Gray Salvation

by Alan McDermott

  Andrew Harvey munched on a sandwich as his frustration with the search grew. It was already after six in the evening and the office was emptying fast, but he was still no closer to finding any furniture business in Bessonov’s little empire.

  He had been through the maze of limited companies and subsidiaries in the Russian’s file, but none of their names even remotely matched what he was looking for.

  Could Bessonov have started a company in a different name? Unlikely, given the checks that would be made by HMRC and other government departments.

  It is just one subsidiary of one of many holding companies I control.

  The word ‘control’ leapt out at him, and he cursed himself for not spotting it sooner. Bessonov didn’t have to own the company, only have a sizeable stake in it.

  He logged into the Companies House database and looked for all companies that Bessonov had shares in. When the results came back, he was hugely disappointed. Apart from Petrov Holdings Limited, the Petrushkin and another restaurant north of the river, there was nothing.

  Dejected, he went back to the original list and began going through the names once again. This time, he paused when he got to Riviera Investments Limited. The name suggested a property company in the south of France, but when he opened the file he found it dealt with ordinary shares. He quickly typed Riviera Investments into Companies House and sat back, a huge smile on his face.

  ‘I think I’ve found it,’ he said, beckoning Farsi round to his side of the desk to look at the screen.

  The Olde Oak Furniture Company logo was in the top corner, with an address in Wandsworth shown underneath.

  ‘How sure are you?’ Farsi asked.

  ‘About ninety per cent. It isn’t actually owned by Bessonov, but one of his subsidiary investment companies has a forty-nine per cent share in it.’

  ‘Let’s pass it on to Ellis and see what she wants to do with it.’

  Harvey was already up and walking to her office. He knocked on the door and saw his boss typing away on her computer, still looking fresh after a twelve-hour shift.

  ‘We have something we’d like to work up,’ Harvey said, and told her what he’d found.

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘A simple drive-by – just me and Hamad.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you had backup,’ Ellis said. ‘If this really is what we think, things could turn nasty in a heartbeat.’

  ‘That’s why it’s best if just the two of us go,’ Harvey insisted. ‘The fewer people on the scene, the more likely it is we remain undetected.’

  Ellis considered his pitch and seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘Okay, so what do you need from me?’

  ‘Night-vision glasses and comms.’

  Ellis wrote out a requisition form and handed it over.

  ‘This says we can draw firearms,’ Harvey said.

  ‘Bessonov’s already shown us what he does to those who interfere in his operations,’ Ellis said. ‘I’d rather you had them and not need them, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘We’d better grab these before the stores close,’ Farsi said. ‘What time do you want to head out?’

  ‘Let’s leave it until after midnight,’ Harvey told him. ‘That’ll give us plenty of time to scope out the area on satellite imagery and decide where to lay up.’

  They made to leave, but Ellis called them back.

  ‘I’m hearing from the MOD that Russia is pulling its troops back from the Tagrilistani border. That was totally unexpected, given Moscow’s stance over the last few months. Whether that has anything to do with events over here isn’t clear. Military intelligence seems to think the withdrawal is Russia’s way of extending the olive branch in the hope of starting their own trade talks.’

  ‘Seems a little too late for that,’ Harvey said.

  ‘That’s my feeling, too, but if Tagrilistan signs a deal with Britain, that horse will have bolted forever. President Demidov can’t afford another pro-European country on his border.’

  ‘Pulling his men back won’t do him any good,’ Farsi said. ‘Tagrilistan’s president is openly anti-Russia. There’s no way he’d turn his back on Europe and sign a pact with Demidov.’

  ‘Whatever the motive, it looks like Russia is finally playing ball. We can only hope it leads to a full retreat and an end to the troubles in Tagrilistan.’

  Harvey hoped Ellis was right. The sanctions imposed by Europe had been disastrous for Russia’s economy, but Demidov’s tit-for-tat decision to ban imports from neighbouring countries had had its own impact. European meat and milk producers, along with fruit and vegetable suppliers, were seeing large consignments of their perishable products being left to rot as the market contracted, costing millions in lost revenue and the closure of many businesses. The chances of a global recovery were slim while the Russian bear continued along its current path.

  ‘What about the assassination attempt?’ Ellis asked. ‘What do you see as the most likely method?’

  ‘Given the location of the meeting, we’ve ruled out a sniper. There simply isn’t a decent vantage point along Whitehall. Besides which, Bessonov mentioned a team. I think it most likely they’ll try to hit him en route to Downing Street.’

  ‘Those cars are heavily armoured,’ Ellis pointed out. ‘It would take an enormous amount of firepower to get to Milenko.’

  Harvey shrugged. ‘Barring an aerial assault, that’s all we could come up with.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on to SO1,’ Ellis said. ‘I gave them a transcript of the conversation between Bessonov and Polushin and I’m waiting for them to get back to me. Hopefully we’ll be able to bring them all in before they have a chance to strike.’

  Chapter 6

  20 January 2016

  A distant police siren was the only sound the night gave up as Harvey and Farsi sat in the car two hundred yards from the Olde Oak factory. They’d been waiting for more than an hour, hoping to see signs of life within the sprawling building, but the only three windows they could see had remained dark.

  Harvey’s thoughts turned to Sarah, who would be tucked up in bed by now, and while he was determined to bring Bessonov down, part of him wished he could blow off the mission and join her.

  ‘We need to get in closer,’ he said, returning to the job at hand. ‘If anyone’s in there, they’ll be asleep by now.’

  It was almost two in the morning and the area was deserted, apart from a couple of big rigs parked in the loading bay and a few cars lining the street.

  Harvey checked his Glock to ensure he had a round in the chamber, then climbed out of the car and quietly closed the door. The wind whipped at his jacket as he made his way towards the building, the third of seven on the mile-long road. He kept to the shadows but walked nonchalantly, hoping to give the impression of someone on their way home after a night shift. Stooping and running would look suspicious to any eyes out there, whereas someone on a casual stroll wouldn’t raise any alarms.

  He reached the corner of the building adjacent to the furniture factory without incident. There, he took his jacket off and turned it inside out so that the beige suede gave way to black leather. He then pulled his balaclava from his pocket and put it over his head. Next came the night-vision glasses, through the eyepieces of which the world shone a hazy green.

  Harvey began looking for signs of CCTV cameras and found two covering the front and side of the building. The lights in the top corner of each unit told him that they would be recording his approach. He thought it unlikely anyone would be manning the cameras, and his headgear meant anyone reviewing the tapes would have a hard time identifying him.

  Harvey stuck his head round the corner and was able to see down the side of the building, which stretched into the darkness. Still no lights visible. He flicked the setting on the glasses to infrared but detected no telltale heat signatures radiating from inside the warehouse.

  Not for the first time that evening, he wondered if he’d identified the correct business.
<
br />   There was little point in worrying about that now, though. After another quick scan of the area, he broke cover and jogged across the open ground to the wall of the factory. No alarms pierced the night, and no spotlights caught him in their luminous gaze.

  He tiptoed down the side of the building, heading towards the rear, where hopefully he would find a way inside. The only windows were two storeys above him – out of the question, given the gear that Farsi and he had brought.

  Seventy yards later, he reached the rear of the factory and stuck his head around the corner. Two SUVs were parked near the reception area, and when Harvey switched back to infrared he saw that the engine cavities were cold. That meant they hadn’t been used in a while, but their very presence suggested someone was in the building.

  Warier now, he scanned the area for more cameras and saw only one, pointing towards the vehicles. This side of the building had a set of ground-level windows. He toggled his glasses back to night vision and moved towards the rear door, which looked fairly new and impregnable. The older-looking windows offered a more realistic proposal. He was feeling around the frame for signs of an alarm system when cold steel pressed against the base of his skull.

  ‘What the—’

  ‘Don’t move,’ a heavily accented voice said as the glasses were pulled from his head.

  Harvey hadn’t heard a sound, yet he was now held by two men – and one of them was frisking him none too gently. The Glock was confiscated next, along with the comms unit, and plastic ties secured his wrists before he was pulled away from the window and thrust towards one of the SUVs. Rough hands pushed him through its open rear door.

  An order was given in Russian, and the doors to the reception opened. Eight men walked out, each carrying a dark holdall, and began piling into the vehicles. Harvey was struggling to think of a way out of a situation that had, within seconds, gone from routine surveillance to life-threatening. Unless he managed to alert Farsi, he would be whisked out of the area in minutes, and no-one would have a clue where to begin looking.

  That these were Bessonov’s men was now beyond doubt, and their bearing told him they were soldiers – former or current, it didn’t really matter. That they allowed him to see their faces was another bad sign. It meant they didn’t plan to let him go, and all Harvey could picture in the next few hours was a version of the torture Willard had endured in his final hours.

  The vehicles set off, and Harvey desperately tried to think of a way to let Farsi know what was going on. Had he been picked up, too? Did the Russians even know he was in the area?

  The answer soon became apparent as Farsi ran into the road and held his Glock in a two-handed grip, pointing at the windscreen of the lead SUV. Harvey could see him shouting something, but couldn’t hear what his friend was saying above the roar of the engine. One thing he did know was that getting his head down was the best thing he could do in the circumstances.

  He ducked behind the driver’s seat as soon as he saw the muzzle flash from Farsi’s weapon, but instead of the sound of shattering glass, he heard the slug thud against the window and bounce off. Three more thuds followed before the driver swerved and the whole car shook as it made contact with something.

  Harvey instinctively knew that something was Hamad Farsi, and he sat up and looked out of the rear window to see his close friend lying at the side of the road, his body in an unnatural position.

  The SUV turned a corner and powered out of the industrial park, joining the dual carriageway as it headed away from the centre of London.

  A sharp Russian command came from beside him, followed by a bag drawn over his head.

  Harvey knew what lay ahead wasn’t going to be pleasant, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His mind had been branded with the lasting image of his dear friend, almost certainly dead at the roadside.

  Chapter 7

  20 January 2016

  ‘Cup!’

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ Gray said, taking the heavy coffee mug from Melissa’s tiny hands and putting it in the cupboard.

  His daughter immediately dived back into the box, this time pulling out her favourite dinner plate.

  ‘Thanks, darling, but I think it’s best if you leave this lot to me.’

  He picked her up and carried her through to the living room, once again marvelling at the sheer size of it. This room alone was almost as large as the entire ground floor of his home back in England, and his decision to relocate stateside looked to have been a good one so far. He’d been able to put down a hefty deposit on the property and, once the sale of his home in the London suburbs was completed, he planned to pay off the balance. Being debt-free was important to him, and it was a philosophy he wanted to instil in Melissa once she was old enough to understand. As she was just two and a half years old, he had plenty of time to prepare for those conversations.

  Gray set her down on the hardwood floor and pulled a box of soft toys over to her, slicing the tape with his penknife.

  ‘How about you help me unpack these, eh?’

  Melissa stood and pulled open the flaps.

  ‘Whiskers!’ she screamed as she sprang her black-and-white stuffed cat from its cardboard prison. Other toys soon followed, until the floor was littered with just about every toy animal conceivable.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Gray said, and his daughter didn’t seem in the mood to argue.

  He returned to the kitchen and started loading the rest of his possessions into the cupboards. He’d only packed the essentials, enough to keep them going for a couple of weeks. He reminded himself to visit the local shops – stores, he corrected himself – and stock up on everything they would need for their fresh start.

  Gray was thankful that his daughter was still young enough that she wouldn’t be affected by the upheaval. An older girl might complain about having to make do with sleeping bags and camp beds, part of the consignment he’d had shipped over from England prior to leaving to start their new life in northern Florida.

  He’d already been to Walmart to stock up on food, cleaning products and other daily necessities, and up next was a trip to furnish the house, to the mall, Gray thought wryly. He still needed to kit out the bedrooms, living room, dining room and kitchen, and as he wasn’t particularly fussy when it came to styling, it shouldn’t take him too long.

  A couple of years ago, Vick would have taken great delight at the prospect of furnishing an entire home. He could imagine her going from store to store looking for the perfect rug to match the curtains, and a sofa that went well with the polished wooden floors . . .

  Thinking about his late wife created a hollow sensation in his chest. A part of him had been ripped out and tossed into the fire that had stolen his wife and nearly his daughter. He barely spent a day without thinking about her, and often he found himself unable to shake the image of the flames leaping around her, as she lay helpless.

  He shook his head, trying to clear away the image. He had to move on, to take care of Melissa, something he wouldn’t be able to do if he let such thoughts consume him.

  He picked up the local directory and flicked to the daycare section, trying to take his mind off the past. Melissa would need to start integrating with other children her age, and then there was schooling to sort out, which meant he would be busy for the next couple of weeks at least.

  The doorbell rang, a strange sound he was hearing for the first time. He walked into the hallway and saw Melissa looking up at him, also puzzled by the odd tone.

  Gray opened the door and saw a couple standing on the porch, smiling, with arms around each other as they held out a basket between them. They both looked to be in their late fifties.

  ‘Howdy, neighbour!’ the woman said. ‘I’m Sue Wilburn, and this is my husband, Frank. We live next door and just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood.’

  Gray was momentarily taken aback. This wasn’t something he was used to, and had certainly never happened to him back in England.

  ‘I— Er .
. . thanks.’

  Melissa wandered up beside him and clung to his right leg.

  ‘Oh, isn’t she adorable! What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘This is Melissa,’ Gray said, lifting her up. ‘I’m Tim. Tim Grayson.’

  An awkward silence ensued, until Gray found his manners. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  He stood aside and let the couple walk into the hallway.

  ‘So where’d ya move from, Tim?’

  ‘England,’ Gray said. ‘We had a little place just outside London.’

  ‘Oh, I love London,’ Sue said, her high-pitched voice already beginning to get on Gray’s nerves. ‘Wasn’t it terrible what happened last year? My God! It must have been awful with all those bombs going off. Were you and Melissa affected at all?’

  ‘No,’ Gray said, ‘we were visiting family abroad when it happened.’

  It was a lie he’d been working on for some time, along with the pseudonym. The whole point of leaving Britain was to get away from Tom Gray’s past and build a safe future for Melissa. He’d decided against a new forename for his daughter because changing it now would have been too confusing for her.

  He didn’t like lying to his new neighbours, but it was easier than explaining that he had once been Britain’s most notorious criminal, presumed dead for more than a year before returning to the limelight and exposing the UK government’s wet-ops team that had tried to kill him and his friends. It wouldn’t be easy to get across the fact that, though he’d subsequently killed half a dozen men, he was really an okay guy who simply wanted to make a fresh start in the good old US of A.

  The move abroad had taken a lot longer than he’d planned. Nine months longer, to be exact. The bombings Sue mentioned hadn’t been confined to London. The entire country had been hit, with blasts reported in every major town and city. More than ten thousand people had lost their lives, and the effect on the economy was still being felt. Gray had hoped for a quick sale on his house once the dust settled, but the bottom had dropped out of the property market weeks after the attackers were rounded up. He’d put his home on the market at below the suggested price in order to get a quick sale, but interest had been minimal. Even dropping it to eighty per cent of its true value hadn’t been an instant success, but eventually a property tycoon had come along and snapped up the bargain.