Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  After I passed customs I was confronted with the usual faces waiting to meet arriving passengers, some of whom were holding up placards with a name or message. I walked purposefully, whilst taking in my surroundings towards the taxi rank.

  “The Metropole,” I said stooping down to see the driver through the window.

  He nodded in recognition. After my luggage had been stowed in the boot we were off. It was a pleasant spring day in Moscow, the sun was shining. Its architecture represented distinct periods in Russia’s recent history: Imperial Tsarist hubris, grim Communist behemoths, Cold War apartment blocks that looked ripe for demolition and post communist nouveau rich vulgarity. Within the hour, after negotiating traffic we arrived in the city centre. The Metropole was an old hotel which had recently been refurbished; it was 5 star, rather large, with all the concomitant features one would associate with such a hotel. Edward had it booked and paid for on my behalf. The lobby was a hive of activity. There was a lounge bar in close proximity to the other side of the main doors.

  “I have a reservation....... Collingwood’s the name,” I said confidently in English to the pretty young thing behind the desk. She was blond, buxom and rather beguiling.

  “Velcome sir,” she purred as she smiled at me, “You have a message.”

  Suddenly the thought of that Swedish chambermaid less than a week ago flashed through my mind....I can’t imagine why. I got to my room. It was perfectly adequate; a spacious bedroom with elegant decor and an en-suite bathroom tastefully done. It was almost 6pm in Moscow and thus too late to pick up my parcel from the British Embassy. Edward being frightfully efficient recognised that I could hardly be sent into the “field” with no equipment. A parcel had been sent from London in the diplomatic bag. I resolved to collect it the following morning. The message from the receptionist was contained in quality bonded white stationery. I opened the envelope and read the card. It was an invitation for Captain Tarquin Collingwood to attend a reception that evening at the German Embassy, forwarded courtesy of the British Embassy. It seems news of my arrival had spread!

  I showered and had a light supper before proceeding to the German Embassy in one of the hotel’s chauffeured limousines. Having been a commissioned officer I was aware of how formal these diplomatic soirees could be, so I dressed in black tie. As my car pulled into the expansive drive of the German embassy it became clear that this was a large gathering. There were ambassadorial cars lining up to disgorge their passengers with exquisitely dressed footmen to open the doors. It appeared that almost every embassy in Moscow had been invited. After alighting from the car, I walked up to the large 18th century doors of this old aristocratic mansion and presented my invitation card and was waved in by the doorman after he checked my name on his list of guests. The ballroom was opulent - high ceiling, magnificent chandeliers and tastefully decorated in French imitation furniture, Louis XV I surmised. There was a string quintet playing some Schubert at one end of the room. Everyone was immaculately attired: military dress uniforms, national dresses for the odd African or Arab, white tie or black tie for the rest. The women looked sensational as they glided around the room in ball gowns and jewels with their hair splendidly coiffeured. It was an effort not to be distracted when there was such an abundance of beauty. Just then a waiter passed me with a tray, he stopped and I duly took a glass of champagne. I took a sip. It was at room temperature; a trifle too dry for my tastes but quite acceptable.

  An attendant approached, “Sir may I introduce you to the German Ambassador”, he smiled and gestured for me too follow him, “Your invitation card please”, he requested.

  “Yes I suspected as much, you are Captain Collingwood”, he said before returning my card.

  He took me to one side of the room where a small group of guests had lined up and were being presented to the ambassador. In a moment it was my turn.

  “Herr Kapitain Collingwood aus Grosse Brittanien,” an official standing a couple of feet away attired in some liveried outfit announced.

  “Good evening Captain. I trust you enjoy your time in Moscow,” the distinguished looking ambassador greeted me in excellent English with a slight Teutonic accent, as we shook hands.

  Moments later I was standing to one side of the room having just enjoyed a delectable canapé. I sipped champagne and glanced across the ballroom wondering what the devil I was doing here. Just then a fellow appeared in front of me from my left. He was tall, ruddy cheeked, wearing black tie about 50 years old.

  “Excuse me,” he said rather apprehensively, “Is your name Collingwood?”

  He spoke in an unmistakably English accent.

  I straightened up and cleared my throat, “Yes”, I replied attempting to sound emphatic.

  “How do you do I’m Guy Worthington. Welcome to Moscow. I trust you had a good flight?”

  “Yes thank you Mr Worthington. I wasn’t expecting to meet you until tomorrow.”

  “Please call me Guy. I thought this party was too good an opportunity to pass up, so I arranged an invitation for you,” he explained as we shook hands with enthusiasm.

  I relaxed, “These Germans have put on quite an impressive show,” I said.

  “Yes. The new German ambassador is quite a social animal. He wants to get himself known to the diplomatic community. There’s no better way than throwing a party,” Guy confided.

  The small talk had broken the ice so I dived in, “What has Edward told you?”

  Guy gestured for me to move towards my right a couple of paces, out of earshot of anyone else. A waiter passed and Guy helped himself to a flute of champagne. He looked over his glass as he sipped and looked straight ahead and surveyed the room with the all authority of a Professor in a common room. Then he turned towards me.

  “Well............I think he’s told me everything. My understanding is that you’re here to avenge Andrew Sinclair’s death.”

  “I am here to get some justice for Andrew,” I corrected, “Can you help me?”

  “Difficult.......question,” He mused whilst savouring his champagne, pondered and then finally said, “But quite possibly. I must confess to being rather bemused when Edward told me you were coming to Moscow,” he reflected languorously, “Are you quite sure you know what you’ve let yourself in for?”

  “Perhaps you should tell me,” I encouraged.

  Guy cleared his throat, “If you do try and discover the identity of those who killed your friend and bring them to justice, whatever that may mean in this country,” he said derisively, “it is not inconceivable that they will have no qualms in......” he paused for effect, “stopping you. You should understand Mr Collingwood that once you embark upon this course of action there is no turning back. You either do this wholeheartedly and see it through to its conclusion regardless of the dangers, in which case I shall do everything I can for you. If however you feel unable to give such a commitment, then in all candour I would advise you to fly back to London first thing tomorrow.”

  Guy seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that I had come here on a whim.

  “Andrew and I have been friends since we met at school. He and I joined the army, and served together in the same regiment if you please. We served together in the Balkans during the break up of Yugoslavia. He saved my life on that tour through his own bravery and initiative. I am aware of the dangers. I’m not afraid to die,” I concluded decisively.

  Guy recognised that I had taken umbrage at what he had said, “Please forgive me. It was not my intention to cause offence. I shall do everything I can,” Guy said as sincerely as I have ever heard a man say anything, “Our ambassador has just arrived,” he said looking from the corner of his eye to the far end of the room, “He is with someone who may be of use to us.”

  I glanced at the other end of the room where a middle aged man with silver hair in black tie was entering the room accompanied by a slightly taller man and a young woman. She was wearing a cream evening dress with a plunging neckline, which was graced with
an elegant necklace of pearls. Her brunette hair was gathered in a bundle at the back of her head, her face was simply the epitome of beauty itself with delicate chiselled features. She was in her mid twenties, five foot seven in height, with an admirably “contoured” body and slim figure. Guy confirmed that the silver haired man was the British ambassador – Sir Nigel Caltrop, I assumed as much, as many other guests had respectfully stopped to acknowledge him with a greeting.

  “So who’s the man with him?” I asked

  “That’s Simon Hurd. He’s an Under Secretary at the Embassy.”

  “How’s he going to help us?” I asked.

  Guy looked at me puzzled. He then smiled and with a slight laugh said, “You misunderstand. I wasn’t referring to him but to the girl. Her name is Olivia Beaumont Cecil. She is Sir Nigel’s niece.”

  And as if Guy had sensed my incredulity he explained that she spoke fluent Russian, having read it at Cambridge and had recently joined M16. I glanced towards her, sipped my champagne and reflected that things had just got interesting!

  CHAPTER 5 – INDUCTION AND GIFTS.

  I did not get to meet any of the triumvirate that entered the ballroom that evening. Realising that I would meet them the next day, I made my excuses to Guy and left as I was feeling rather tired. The following morning I had a hearty breakfast and then caught a taxi to the British Embassy on Smolenskaya nab 10 overlooking the Moscow River. It was a grand enough building. The entrance hall was adorned with a large portrait of the Queen by Annigoni, of which I thoroughly approved. After the necessary formalities I was ushered into a comfortable office where Guy and Simon Hurd were expecting me.

  Guy introduced me to Simon and we shook hands.

  “Mr Collingwood or perhaps I should say Captain Collingwood, I know how you military types are sticklers for your titles,” sneered Hurd, “I should tell you that I and the ambassador would have preferred it had you stayed in England. This expedition of yours is dangerous. If the Russians got wind of it our relations with them would deteriorate further - god only knows it’s already rather egregious. This would be one occasion when I could entirely understand the Russian point of view. Therefore if you get caught, injured, kill or are killed, we will feign ignorance of your presence here. We will do nothing more for you than we would for any other British citizen, unfortunate or foolish enough to need our assistance. You can understand that it would place Her Majesty’s government in a difficult position.”

  There was nothing that Hurd had said to which I could object. Although I would have much rather have preferred it, had he been more amicable in his warning.

  “Well I shan’t detain you any further Captain Collingwood. Should you be having second thoughts we can have you on the lunchtime flight to London, otherwise I wish you good luck!”

  He got up and walked to the door, as he opened it I heard a female voice. Olivia had entered the room and Hurd had left. Her hair flowed down her back. She was wearing a roll neck sweater over which she wore a jacket and trousers. She walked towards me and as she did so she looked directly at me stretching out her right hand, whilst holding a dossier in her left.

  “Captain Collingwood, how nice to meet you at last,” she said with a smile in a cut glass accent, “I’m Olivia Cecil, but please call me Ollie, everyone does.”

  I half rose out of my chair and shook her hand feeling a little overawed, “Oh please call me Tarquin,” I said cheerfully.

  Guy and Ollie acknowledged one another with a nod. She went around the desk and sat in the chair and opened the dossier which had been sealed with red ribbon and glanced down for a moment and then looked up.

  “I’ve been studying this case since Edward notified me you’d be coming. I think his suspicions that Andrew Sinclair was killed by some criminal gang with whom he fell out is probably correct. However the good news is that one of his business partners from CB Holdings will be right here in Moscow this evening - David Solomon. One of our agents in London informed me yesterday that he is due to fly to Moscow today on a morning departure from Heathrow. Unless you can think of any reason not to, I suggest we question him ASAP,” she turned from me and looked to Guy who nodded approvingly. I concurred.

  She continued, “I believe the key to finding the killers lies in discovering exactly what CB Holdings were selling. That will give us new leads. We also need to visit the scene where he died. And all of this should be done without alerting the authorities here of our investigation. I suggest that we start by visiting Sinclair’s hotel and retracing his footsteps in Moscow.”

  She closed the dossier looking rather pleased and asked if there were any questions. There was a murmur of approval from Guy, but apart from that silence.

  “You’ve clearly gone to some trouble.....Ollie,” I ventured, feeling something ought to be said, “I’m very grateful. I’ll willingly confess that I’ve never done this sort of thing before - the army’s my thing.”

  She smiled in gratitude, “Tarquin, as Edward may have already mentioned to you, CB Holdings were already under surveillance. This is regarded as a potential National Security issue in the defence of the realm. Let’s just hope that Sinclair and his friends were trading in something innocuous and that our worst fears are unfounded,” she said more in hope than expectation.

  My brow furrowed, “What are these fears?” I asked tentatively.

  Guy who up until now had been largely silent moved uncomfortably in his seat. He coughed to clear his throat and turned to me.

  “Mr Collingwood....” he began solemnly so I sat up straighter and gave him my full attention, “We are aware from our spies, contacts and informants in the east that there are other leads and concerns that Her Majesty’s Government has. Do not ask what they are. These may be completely unrelated to Sinclair’s death...........” he paused tantalisingly and continued, “but then again they may somehow be connected. We do not wish to jump to any premature conclusions. It was the wish of the Foreign Office not to lift a finger in uncovering the circumstances of Sinclair’s death, lest it cause difficulties with the Russians. Your coming here has enabled us to.......” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “honour their wish in letter.........ostensibly, if not in spirit. After all you’re just a decent chap making some enquiries into his friend’s death.........nothing more. And as a British citizen we’re merely offering you some guidance,” Guy concluded and turned towards Ollie.

  “Good lord is nothing official?” I sighed. Silence...

  “Edward said there was a parcel for me?”

  “Yes, I nearly forgot,” said Guy getting out of his seat. He walked to the other end of the room from where he picked up a parcel about the size of a shoe box and brought it over and placed it on the desk. The box had been sealed. It had the words “On Her Majesty’s Service” with the royal crescent emblazoned on it. Once I had broken the seal the contents revealed themselves to me as I un-wrapped them one by one. Guy and Ollie watched and made the occasional murmur of approval and word of explanation.

  The first item was a GPS covert tracking device; it was a thin credit card sized rectangle about a cm thick with magnets for ease of attachment accompanied by a console. A WAP enabled phone or a laptop could also be used to establish the location of the device. There was a British passport and driving licence with my picture and date of birth, but both in the name of Damian Holland Willoughby; and a Visa credit card in the same name. False identities were I suppose always useful. I realised this was to be no normal murder investigation into the murder of a British subject, but espionage. Finally there was a Compact Glock 19 - a 9mm semi automatic handgun with a supply of ammunition – consisting of magazines each with 15 rounds. It was sufficiently small to be easily concealed about ones person, yet powerful enough to deal with most situations. I held it in my hand, its weight was reassuring. It was a beautiful bit of craftsmanship. For a moment I became oblivious to everything else. I looked down its barrel and marvelled at its quality, simplicity and exquisite build. I drew the slid
e back and let it ride forward, before slotting the magazine into the handle of the gun and hearing the satisfactory click as it found its way home. This was an instrument to be coveted. My heart beat discernibly faster with the excitement I now felt in handling a loaded weapon for the first time in ages. I then took possession of the Glock.......or had it taken possession of me?

  CHAPTER 6 – WHITEWASH AND AN OLD ENEMY.

  The hotel where Andrew had been staying was the Hotel Savoy on Rozhdestvenka 3/6 which I reflected grimly was practically a stones throw from the Lubyanka; the former headquarters of the KGB and now its successor the FSB, which dealt in internal security. The hotel was a grand old building with a pre-revolutionary aura of privilege and elegance. I had to commend Andrew on his good taste. It was decided that Ollie would act as an interpreter for me - Andrew’s friend, who had been asked by his family to find out what he’d being doing in Moscow. She and I were driven there in an unmarked embassy car. The lobby was awash with marble, polished mahogany and gold coloured leaf on the white walls and ceiling. The receptionist was a man in his thirties. He was finely groomed as befits a receptionist in such an establishment. Ollie spoke in Russian. She greeted him and nodded in my direction. I assumed the look of the sombre friend. When the conversation was over Ollie ushered me a few feet away and told me that she had asked him if we could speak to some of the hotel staff. He had reluctantly agreed providing the manager did not object. We turned in the direction of the receptionist; he put down the phone and he nodded to Ollie.

  Moments later Ollie and I had been ushered to a rather cramped office. About five minutes later a chambermaid entered the room: she was about 40 years of age, plump and pleasant looking in her starched frock. She was nervous and looked uncomfortable. Ollie smiled at the women and spoke to her so as to elicit a laugh from her, which visibly relaxed her. She then guided the maid to the worn sofa where they both sat; and Ollie proceeded to question her in a friendly but efficient manner. After several minutes the two of them rose. The chambermaid made her obeisance to Ollie and left. She turned to me and explained that the maid had not seen anything that could he of help to us. I sighed wondering whether this was not an entirely futile exercise. Next a small middle aged man who looked older than his years came in wearing some bell boy uniform. I looked out of the window at the traffic and skyline and allowed my mind to drift.