Gray Salvation

by Alan McDermott

Zhabin eventually studied himself in the mirror and thought the transformation was remarkable, even though it was something he’d done many times. The final touches included a thick, black beard and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  Gone was the forty-eight-year-old with the chiselled looks, and staring back at him was a man in his sixties with a nose that suggested years of alcohol abuse. Zhabin topped off the look with a well-worn trench coat and fedora, and the figure reflected in the full-length mirror looked to be a complete stranger.

  With the disguise complete, Zhabin returned to his laptop and searched for hotels in the area. He quickly eliminated anything above three stars, then narrowed it down to the seediest joint available. He dialled the number and got through to a surly receptionist. She spoke in a clipped tone, her words barely audible over the television show blaring in the background. Zhabin explained that he needed a room for a couple of nights but didn’t have a credit card, and asked if he could pay cash. He was told that he could, though he would have to show a passport. He assured her that wasn’t a problem and booked a room in the name of Ferrera. It was one of three false passports he carried that bore the image of him dressed as he was now, though none of them was of good enough quality to facilitate international travel. They were perfect for this type of thing, though, as he never used them in their supposed country of origin, and he doubted the receptionist would be able to spot a fake Venezuelan passport from the real deal. Once used, he would discard it, as he had done with many others over the years.

  Zhabin put a small bottle of make-up remover in his pocket, then walked down the stairs and out into the street. He took the Tube to King’s Cross and walked to the hotel he’d booked earlier. It was a miserable-looking place, but ideal for his purposes. There was an alleyway leading to the back of the four-storey building, and Zhabin took it. He passed dumpsters full of rubbish as well as piles of empty cardboard boxes until he found what he was looking for.

  The emergency fire exit snaked down the side of the building, with a gantry on each floor. It was just what he was hoping for, but more importantly, there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras.

  Satisfied with his escape route, Zhabin retraced his steps and arrived at the Tube station, where he took the Underground to Piccadilly Circus. Once he emerged into the early evening throng, he followed the route he’d memorised back in the hotel, up the narrow pavement of Great Windmill Street and on to Brewer Street.

  He soon found the narrow alleyway he was looking for, and strolled past tables full of revellers braving the elements so that they could smoke as they drank. No-one gave him a second glance as he walked down the well-lit side street, looking left and right for the hidden flight of stairs that would lead up to his night of pleasure. He soon saw the sign that simply said ‘Models’ and walked up the narrow staircase.

  He knocked on the door and it was immediately answered by a woman who looked to be in her sixties. After giving him the once-over, she stood aside to let him in. Zhabin found himself in a small hallway, and the old woman took a seat behind a rickety desk and picked up a well-thumbed copy of Hello magazine. Three small wooden chairs were lined up next to her, each one occupied by a call girl.

  The first two were instantly dismissed. One had bright red hair, which Zhabin found distasteful, while the second was carrying too much weight for his liking. The third, though, was more to his tastes. She looked to be about thirty, and though he would have preferred someone a bit younger she ticked a lot of his boxes.

  Zhabin smiled at her, and the girl got to her feet.

  ‘Sixty quid,’ the old woman said.

  Zhabin pulled out a roll of notes, counted out three twenties and handed them to the aging receptionist, then gestured for the girl to follow him.

  ‘You do it here, darling.’

  Zhabin turned to the old lady. ‘I’m sorry, but I am worried about hidden cameras and such. It would do my reputation no good if people learned that I was in such a place.’

  ‘There’s none of that going on here,’ the woman said.

  ‘Quite, but I prefer to do these things in familiar surroundings. My hotel is quite close by.’

  The receptionist looked at the brunette Zhabin had chosen, and the younger woman shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Okay, but it’ll be two hundred if you take her off the premises, and she has to be back in an hour.’

  Zhabin still had the roll of money in his hand, and he began counting. ‘How much for the whole night?’

  ‘Five hundred,’ the old woman said without hesitation.

  The price wasn’t a problem, but Zhabin made an appropriate grumbling fuss as he handed the woman a wad of notes.

  ‘Have her back by nine in the morning.’

  Zhabin’s prize disappeared through a door and returned a minute later wearing a heavy overcoat and carrying an umbrella. He led her back downstairs and out onto the main street, where he hailed a taxi.

  Fifteen minutes later, they strolled into the Egremont Hotel, where the receptionist lived up to Zhabin’s expectations. He’d pictured a twenty-something with piercings and tattoos, and was right on the money.

  ‘I called earlier,’ he said, and handed over the Venezuelan passport, while his escort took a seat on an ancient leather sofa and thumbed through a leaflet.

  Zhabin was surprised how quickly the registration process went, and assumed it was so that the girl could get back to watching whatever reality TV show he’d interrupted. It also explained why she hadn’t bothered asking about his lack of luggage, which most guests tended to carry with them.

  Armed with his room key, he gestured for the prostitute to follow and walked her up two flights of stairs. The room he entered was about right for the price. A double bed with a sorry-looking duvet, plus a writing desk and built in wardrobes. The light switch was a dimmer, and Zhabin set it to halfway.

  The girl went into the toilet and locked the door, and Zhabin guessed she was administering some chemical fortitude to see her through the night ahead. It didn’t matter to him, as long as she performed her duties.

  By the time she emerged from the bathroom, Zhabin had stripped naked and was lying on his side, gently stroking himself. He hadn’t even learned her name. No doubt, any name she gave would be false. He asked anyway.

  ‘Liz,’ she told him, unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor. She seemed quite impressed with his body, he noted. Not what she expected, given his elderly looks.

  ‘Lie on your back,’ Liz said, shucking off her bra and stepping out of her thong. She reached into her handbag and produced a condom. She had it on him in seconds, and as Zhabin lay back she straddled him and fed him inside her.

  She writhed gently, moaning, and Zhabin wasn’t sure if she was showing signs of genuine pleasure, or was just very good at her job. He was swayed towards the latter, because after just a couple of minutes, he was close to bursting.

  ‘I want to be on top,’ he said, and gracefully twisted and threw her underneath him. Liz didn’t object as he moved above her, his hands next to her head.

  Zhabin gazed at her face, but she had her eyes closed as she ground beneath him. As he neared his own sweet climax, he moved his fingers under the pillow and found the wooden ends of the garrotte. With each surge of his hips, he eased it towards him, sliding the thin metal wire under her head until it was in position at the back of her neck.

  Zhabin worked his hips faster, until the moment of glorious release finally neared.

  But the true pleasure was yet to come.

  With practised dexterity, he let go of the garrotte and crossed his hands over, then grabbed it again and pulled the wire tight across the girl’s larynx. As with the others, he would look her in the eye while he stole her life, heightening the sensation building in his groin.

  Liz’s eyes opened instantly, but instead of her hands going to her throat to relieve the pressure, they went straight to Zhabin’s face.

  It wasn’t what he’d expected.

  A
thumb pressed deep into his eye socket while her other hand tore at his beard, her long fake nails gouging three lines into his face. He jerked his head backwards and increased the tension on the wire, suddenly fearful of losing control of the situation. Hands grasped for his face, but he managed to keep himself just out of reach.

  Zhabin could no longer see into her eyes as she squeezed them shut, as if to increase her reach, but the thrill had already gone out of this encounter. He needed to end it quickly, but the woman was a fighter. It obviously wasn’t her first violent confrontation, and she was fighting him with all she had. What was supposed to be an evening of sweet pleasure was quickly turning sour. Her body bucked underneath him, like a rodeo bull on steroids, and she managed to get a knee into his side with enough force to knock him off balance. As he fell to his side, Liz was able to reach his face, and her claws dug deep into his cheek once more. She grabbed hold of his beard and yanked, pulling half of the false hair away from his face, despite the strong adhesive he’d used.

  He had to regain control of the situation, and that meant maintaining his grip and seeing the job through. The woman was beginning to weaken, having gone more than thirty seconds without a breath. Her exertions began to take their toll, and her struggling finally ceased as her hands went to her throat, trying to claw away the wire.

  Zhabin watched her eyes close and felt her body go limp, but he kept the garrotte taut, just to be sure. A red line began to form where the thin wire had penetrated the skin, but he kept the pressure on for another thirty seconds.

  When he finally let go, he was panting and sweating like he’d just run a marathon. Thankfully, she hadn’t been able to alert anyone by crying out, so he had plenty of time to compose himself before leaving.

  He crawled off the body and removed the condom, which he put in a plastic zip-lock bag, then quickly dressed, stepped into the bathroom and looked at his face. There were deep scratches on both cheeks, and his beard was hanging off on one side. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stick it back on, so he got the make-up remover from his coat and spent fifteen minutes taking off the disguise. His face stung where the solvent dripped into his wounds, but there was little he could do about the pain. Instead, he was more concerned about getting back to the apartment Bessonov had lent him without anyone seeing the wounds.

  When the false nose had been removed, Zhabin put the prosthetic in another plastic bag along with the false facial hair and solvent, then returned to the bedroom.

  His DNA would be everywhere, he knew, including under the woman’s fingernails and in the fibres of the bed sheets. That wasn’t so much of a worry. He’d never been arrested in his life, so the only match they’d find on any database throughout the world would be that found near the bodies of his other victims. The police would have another name to add to the growing list of dead whores, but they’d be no closer to identifying him.

  He checked that he had his wallet, then pulled on the overcoat and stood in front of the mirror. He found that if he pulled the collar up around his face, the scars were hidden, and on such a cold evening it wouldn’t attract any attention.

  Zhabin opened the hotel door a crack and listened for other guests, then stepped out into the deserted hallway, placing the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle. He could see the fire exit at the end of the short corridor, and was grateful to see that it wasn’t alarmed. He pushed through and out into the chilly evening, then descended the metal staircase and walked calmly out of the alley, his collar high against his cheekbones.

  With any luck, the body wouldn’t be discovered for a couple of days, long after he’d flown home. If it were found any earlier, the disguise should keep the police occupied long enough for him to complete his mission and make his way to the airport, another German businessman on his way to the next international meeting.

  Chapter 28

  28 January 2016

  When Ellis rolled into the office just after six in the morning, she was pleased to see three members of the team already hard at work.

  Howes, Solomon and Bailey had done a sterling job of stepping up during such a difficult time, especially with so many experienced operatives out of action. Hamad Farsi’s recovery was coming along nicely, but it would be a long time before he would grace the office with his presence.

  ‘Morning, everyone,’ Ellis said, heading over to Solomon’s desk. ‘Any leads on our shooter?’

  ‘It’s slow-going,’ Solomon admitted. ‘We’ve got over two hundred known snipers around the world, and we’re trying to establish their whereabouts. So far we’ve crossed seventeen off the list, either dead or incarcerated, but it looks like time is not on our side.’

  ‘If he’s working for Bessonov, figure Russian or Eastern European.’

  ‘That’s where our focus is at the moment,’ Solomon told her. ‘Speaking of which, what news on Bessonov?’

  ‘Still not talking,’ Ellis said. ‘Somehow his lawyer got wind of the arrest and went to the police station. He advised his client not to say a word.’

  ‘Surely the evidence against him is enough to charge him, though?’

  Ellis had thought so, too, but until the lab came back with a definite match on the blood samples it was a stand-off. She’d hoped to bring in the farmer and his sons to find out what links they had to Bessonov, but the police had made a gruesome discovery in the barn. The youngest Fletcher had reported his brother and father missing the day before, but it was only when a team of officers had turned up to conduct a search that their bodies were discovered. Despite intense questioning, though, the young farmer hadn’t been able to offer them anything they didn’t already know.

  The gangster was thorough when it came to covering his tracks.

  ‘Shame we can’t beat a confession out of him,’ Bailey said. ‘If we could get him to give up the name of the sniper, I could go back to bed.’

  ‘Welcome to the real world, kid.’ Ellis turned to Solomon. ‘Let me know the moment you find a likely match.’

  ‘Will do. When does Andrew get back?’

  ‘His flight arrives just after five this evening,’ Ellis said. ‘I’ll be meeting him at Heathrow and going to the hospital with him. I’d like this resolved before then.’

  She walked to her small office and unlocked the door, then booted up her computer and went to fetch a drink while it went through the security protocols.

  One thought niggled her as she added powdered milk to her coffee: Why a sniper?

  From the start, SO1 had ruled the method out as an option, much as her own team had.

  Back at her desk, she brought up the file containing Milenko’s itinerary. The president would be staying at Ambassador Greminov’s residence during his stay, and apart from the actual signing in two days’ time his only other engagement was a business banquet later that evening.

  Ellis brought up Google Maps and dumped the Street View character outside the venue, then panned around looking for likely vantage points. Goosebumps crept up her arms as it struck her that on the opposite bank of the Thames stood a dozen large buildings, any of which would provide a perfect perch for a sharpshooter.

  She picked up her desk phone and dialled the number for the commander of SO1.

  ‘Oscar, Veronica Ellis. Sorry to catch you so early, but I was working the sniper angle again and think I may have spotted his opportunity.’

  ‘If you’re going to say the buildings opposite the hotel where Milenko’s appearing tonight, we’ve got it covered.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ On reflection she should have expected it. The special-operations team hadn’t lost a single dignitary over the years, so of course they would have checked out all possible threats. It still seemed strange that they could be confident the entire southern bank was a sniper-free zone. ‘How will you manage to control such a large area?’

  ‘I won’t go into specifics,’ the commander said, ‘but we’ve had people on the doors of every building for the last twenty-four hours. No-one gets in unless they live
there, and all guests have to be pre-registered with our men until midnight tonight. It’s a pain-in-the-arse job, and I wasn’t happy when they named the venue, but the hotel is co-owned by a minister and I bet they’re being paid handsomely to host the dinner.’

  Typical, Ellis thought. ‘I’d be grateful if you could send me a list of those names.’ Any new faces would be worth checking out, even if her counterpart thought he had all bases covered.

  ‘Okay, I’ll have it sent over later this morning.’

  Ellis thanked him and hung up. Cross-referencing the names with known players might reveal a name they’d discounted. With time running out, they needed all the help they could get.

  Ellis often wished MI5 investigations were as portrayed in the movies, where a neat sequence of clues ultimately led them to the bad guys in the nick of time, but the reality was that it was slow, painstaking work. Hundreds of man-hours spent in front of a computer, running algorithms and mining vast amounts of data were the tricks that kept the nation safe, not a single operative with a flashy car and a licence to kill.

  She could have done with one now, though. Almost half of her team were hospitalised, just when she needed them most.

  Richard Notley picked up the phone and dialled his office for the last time.

  ‘I won’t be in today,’ he said to the manager once they’d been connected. ‘I’ve got the flu.’

  ‘You don’t sound sick,’ the voice replied.

  It was exactly the kind of reply Notley had expected. He’d hated Doug Massey from the moment they’d met. Massey had been transferred in from another branch in the accounting firm and was considered a go-getter among the higher management. Among the staff, he was considered a kiss-ass and control freak, and not a day went by without Massey berating someone for slovenly work, invented or actual.

  ‘Yeah well, I feel sick.’

  ‘You do realise we’ve got deadlines to meet, don’t you?’ Massey asked.

  Notley couldn’t give a rat’s ass about deadlines. Today was to be his last on this miserable planet, his last day away from Marian. It made him glad that Massey was being his usual self.