The pedestrian walkway was lit but not brightly. There was enough light to see everything on the footpath itself: even the fluorescent flashes on the BMW stood out clearly – although it was too dark to see into the shadows. Which was why the advancing policeman had turned on his small pocket flashlight. He was pointing the tiny beam to the left and right as he approached the alley where the bike was parked.
Stopping by the entrance, immediately in front of the bike, was his biggest mistake. If he had carried on walking a few yards further, he might have noticed the unmistakeable shape and form of a man concealing himself in the shadows. Virenque had guessed, correctly, that the half-hidden motorbike was going to be the magnet that drew the advancing man to a halt. It gave the Frenchman the opportunity he was looking for. With a deadly speed that the policeman never saw coming, he came from behind. Putting an arm around the unsuspecting man’s neck, he executed a full arm lock with all the strength he could muster. The man wriggled and fought, but that simply made Virenque squeeze tighter: the life was draining from him as he struggled to breathe. Gradually, Virenque felt all resistance weakening. Choosing his moment, he finally snapped and twisted his locked arm in a counter-clockwise direction. The grizzly sound of the policeman’s neck being broken was all that could be heard.
Virenque hauled the policeman’s dead body into the alley beyond where the BMW bike was parked. The arrival of the policeman potentially gave him two transport options: the Hyundai car or the BMW R1200? For Virenque, it was a no-brainer. For manoeuvring around the London streets, the BMW was going to win every time. He checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty one in the evening. Lewis and the Nemikov girl had to be leaving shortly. He rocked the police motorbike off its stand. Then, flicking the electronic ignition to the ‘on’ position, he inched the machine out of the alley and into the back mews behind Cornwall Gardens.
48
A small concrete staircase leads down to pavement level from a nondescript door at the back of the house. The black Audi car is parked metres away. Lewis clicks the electronic key fob; the car’s headlights come on automatically as the doors unlock. He directs Olena to the front passenger seat before climbing in behind the wheel and hitting the electronic ignition.
“Pull your seat backwards. Rake the seat incline and squeeze yourself down into the foot well.”
“Are you serious?” Olena asks.
“Totally. If Panich has a team out there waiting, we are a much more likely target if they see two people in the car rather than one.”
Olena reluctantly obeys, disappearing below the dashboard with difficulty.
The car is fast. Lewis finds that they soon reach the junction with Gloucester Road. He checks his mirror. He sees nothing that immediately catches his attention.
“Where are we going?”
“I thought you knew. Luton airport. The private jet terminal. I thought we would take the scenic route.”
“Why?”
“I need to take care of you, apparently.”
She looks up at him from the footwell and smiles weakly.
“You’ve been doing that all day, Ben. I’ve never had my life saved so many times in one twenty-four hour period before.”
Lewis turns left on to the Cromwell Road, heading towards Knightsbridge and the West End of London.
“Did your father tell you what happened in Venice this afternoon?”
Olena doesn’t reply immediately, lost in thought as Lewis drives.
“Papa says that he has given you Mama’s security codes,” she says eventually. “As a precaution. Is that right?”
Now it is Lewis’s turn to remain silent. Before they had left the Kensington House, Nemikov had indeed entrusted Ben with Valentyna’s security codes. He sighs as he remembers the conversation of a few minutes ago.
“Ben, if Valentyna really is dead, I need someone I trust to take her place. I’d like you to be that person.”
They are standing together in Nemikov’s study. There is a large chess table in the centre of the room, but no game is in play. Expensive-looking oil paintings adorn the walls; two are of young ballerinas on stage. Lewis is no expert but they appear to be by the French painter, Degas.
“Why me and not Fedorov?” Lewis asks.
“Because I instinctively trust you. You have shown today that you are totally loyal and thoroughly professional. In fact, the less involvement you have previously had with my family, the more confident I am that I can trust you to help me. Much more than someone like Fedorov who has been working with my family for years.”
“Don’t you trust Fedorov?”
“Ukrainian loyalties are tough to get to the bottom of,” he answers cryptically. “I do trust him, but, at this particular moment in time, I have my reasons to trust you more.”
He is dressed still in a double-breasted dinner jacket and black tie from the charity function earlier in the evening. He fixes Lewis with a long, penetrating, stare.
“As I explained when we first met: in the event of my death or disappearance, my affairs automatically revert to the control of my Swiss lawyer, Rudi Hildebrandt. The offices of Hildebrandt Private Bank AG are in Zurich. Should anything happen to me, I have given individual and unique access codes to Valentyna, Olena and Borys. Anyone trying to gain access to my money will soon discover that Rudi is unable to release any monies from my estate unless, and until, he is in possession of all three codes.” He moves across to one of the ballerina paintings, hanging on the wall behind a mahogany desk. It is mounted on a hinge. As the picture swings away from the wall, there is a small safe behind it. A few moments later, Nemikov hands Lewis a piece of paper.
“These are Valentyna’s codes. Do you think you will be able to memorise them?” He is smiling as he hands Lewis the piece of paper: shortly the former Marine understands why.
“If this is what you want,” he says looking at Nemikov. “I am happy to play my part. As you say, for someone like me, remembering these should be very straightforward.”
He glances at the paper one more time before handing it back to Nemikov.
“I have spoken this evening to Hildebrandt. You are now officially standing in for Valentyna, on the assumption that she may, God help us, be no longer alive.”
Beyond the Natural History museum, Knightsbridge is fast approaching up ahead.
“What your father has put in place is actually a clever arrangement.”
“How so?” asks Olena.
“If anyone is desperate enough to get their hands on his money and either kills or kidnaps him, it provides a layer of protection for you and your brother.”
“And now you.”
“Or your mother, assuming she remains alive.”
“What do you think happened in Venice today?” she asks him.
Lewis doesn’t answer. In his rear mirror, he can see a police motorbike fast approaching, heading towards the Audi, its blue lights flashing.
More to himself than to Olena, he mutters, “I think we have company.”
The time is eleven thirty-four.
49
Oleg Panich was doing what he always did when he was anxious: smoking one of his – often described by former colleagues as foul – Turkish cigarettes. His new right hand was good for many things; however, the fine motor skills required to curl mechanised fingers around a slender cigarette was a step too far. Nowadays, he was reconciled to smoking with his left hand. Even though bandaged and sore from his recent interaction with Lewis, Panich had learnt over the years to block out pain. Now, as so many times before, he drew comfort and temporary peace of mind through inhaling the warm smoke into his lungs.
He checked his watch. It was eleven twenty-eight in the evening.
Only a short while earlier, he had watched as Lewis performed a reconnaissance circuit of the neighbourho
od. Panich had been tempted to leave the cab, tail the former Marine and kill him on the streets with his GSh-18 pistol. Four things had stopped him. Firstly, all said and done, his primary mission was to take care of the girl. Secondly, Volkov, damn him, had been adamant: no private enterprise against Lewis! Thirdly, he had no idea who else was in the neighbourhood watching the Nemikovs. Killing Lewis on a London street in cold blood without reconnaissance was reckless, bordering on the insane. The real clincher, though, had been that, deep down, Panich felt that killing Lewis with a bullet to the back of his head on a London side street, was too simple: too painless an ending for someone who had caused him so much grief. In any event, wherever the girl seemed to be heading, Lewis on current form would be close by. There would be other, better chances to get Lewis, of that he was convinced: especially ones that allowed Panich no small element of retribution.
So, he had remained parked up outside one of the small, run-down, private hotels adjacent to the Nemikov property. There was one other cabbie waiting like himself: most likely a pre-booked, late nighter to somewhere far away – a clandestine affair between two parties with a free cab ride home for one of them. Panich’s position provided a good vantage point over all comings and goings to the Nemikov property. He also knew that Virenque was waiting just around the corner on the police motorbike.
His mobile phone gave a muted buzz. With the cigarette held in his mouth, he took out his phone and saw a brief text from Polunin. The Nemikov boy, Borys, had indeed been taken alive. Excellent. Polunin was on his way to the safe house with him now, cuffed and sedated. Very good. One dead, one captured: all that remained was for the girl – and Lewis – to be taken care of.
A police car raced past Panich’s parked taxi, its blue lights flashing. It drove around the garden square, parking close to where Virenque was hiding. Panich found Virenque’s mobile number on his phone and hit ‘dial’.
“The police have just arrived. One is about to come your way,” was all he said.
A few minutes later, Panich was still debating what to do when his phone buzzed for a second time. He looked at the screen. The message read: ‘RR is decoy. You want Audi from Corn Gards.’
Panich started his engine as the security gates to the Nemikov property began sliding open. Moments later, a metallic-grey coloured Range Rover burst out of the driveway, the noise from the powerful V8 engine clearly audible as it accelerated away from Panich in a westerly direction. Panich dialled Virenque’s mobile number once again.
“Any problems?” he asked the Frenchman.
“No, all taken care of,” was the reply that came back.
“Good. It’s the Audi we want apparently. They should be leaving any time now,”
50
“Target one is finally alone in the house.” The man in the driver’s seat of the Vauxhall Astra was speaking. His accent was hard to call. It sounded oddly mid-Atlantic. He had an unusual shock of silvery-white hair to one side of his otherwise thick, black hair: apart from that there were few other distinguishing features.
“How long do you need?”
“Five minutes.” The man checked his watch. It was eleven thirty-three.
“Do you have all you need?”
“Sure. It’s not going to take long to convince him. It’s the fallout we have to worry about.”
“What’s happening with the police car?”
“Still here. The driver went to investigate something on foot. He hasn’t yet returned to his car.”
“Should one of you go check it out? We can’t risk being seen with target one.”
“I’ll go.” It was the blonde-haired woman.
“Okay.”
“I have you covered.” It was the sniper on the roof. His vantage point was a fifth floor balcony across the street.
Three minutes later, the blonde-haired woman was back in the car.
“There’s a police officer down in the alley,” she called out once the door was closed.
“Dead?”
“I guess.”
“You’ll have to abort then.” It was the man on the phone speaking.
“Not necessarily. There may be a short window right now. Before the shit hits the fan,” the man in the driver’s seat replied.
“It’s your call. But it feels high risk to me.”
“This whole fucking thing is high risk.” The man’s mind was made up. “I’m going in. The rest of you, watch my back.” He donned a black woollen beanie hat that covered his hair and ears. It made him look almost unrecognisable. “Remember. Five minutes.”
Walking briskly towards the property, he took out a separate cell phone and hit the one and only number pre-programmed into the device. The call was answered seconds later. Sure enough, no sooner was he approaching the locked security side gate adjacent to the Nemikov private mews, than it ‘clicked’ open to let him in.
51
Virenque had watched the Audi drive away at high speed whilst he was emerging from the mews behind Cornwall Gardens. The bike’s lights were switched off as he pulled onto the roadway, Virenque wanting to remain concealed until he knew in which direction Lewis was heading. There was little fear of losing him: the bike’s acceleration was always going to be much faster than the Audi’s. Virenque had secreted his mobile phone so that it was wedged inside his police bike helmet: the earpiece was thus close to his ear, the line open directly to Oleg Panich. It allowed them both to talk freely to each other whilst on the move.
“He’s on Gloucester Road heading south. Are you sure he’s got the girl?”
“Positive.”
Virenque turned right at the road junction, his headlights now switched on. In the distance he could see the Audi turning left on to the Cromwell Road, heading for the centre of the city.
“Where are you?”
“Leaving Lexham Gardens. The Nemikov Range Rover has just driven away at speed, heading in the other direction. That’s the decoy vehicle, apparently.”
“I hope to God you’re right. The Audi’s heading east on the Cromwell Road. I’m going to try and stop them. Where are you?”
“Less than a minute behind you.”
“I’m turning my blue flashing lights on. I want Lewis, as well as you, to be able to see me coming.”
52
Lewis checks his mirror. The police motorcyclist is less than fifty metres away and closing. The rider is positioned on the road immediately behind him, hugging the lane centre line. Its blue lights are turned on and flashing.
“Keep your head down, Olena. We’ve definitely got company.”
As the bike draws nearer, Lewis maintains a constant speed: he resists the temptation to apply the brakes. They are passing Brompton Oratory church, heading towards Knightsbridge. The traffic in their direction is free flowing; the lights thus far have all been green.
Lewis keeps one eye on his mirror. He knows that the biker won’t be Panich. Riding a bike with a prosthetic hand would be impossible without serious modifications. The question is: is this a genuine policeman? Or could he, perhaps, be one of Panich’s accomplices? Maybe the man from the train?
The biker starts to draw parallel with the Audi. Lewis considers it’s time to change tactic: he hits the brakes. The Audi decelerates quickly, causing the bike to overshoot and take up a new position in front. For a split second Lewis thinks the biker might, after all, be genuine.
Then he sees two things that persuade him otherwise.
The rider’s uniform for one. The biker is dressed in a fluorescent jacket and helmet that are totally appropriate for a Metropolitan Police Special Escort Officer; but his trousers and shoes aren’t. Despite the dark, Lewis glimpses jeans and heavy-duty combat boots: not the waterproof trousers and special boots that they normally wore.
The second is the gun. Hurriedly pulled
out of an inside jacket pocket as soon as he shoots past Lewis’s Audi, the gun is the giveaway. This is no ordinary policeman. The gun may be a genuine police Glock 17 pistol. London’s police force, however, do not patrol the streets of the capital on their motorbikes, waving Glock 17 handguns as though they were in the Wild West.
53
He was driving with his foot flat on the accelerator, the Manganese Bronze taxi closing the gap on both Lewis and Virenque. Panich tore through a red light at South Kensington, narrowly avoiding a collision with another car at the junction. This burst of speed meant that he was able to close the gap on the flashing blue lights of Virenque’s bike up ahead.
“I’m about one hundred metres behind you, and closing,” he said to the Frenchman over the open channel. “What’s your plan?”
“I’m going to try and blow out his tyres. If I do that, can you ram him from the rear?”
“Good plan. Any sign of the girl?”
“Not yet. She may be in the back – or hiding in the front. I’ll try and see as I get closer.” There was silence and then swearing. “Fuck! He just hit the brakes. I’ve overshot. It is definitely Lewis. I’m going to try and take a shot.”
The distance from Panich’s taxi to the Audi was twenty metres and closing. The Russian’s foot was still on the accelerator. He could see Virenque reaching into an inner pocket and removing a gun with his left hand. Panich knew how problematic firing a gun from a moving motorbike was going to be. If anyone stood a chance, it had to be a Moscow-trained assassin such as Virenque.
The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2) Page 14
