That’s why I sent Jason back.’
Bodyguard (Bodyguard 5) Page 17
