Jason’s mouth dropped open as he exchanged an incredulous look with Connor. But before he could protest Anastasia clasped Feliks’s hand, saying, ‘Thank you, Feliks. I appreciate that. Jason was a true lifesaver.’
The limo entered the mansion grounds, wound its way along the gravel drive and pulled up beside the marble fountain in the centre of the forecourt. Frosted in fresh snow, the mansion looked like an enchanted castle in the late-afternoon sun. Ski-jacketed security guards patrolled the gardens and two armed men were stationed either side of the main entrance. Timur clambered out of the front passenger seat and opened the door for his boss as the escort vehicle behind disgorged the security team.
‘Well, I’d better start phoning my lawyers,’ said Viktor, stepping out into the chill air.
Timur and the security team escorted Viktor towards the mansion. Feliks followed his father across the forecourt, Connor flanking him, and Jason at Anastasia’s side.
‘You’ve forgotten your bag,’ the driver called after them. He reached into the vehicle and pulled out a black bag and waved it at Anastasia.
Anastasia frowned. ‘That’s not mine,’ she replied, holding up her own and walking on.
At the exact same moment Connor spotted a ghost-like face peering through an upper window of the mansion. The heads-up-display on his contact lens flashed red three times, confirming the sighting.
Connor’s sixth sense went haywire. The grey man. The unidentified bag. It couldn’t be coincidence. Connor dived at Feliks and shouted, ‘GET DO–’
Then the world turned into a roar of noise, fire and death.
‘When I said do whatever it takes, you certainly took me by my word, Nika.’
Roman Gurov strode over to his drinks cabinet, selected a pair of shot glasses and poured out two measures of finest Russian vodka. On the far wall of his office a television screen displayed a news report of the smoking devastation at the Malkov mansion.
Handing Nika a brimming glass, he raised his own in a toast. ‘To My Russia,’ he said with a smirk.
When his assistant didn’t join him in the toast, the FSB Director paused, the glass hovering at his lips. ‘Why don’t you drink? Is the Black King not dead?’
Nika set aside her glass. ‘Preliminary reports confirm multiple deaths and casualties. But Viktor Malkov isn’t one of them.’
With a furious snort, Roman knocked back his vodka, then hurled the empty glass into the fireplace, where it exploded in a shower of flaming sparks. ‘That man has more lives than a cat!’
The FSB Director paced the room. ‘Tell me exactly what happened. Why have you failed yet again?’
Nika stiffened, realizing that not only her job but possibly her life could be on the line. Those out of favour with the irascible director had a habit of disappearing … rumour had it, to a Siberian prison camp. ‘As per your orders,’ she emphasized, ‘our strategy was to stop the rally and silence Malkov. The police were instructed to move in, disperse the crowds and discredit Our Russia supporters. They made numerous arrests. Unfortunately Malkov escaped. The bomb, however, wasn’t part of the plan.’
Roman stopped pacing and stared at his assistant in astonishment. ‘We didn’t plant it! Then who did?’
Nika shrugged. ‘Agents are searching the site for evidence, as we speak. There’s a chance our asset planted it before he was killed, as a back-up in case the shooting failed. But my gut instinct tells me it’s another attack by the Red Square lone wolf.’
Roman walked over to the window and stared out at the wintry sky. ‘I only wish we had this lone wolf on our team,’ he muttered, glancing over at his assistant, and added icily, ‘Then we might have more success.’
Nika smarted at her boss’s tone. She wasn’t to blame for this fiasco. But, as ever, she’d have to clean it up.
‘So what have you found out about this lone wolf?’ Roman asked.
‘Very little, I’m afraid,’ said Nika, placing a slim folder on the director’s desk. ‘He left few traces at the GUM store. All tracks in the snow were cleared. Gun shell casings collected. No fingerprints found anywhere. And CCTV revealed no likely suspects. All we can determine is that the lone wolf is highly trained, a meticulous planner and fires a sniper rifle with 7.62 mm calibre bullets. It’s as if this lone wolf is a ghost.’
‘Sounds like the perfect assassin to me.’
‘I’m hoping the bomb site will provide us with more clues,’ said Nika. She placed another folder, slightly thicker, on the desk. ‘However, we have had more success with the two supposed cousins. They’re definitely not family. While Viktor’s son does have distant relatives on his late mother’s side, they’re still living in the Ukraine.’
‘Then who are they?’
‘According to their personal records online, just ordinary kids,’ said Nika. ‘But digging a little deeper, we discovered the records had been doctored. Connor Reeves and Jason King are actually connected to an organization called Buddyguard, a covert training programme for young bodyguards.’
‘Young bodyguards!’ snorted Roman. ‘Don’t make me laugh!’
‘It’s no joke. And you can’t deny their effectiveness,’ said Nika. ‘They took out one of our teams and extracted a Principal under sniper fire. Viktor Malkov has evidently hired them to protect his son. And, by all accounts, they’re doing an excellent job.’
Roman grunted. ‘No wonder Stas had such trouble with them.’ He looked Nika in the eye. ‘If this is the case, the two boys are now legitimate targets. Expendable. Understood?’
Nika nodded as the FSB Director strode back to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another shot of vodka. ‘So tell me, where is Viktor Malkov now?’
‘He’s pulling back to his dacha in the country. After the attack on the mansion, it’s the most secure position f–’
Roman held up a hand, cutting her off. ‘I don’t care if the dacha’s as secure as the Kremlin, I want the Black King dead.’
Nika now picked up her own shot glass and took a confident sip. Always in possession of a back-up plan, she informed her boss with a sly smile, ‘We do have one piece left in play. A Trojan horse.’
The explosion spread out in a wave of fire and heat. Instantly vaporized, the surrounding snow – and the driver – might never have existed. But the limo stood firm, its armoured panels forcing the blast wave outwards. And in a hail of white marble the fountain of Neptune exploded, one of its lethal shards spearing Timur in the back. The bodyguard fell across Viktor, shielding his boss, while all the other bodyguards were cut to shreds.
The hailstorm of marble struck Jason and Anastasia too. Jason tried to use his jacket to shield them, but they were thrown to the ground, their bodies battered, bleeding and lifeless.
Caught out in the open, only Connor’s fast reactions saved his Principal. As he wrapped himself round Feliks, the blast wave knocked them off their feet and marble shrapnel rained down. But Connor’s bulletproof jacket absorbed the impacts. Flung forward by the shock wave, Connor’s head struck the mansion’s stone steps with an explosion of stars and ringing in his ears. Then a curtain of darkness covered him as the ringing grew louder … and louder … and LOUDER …
Connor opened his eyes, waking from the nightmare. On the bedside table his smartphone was ringing. He picked it up and mumbled, ‘Hello?’
‘Connor, it’s Charley. How are you doing?’
Connor sat up in bed. Shafts of golden sunlight pushed through the curtains, picking out dust motes and spotlighting the old wooden floorboards. ‘OK … but I think I’ve overslept,’ he replied, rubbing his eyes, then pinching the bridge of his nose as a dull headache gripped him.
‘You’re in recovery,’ said Charley. ‘You’re bound to feel a bit groggy.’
Connor glanced round the room. He lay on an iron bedstead. There were no solid gold lampstands and the furniture was simple rustic rather than priceless antique. The velvet burgundy curtains were now plain white cotton and the en-suite bathroom housed a large free
-standing bathtub but no chandelier. He was no longer in the mansion, that was for sure. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘Viktor Malkov’s dacha. For safety reasons you’ve been moved to his country estate outside Moscow.’
‘How come I don’t remember?’ he asked, his thoughts foggy and disjointed.
‘You’ve suffered a concussion,’ explained Charley. ‘Short-term memory loss is to be expected, but let me know if it persists.’
‘Sorry … who are you again?’
‘Connor, it’s Charley!’ she said, suddenly sounding alarmed. ‘Please tell me you remember me –’
‘Only joking,’ said Connor with a laugh. ‘You’d have to chop off my head before I’d forget you!’
He slid out of bed, a little wobbly on his feet but otherwise fine as he made his way to the bedroom window. Parting the curtains, he gazed out across the snow-covered grounds of the estate. The dacha, a large, two-storey, wooden country house, was surrounded by tall trees on all sides, their branches frosted white. A long garden dotted with sculptures stretched down to a frozen lake and a thick pine forest.
‘That wasn’t funny! You seriously had me worried for a moment,’ Charley told him sharply. ‘In fact the whole bomb attack has us all concerned.’
An image of Jason and Anastasia lying lifeless in the wreckage flashed before Connor’s eyes. ‘How are the others?’ he asked urgently.
‘Apart from a few cuts, Jason’s fine. So is Anastasia. Like you and Feliks, they were saved by his bulletproof jacket and graphene-fibre trousers. And the statue’s pedestal shielded them from the worst of the blast. But Timur was killed, along with the driver, and there were several casualties among the security team. Considering the force of the explosion, it’s a miracle you survived at all.’
Connor spotted Jason, Anastasia and Feliks walking round the lake, confirming Charley’s words. Relieved, he turned his attention back to Charley. ‘Has the bomber been caught?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Charley replied. ‘The police have questioned the usual suspects, but no one has claimed responsibility – not even the Bratva. The authorities don’t have a clue who it might be.’
Connor narrowed his eyes. Despite his concussion, he hadn’t forgotten the face he’d seen in the window. ‘I know who it is,’ he said.
‘Who?’
He told Charley his suspicions.
‘You’d better warn Mr Malkov then. By the way, Anastasia’s background check has come back clear … apart from one anomaly.’
‘Go on,’ said Connor.
‘I’m pretty sure it’s a clerical error, but can you confirm her surname is spelt K-O-M-O-L-O-V-A?’
‘Yes, I think so. Why?’
‘Well, the only girl the Moscow registry office could find with that name died two years ago.’
Connor watched as Jason followed Anastasia over to a boathouse on the edge of the lake. ‘Well, I can assure you she’s definitely alive.’
‘I know,’ said Charley. ‘I’ve seen her picture. She’s very attractive.’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed,’ Connor replied a little too quickly.
‘Nice try, Romeo.’ Charley laughed. ‘But I’d be worried you were dead if you hadn’t noticed her looks.’
Connor felt his cheeks flush and was glad this wasn’t a video call. ‘No comment,’ he said. ‘But should this be ringing alarm bells?’
‘No, as I mentioned before, Russian bureaucracy is a nightmare. I think the registry office has made a mistake and muddled her with someone else. Their records seem a total mess. I just wanted to check the spelling before trying again with Bugsy’s help. However, if I’m having this much trouble finding out about her past, it’ll be a huge advantage to her becoming a buddyguard.’
‘So,’ said Connor, ‘I can recommend her to the colonel for recruitment?’
‘I already have,’ Charley replied, much to Connor’s surprise. ‘He’s preparing the entry tests for her right now. Once Operation Snowstorm is over, they’ll make an approach.’
‘That’s great news,’ said Connor, confident that Anastasia would pass the tests and be an asset to their team.
On the other end of the line Connor heard Charley clear her throat, then say, ‘Before we sign off, do you want to hear some more good news?’
Connor plopped himself down on the bed. ‘Absolutely. It makes a change from all the bad news here.’
‘Well, I don’t want to get my hopes up,’ Charley said, suddenly sounding unsure. ‘But I’ve been contacted by a Chinese medical research group about a new breakthrough development for spinal injuries. They’re seeking a volunteer to try out a pioneering therapy.’
Connor sat up. ‘That’s wonderful! What sort of therapy?’
‘It involves a combination of advanced cell transplantation and microchip implantation.’
‘Wow, sounds like they want to turn you into the Bionic Woman. How did they find out about you?’
‘That’s the strange thing – I don’t know. Perhaps the hospital. But I suspect Ash might have something to do with it.’
Connor suppressed a twinge of jealousy at the mention of the name. Ash Wild was a world-famous teen rock star who Charley had once been assigned to protect, and during the course of her assignment they’d fallen for each other. But then she’d suffered her tragic accident. In the aftermath they’d split up, but Ash had donated all the royalties from a song he’d written for her into a recovery fund.
‘Sounds like his doing,’ said Connor, keeping his tone casual.
‘I realize it’s a long shot,’ Charley admitted. ‘I might not even get selected. But if I did, then maybe I could … well, who knows. They’re not promising anything.’
Connor smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, if anyone can make it happen, you can.’
Washed and dressed, Connor felt a whole lot better and after a couple of tablets his headache was gone. Hurrying to join the others by the lake, he grabbed his jacket – the one that had saved his life – and made his way downstairs. Recalling the layout of Malkov’s dacha from the operation briefing notes, he passed along the upper landing and down the wide wooden staircase to the main entrance hall, where the antlered head of a stag was mounted proudly over the door.
Dachas were the traditional country retreats for Muscovites. Most were modest affairs with just a small cottage and a plot for growing fruit and vegetables. But Viktor’s – like many of Russia’s elite – was the equivalent of a rural mansion. While not as grand as his main residence in the city, the dacha still boasted six bedrooms, an indoor swimming pool, a games room, separate staff quarters, the lake for fishing and a thirty-acre forest for hunting.
As he headed for the front door, Connor heard voices in the drawing room.
‘I can’t be seen to be hiding.’
‘I appreciate that, Viktor, but it’s best you remain here until we secure operations in the city.’
‘I won’t be intimidated out of Moscow! And Our Russia’s rise certainly won’t be undermined by one bomb!’
‘Need I remind you, the bomb hasn’t been the only threat …’
At first Connor thought Viktor was speaking with his adviser. But then he remembered Dmitry had been arrested at the rally. And the voice didn’t have the same nasal tone as Dmitry’s. This one was low, almost breathless, the sort of voice Connor imagined a snake or lizard might have.
‘That’s why I’ve extra men patrolling the perimeter of the estate, as well as guarding the house. This is the best location for the time being.’
With both Lazar and Timur dead, Connor guessed the man was the new head of security. Whoever it was, though, Connor had to interrupt the meeting. He had important information. He knew who the bomber was.
‘But what about Equilibrium?’ Viktor went on. ‘Won’t they see this as a weakness?’
‘Don’t worry, Viktor. Your sponsor – and my employer – doesn’t question your unwavering commitment to the cause –’
Connor knocked on the door. The voic
es stopped.
‘Come in!’ said Viktor.
Connor entered the drawing room. Warm and welcoming, the wood-panelled room was carpeted with a dark-red woven rug over polished floorboards. An antique gold-framed mirror hung above a mahogany drinks cabinet and a cream-coloured Chesterfield sofa with matching armchairs was cosily arranged round a crackling fire in the hearth. Above the mantelpiece a stuffed wolf’s head stared ravenously down at him, its teeth set in a snarl.
Viktor sat in one of the armchairs, a cut healing on his cheek and a bandage on his right hand.
Then, as Connor looked round, all the warmth seemed to drain from the room.
Standing by the fire was the bomber.
‘Connor, glad to see you up and about,’ said Viktor with a grin. ‘I’ve yet to personally thank you for saving my son’s life. Without your lightning-fast reactions, he’d have gone the same way as Timur.’
Connor didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the threat in the room. Although a fire blazed in the grate, none of its warmth or colour seemed to touch the man, as if he stood in a permanent cold spot in the room – or in fact he was the cold spot. The bomber’s ice-grey eyes returned his gaze with disturbing indifference. No acknowledgement that they’d seen each other before. No concern that Connor might recognize him. And, what was worse, no indication of any humanity behind those eyes. He was like the wolf mounted above the mantelpiece.
A shiver ran down Connor’s spine. Again there was that nagging tug in his mind that he knew this man.
Connor finally found his tongue. ‘Mr Malkov, call security!’
Viktor stiffened in his chair. ‘Why? What’s happened now?’
Connor moved across to protect the billionaire. ‘I suspect this man’s behind the bombing and other attacks on you and your son.’
Viktor blinked. ‘What did you just say?’
‘This man was in your mansion as the bomb went off,’ Connor explained. ‘I also spotted him just before Feliks was shot at in Red Square. I suspect he followed us in Gorky Park and at the ice rink before the attempted kidnapping. That’s one time too many to be a coincidence.’
Bodyguard (Bodyguard 5) Page 18
