by Roger Pearce
‘The Turks are ordered to eliminate Sergeyev tonight.’
Rigov sipped his vodka. ‘I need you to tell me this, Rashid,’ he said, unsmiling. ‘Is our mission to be judged a triumph or a failure?’
Hussain shifted in his seat. ‘Harold gave us what we both required.’
‘And paid with his life. You should never have allowed the Turk to end things in this way.’
‘Malik was a zealot.’
‘A narcissist.’
‘His martyrdom was the deal and I had to honour it.’
‘It was theatrical,’ said Rigov. ‘The British will cover it up.’
Hussain picked up his Coke and Rigov could see that his hand was trembling. ‘My masters have what they need,’ said Hussain. ‘They are satisfied. And grateful to Moscow.’
This was an understatement. In Damascus, awaiting Hussain’s return, his superiors were already celebrating the victim database as an intelligence coup. Their plan had been decided many months before. Al Mukhabarat would not deploy the pornographic images against the British establishment blackmail victims in a single rush of sewage, as the naïve and obsessed Malik had intended, but gradually, drip by toxic drip, into the secret channels of diplomacy. For them, the fact that the victims had not been vaporised by Malik’s bomb enriched the haul, for it strengthened the threat. The loss of the Golan Heights in 1967 remained a running sore, just one grievance they held against every ally of Israel. Applied with care, the poison of photographs, videos and profiles of the survivors would lubricate many years of leverage against the West.
‘The people Malik wanted to destroy are base metal, Anatoli.’
‘And the jewels?’
‘I protected them for you.’
‘All four?’
‘Of course.’ Hussain reached into his bag and laid a DVD on the table. As he did so, Rigov clicked his fingers. Immediately, a slim man in his twenties in shirt sleeves appeared from the front of the aircraft, took the DVD and disappeared through a set of double doors at the rear of the plane.
‘Reassure me I am not to be disappointed?’ said Rigov, quietly.
‘They are all there, as agreed. Our payment to you, with thanks. No one has approached them since their compromise.’
The DVD contained sexual images of four victims selected by Rigov and Goschenko, targets they had been careful to exclude from Malik’s final, murderous event. There was an encryption specialist employed by GCHQ, a Treasury expert in economic intelligence, a nuclear physicist compromised in a single night and a member of the Cabinet Office with regular and direct access to Number Ten. Unlike the high-level establishment figures, whose profiles would be analysed in Damascus, the targets selected by Rigov were present-day operators, who dealt constantly with top-secret intelligence, the hard currency of espionage. Al Mukhabarat would have no further contact with these targets. The jewels belonged to Anatoli Rigov. That was the deal. In the months to come, Rigov’s agents would coerce them to betray their country to Moscow.
The technical expert returned the DVD with a nod to indicate everything was in order. ‘Tell them to start the engines,’ was all Rigov said, unsmiling.
Hussain stood to leave and board his own aircraft for Damascus. ‘Do I have your authority to continue with the final phase of the operation?’
‘You still have control of Jibril?’
‘He is in position, awaiting my final order.’
‘Then do whatever is necessary. No trail of blood must lead to my door.’
‘So let me ask you, Anatoli,’ said Hussain, tapping the DVD. ‘Do you count your operation as a success?’
Rigov did not move in his leather chair. ‘Time will tell.’ He clicked his fingers again, for more vodka this time, and looked Hussain in the eye. ‘You must hope on your life that I do.’
Sixty
Thursday, 27 September, 20.21, New Scotland Yard
Kerr needed Langton and his team to be on high alert for the moment Jibril reappeared. Steve Gibb was covering the observation post opposite his safe-house in Lambeth and the Reds immediately redeployed there from Chiswick. Kerr caught up with Melanie on the other side of the park as he speed-dialled Karl Sergeyev. His mobile was busy, and Kerr’s anxiety mounted with each attempt.
‘He’ll be speaking with Olga,’ said Melanie. ‘She rang him as soon as I got her clear of the house.’
Finally, Karl picked up. Kerr put him on speaker. ‘Karl, are you all right?’
‘Of course, but I should be asking after you. Olga just told me everything. You did great, John. And Jack, too. Wish I could have been there with you guys.’ He sounded as if he was in a bar, slightly drunk, but in a high-spirited, party kind of way.
‘Look, Karl, I think you could be in danger.’
‘No way. I’m covered.’
‘Goschenko is missing. And those two hoods. What if they think you led us there?’
‘Nah. I’m supposed to be on the payroll, remember?’ Fearless at his betrayal of Rigov, he said it with a laugh, like a man back at the top of his game.
‘And the driver,’ said Kerr. ‘Olga told us you were seeing Nancy and the kids this evening. Where are you?’
‘Chalk Farm. Nancy blanked me so I’m buying Olga dinner instead.’
‘Where?’
‘Dominika’s. Russian restaurant off Regent’s Park Road. I’m telling you, we’re back on track and it’s truly fantastic. If you get a chance come and join us for a drink.’
‘Karl, listen to me. Does Goschenko know you use it?’
‘No one knows. It’s below ground and dark. Very romantic. If anyone’s looking, they’re not going to find us.’
‘So do me a favour. Stay with Olga in a hotel tonight, yeah? Just until I get this sorted.’
‘Sure.’ Karl was distracted. Somebody in the bar was saying something to him in Russian, and it was making him laugh again. ‘And when you get me back on the team I’ll be taking care of you, my friend.’
‘Just watch your back, Karl.’
They met again around Paula Weatherall’s conference table. Looking exhausted, she was trying to sip scalding black coffee. Ritchie was rumpled, but ready for another long night. Exactly two weeks after his rescue of Melanie in Hackney, there was blood on Kerr’s clothes again. He had washed his hands twice, but they still smelt of the firing range. He had been bracing himself for another outburst of anger. Instead they got up to shake his hand and ask if he was OK. Then, to his surprise, they thanked him, as if it was all over.
They were on different cycles: Weatherall seemed to be suffering a chronic case of operational post-mortem, but all Kerr’s instincts were telling him the terrorist plan still had life. ‘I believe this is only one part of it,’ he said. ‘That pair of Turkish gangsters escaped. Yuri Goschenko got out as well. And the most serious part? Ahmed Jibril evaded surveillance. I’m telling you, this is dangerous. Nothing’s changed. There has to be another bomb factory out there for something big, like I’ve been saying all along.’ With adrenaline still coursing through him, it was all coming out in a rush. ‘This is not the end, Bill. The man I took out is just the start. We have to action things tonight so we can hunt down these bad bastards and neutralise them.’
Ritchie seemed to absorb everything, but Weatherall was evidently regarding him with a mixture of pity and scepticism, as if he had suddenly become a victim of trauma. Her self-defence reflex was so obvious she might as well have had ‘management liability’ scrawled across her forehead. She began to report back on the Chiswick situation, behaving as if Kerr had not spoken. The house was clear of bombs and corpses, and the TSG were busy identifying the guests. Very soon, she said, the commissioner would be fielding some interesting phone calls.
As she took refuge in her notes, the warning that had been tapping at Kerr ever since Karl had brushed off his safety concerns suddenly hit him like a sledgehammer. He was back in 1830, listening to Karl’s recording of Anatoli Rigov’s pitch. With Rigov’s dark voice in his ear, the words
from Fargo’s transcript seared his brain: ‘We hold you in high regard, Karl, as a fellow Russian . . . we have seen you with your family . . . they deserve a secure future . . . would you not agree?’
We have seen you with your family. Kerr went cold. Rigov’s men must have followed Karl when he had visited his children. They knew where he lived. Ritchie was saying something across him to Weatherall, but Kerr did not even register it. If Olga knew he had planned to spend the evening with his family, he would have told them in the car on the way to Chiswick, which meant Goschenko would know as well. If Karl had fallen under suspicion, Nancy and the children were in danger, too. He heard Weatherall’s voice in his ear telling him it was late and they all needed to get some rest. Kerr was on his feet, but his mind was already sprinting away.
Ritchie was frowning. ‘You all right, John?’
‘I just remembered something.’ He already had the door open. ‘Sorry. Need to check this out.’
Kerr was already speed-dialling Karl as he waited for the lift, but got voicemail. ‘Shit.’ Underground restaurant, no signal.
Screeching up the ramp from the basement garage he barely waited for the security arm to clear the car’s roof before activating the blue light and charging towards Marble Arch.
He knew Karl Sergeyev’s family home was in Hornsey Vale, a few miles north of his own apartment in Islington, so he took that route because it was familiar to him. He pulled into the kerb to confirm the house number and check Nancy Sergeyev’s phone number on his BlackBerry, then slipped the Alfa into drive and spun away.
The Sergeyevs’ house was in darkness except for a night light on the landing for the children. Kerr tried Karl’s mobile again before ringing the bell, but got the same voicemail. Nancy scampered downstairs in her dressing-gown and invited him in before he could apologise. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, as if she had been expecting him, leading the way down the hall. ‘I saw on the news half of Chiswick’s been evacuated, but no one seems to know why.’
The house was a three-bedroom Victorian semi with the living room to the right and a long hallway running alongside the staircase to the kitchen and dining room at the rear. ‘Were you expecting Karl home tonight?’ asked Kerr, hooking his jacket over a kitchen chair.
‘You know Karl doesn’t live with us any more, John,’ she said, filling the kettle and throwing him an amused look over her shoulder. ‘Have you come round to proposition me?’ She stared in disbelief as he told her to pick up her children and leave home. ‘So it’s not just Karl who could be at risk, it’s me and the children too. Is that what you’re telling me? Why would they follow him here?’
‘It’s a sensible precaution, Nancy. I should have thought of it before.’
She frowned into the middle distance. ‘I suppose we could stay with my mother if we absolutely had to.’
‘It’s just for a few days. I’ll get someone round first thing to help you . . .’
They both heard the footsteps. Kerr grabbed her arm and flicked off the light as they tracked the sounds along the side of the house.
‘You need to go back upstairs now,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Get the children and shut yourselves in your bedroom.’
Kerr lay prone by the kitchen door as Nancy raced up the staircase, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Raising himself on his elbows, he risked a snap look round the dining-room door. In that split second he caught the pencil light and the shapes of two men in black picking the lock on the French windows. Shuffling back into the kitchen he found the BlackBerry in his jacket and dialled 999 for police. ‘This is DCI John Kerr, SO15,’ he whispered. ‘Urgent assistance to one three six Highburn Road. Armed, repeat armed, suspects on premises now. Silent approach.’
Upstairs in her bedroom, Nancy held the children close as she peered through a gap in the curtains at the intruders on her patio. She ran back to her bedside, pressed the panic alarm Karl had installed in guilt at deserting her and pulled the children into her bed.
Karl and Olga were climbing into a black cab for a modest hotel in Belsize Park when he caught the warning. Until that moment they had enjoyed a great evening, becoming reconciled over khachapuri, beetroot soup, chicken satsivi and a bottle of Georgian wine. They had each told only one lie: Olga that she had never had sex with Goschenko, and Karl that he believed her. After Karl had convinced her he would get his job back at the Yard, but not how, they spent the rest of the evening speaking about their future together.
The text was there, buzzing red for danger, ‘Intruder alarm operating’. He had planned to leave his car in the street until the morning, but the message changed everything. He told Olga he had to deal with something urgent and sent her off to the hotel in the taxi, promising to join her later.
Adrenaline flushed his mind clean and sent him roaring through the black, familiar streets to rescue his family, dialling Nancy on the move and accelerating violently when the engaged signal convinced him someone had cut the line.
From the kitchen doorway less than twelve feet away, Kerr watched the intruders defeat the lock and enter the dining room. The men in black moved silently together as a pair, drawing nearer, sending a chill up Kerr’s spine. These were no ordinary intruders. He was in no doubt about the quality of his opponents or the scale of the threat. He was edging back as far as he could into the kitchen, steeling himself for an unequal fight to the death, when the BlackBerry betrayed him. It was on ‘vibrate’ mode, but shattered the stillness of the house like a volcano. He muffled it against his body, but the intruders, already by the kitchen door, were on him in a split second, drawn by the beacon of Bill Ritchie’s caller ID lighting the screen.
With violent death looming over him, Kerr admired their speed and stealth, two executioners working in perfect harmony as the larger of the two men lifted him bodily from the floor while his comrade found the light switch and aimed his gun in a single co-ordinated movement. They acted according to a plan, but Kerr’s reaction was instinctive. Yelling at the top of his voice, he jerked back his head into the mouth of the man who held his arms and heard the cracking of teeth as he kicked out wildly, elongating his body like an enraged child, desperately stretching for any contact to delay his assassination.
His shoe connected with the gun, and he watched it fly from his executioner’s hand in a slow-motion arc, slithering up the hall carpet. As the man flinched in pain behind him, he wrenched himself free. In a co-ordinated movement of his own, he elbowed him in the ribs, then launched himself against the slimmer man facing him, smashing his BlackBerry into the hooded face, the crack of glass telling him he was wearing spectacles. Kerr was shouting at the top of his voice, but both his assailants stayed silent even when he hurt them, confident about the odds in their favour and driven by the sweet experience of killing.
They attacked him again, aiming for his arms and legs and neck as he strove to reach the gun. The three men merged into a rolling bundle of muscle and violence, the black of the assassins slashed by the cream of Kerr’s fresh shirt, bouncing off the walls as he drove them back to the front door.
In their trial of strength the larger man reached the gun first. Senses smothered by the intensity of the struggle and the rush of breath inside the balaclavas, the Turks did not hear the front door opening as they prepared to murder their target at the foot of the stairs.
Karl Sergeyev demonstrated a murderous professionalism that matched their own. When he stealthily entered the house, only Kerr saw him draw the illegally retained Glock 19 from his waistband. And because they had worked together as neatly as the Turks, Kerr was already moving before Karl yelled at the top of his voice.
‘Clear, John!’
As Kerr leapt back and his assassin turned to face the new threat, Karl fired a rapid pair of shots at the Turk’s head. The action braked hard again, giving Kerr a micro-second to admire Karl’s skill in placing one neat hole in the balaclava at the centre of the man’s forehead and another in his throat. Then everything accelerated a
gain as the Turk fell dead to the floor, sending the gun on the move for the second time, and his partner made the fatal mistake of grabbing it. There was another satisfying double pop as Karl executed him, too, although this time Kerr could not tell where the rounds had hit.
Apart from his shouted warning, Karl had been as mute as the assailants. Without a word, he stepped over his first victim to reach the second body with the gun. Closing his hand around the dead man’s to avoid leaving his fingerprints, he carefully took aim and fired a shot at the wall above the front door to demonstrate that their assailant had fired first.
Nancy and the children appeared at the top of the stairs as sirens filled the air, and the street became alive with flashing blue lights and crackling radios. Karl stared silently from Kerr to Nancy and back again as his friend took the Glock from his hand.
‘What the fuck are you still doing with this, Karl?’ demanded Kerr, with a smile, checking the serial number.
Karl stared back at him, then raised his eyes accusingly to Nancy, perched on the top step in her nightdress, shielding his children. ‘What the hell are you doing in my house with him?’
Sixty-one
Friday, 28 September, noon, Paula Weatherall’s office
Weatherall placed Kerr on sick leave by phone as soon as he was discharged from St Thomas’s Accident & Emergency Department. With Langton prowling outside, the doctor examined the bruises on his arms and chest and stitched a cut above his left eye where the larger of the Turks had punched him. At three in the morning the medic sent him home with a stern warning to keep out of fights. Weatherall ordered him to stay there.
In his apartment he checked all the TV networks, which were reporting the miraculous reappearance of Sara Danbury, found wandering in Chiswick, and the fatal shooting of two armed robbers in north London. He woke before eight, showered and returned to the office. Weatherall tried to send him home again, then agreed to meet him with Bill Ritchie at noon.
