Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  Moments later I heard Ollie’s voice. She was speaking in a clearly excited state. I turned away from the window and saw her sitting upright her entire body facing in the direction of the man sitting next to her. He was very forthcoming in his answers, appearing to be eager to assist. After a few minutes of frustrating suspense the interview came to an end.

  Ollie looked to me. “Well?” I said abruptly.

  Looking at Ollie I realised she was beaming, flushed and excited. In my experience girls only look that way after a night with me.

  “Tarquin this is Dmitri Arshavin the concierge,” said Ollie.

  I turned to him and nodded in acknowledgement. I then turned back to Ollie and she continued, “The last couple of days before Andrew died, Dmitri said that there were several calls to his room. He knew this because the switchboard operator told him. The callers had been native Russian speakers who were abrupt to the point of rudeness and threatening in their manner, demanding to be put through to Andrew’s room.”

  I recollected Andrew mentioning the threatening calls when he called me.

  “Dmitri was at the concierge desk in the hotel lobby the day before Andrew died, where he saw two men whom he believed were suspicious loitering in the lobby. He noticed that when Andrew left the hotel these men followed him. Dmitri tells me not unreasonably that he thought nothing of it when he saw Andrew that evening unharmed,” Ollie continued, “However when he heard of Andrew’s death it somehow troubled him, notwithstanding the rumours that it was a traffic accident.”

  “Do you mean that even he doubts it was an accident?” I asked wearily.

  Ollie gave a wry laugh.

  “Is there anything else he can tell us? What about the night Andrew called me?” I prompted.

  “Yes that was Thursday night last week?” confirmed Ollie.

  She conferred with Dmitri and then turned to me, “That night a fire alarm went off and the hotel was evacuated. That was just after two o’clock in the morning, Friday Moscow time, which means it would still have been Thursday evening in London.”

  “I received the call just before 11pm with a three hour time difference that would have made it almost 2am in Moscow. Was there a fire?” I enquired.

  “No it was a false alarm,” replied Ollie.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? What better way to bundle a man out of a hotel in the middle of the night than to create a distraction.”

  “I suspect you’re right,” she agreed.

  “If they wanted to kill him they could have done it in his hotel room and saved themselves much trouble. Yet they overpowered him and took him somewhere else and then killed him. Why?” I pondered.

  It was clear that this Dmitri chap had been enormously forthcoming and helpful. I turned to him - he had been sitting silently as Ollie translated. I smiled at him and shook his hand in gratitude and turned back to face Ollie, “I’m going for some fresh air Ollie”, I announced.

  “Would you finish up here, it’s not as if I’m much use.”

  I went outside in the still spring cool of Moscow. My head felt as if it were spinning. So many questions came to mind as I meandered in the streets around the hotel. Where did they take Andrew? Was it to meet someone? What agonies had they subjected him to? What the devil was it exactly that he and his partners had been selling and to whom? Was there any collusion with the authorities in his murder and its subsequent cover up?

  I returned to the hotel after over an hour and headed for the bar. I ordered a measure of vodka and gulped it down in two swigs. Lord knows it was potent stuff and it gave me a new sense of alertness after the dispiriting sensation of all those questions swirling in my head.

  Just then I heard my name called and turned around to find Ollie, “I didn’t think it would take you this long to get some fresh air,” she said in reproach.

  I was feeling sorry for myself and managed a pathetic, “Forgive me!”

  “Let’s go!” she ordered.

  I followed her out towards the car. She stopped so that I could catch up.

  “Tarquin I think what you’re doing is very selfless and I’m sorry if I sounded rather harsh in there. This cannot be easy for you. Andrew Sinclair is just a name to me whereas he was someone you knew for years. If I had a friend like you, loyal, noble and brave I would consider myself very fortunate.”

  “Well I don’t know that I’m those things, you flatter me somewhat,” I said embarrassed, “I deserted you in there because I was feeling rather queasy. You’re doing this at my behest when I daresay there are other things you could be doing.”

  We turned and resumed walking.

  “Did you discover anything else?” I asked.

  “I finished interviewing Dmitri and I spoke to a couple of other staff, one of whom was the operator, who corroborated what Dmitri had said. Another chambermaid confirmed that Andrew’s room was cleaned and let to another guest within two days of his death. When she said cleaned she meant from top to bottom, scrubbed and whitewashed as if to remove any clues.”

  “But how could that happen?” I said astonished.

  “This is Russia,” Ollie replied casually as if no further explanation were required.

  I could see that what was abnormal and a cause for consternation in any civilised country, was regarded here as nothing much out of the ordinary.

  “Someone high up would have ordered it. No doubt his phone records would have been expunged. I did get a description of the two men who followed Andrew.”

  We had reached the car and were standing on either side of the vehicle about to get in.

  “One of the men was over 6 feet tall with a big scar down the left side of his face. He shouldn’t be difficult to spot,” she said calmly as she took her seat in the back.

  It was as if she had just kicked me in the stomach.

  CHAPTER 7 – A TART’S TALE.

  As the car moved off my memories of that day in Vania Goric returned. It could be a coincidence but rather I doubted it. A man who goes to the Balkans to amuse himself killing and raping would have no compunction in killing an Englishman right here in Moscow. After I’d collected my thoughts, I turned to Ollie and explained to her that I believed that the man with the scar was Yuri Gromyko and told her all I knew of him.

  She listened initially with surprise, but none the less attentively and then said, “I’ll see what we can find out about him.” She then called Guy as we cut through the Moscow traffic.

  “Where to now?” I asked after she finished her call.

  “The spot where Andrew was found,” Ollie replied, “Its on Kievskaya ul near the junction with Novosprassky per, it’s about 3 miles from here.”

  After a few moments we parked in a rather quiet road in a decidedly shabby neighbourhood. I reflected that if this was how quiet it was now, it would have been absolutely soulless when Andrew was supposed to have had his “accident” here in the early hours of the morning. This grotty narrow back street was long enough for a car to travel at great speed. Clearly this was a part of town few tourists saw. Ollie walked to the other side of the road and stopped by the pavement a little further along the street and glanced at the road a couple of feet away. I came and stood next to her.

  “This is where he was found,” Ollie said sadly as she turned towards me.

  I turned to meet her glance. She declared that she would make some inquiries and suggested I could come with her or wait in the car. We knocked on some doors where unsurprisingly no one had seen anything of the supposed “accident.” Later we got to the car in order to leave when I noticed a young woman a little way off who had just left one of the buildings. She was dressed in a way that caused me to think she may be a prostitute, or at least someone who dressed like one: mini skirt, high heels, lots of make up and cheap jewellery. A tart if ever I saw one!

  “She looks like a tart to me. They keep strange hours..........” I said.

  Ollie understood and approached the woman. I followed several paces behind. The tart
stopped and Ollie spoke to her gently and smiled. Her way of putting people at their ease had worked so far. I deliberately kept my distance, lest it threaten her. After a moment Ollie beckoned me to approach.

  “Tarquin this is Katarina, she speaks English” announced Ollie.

  I had never been introduced to a tart like this before. I wasn’t quite sure what the etiquette was so I merely smiled and said, “Dobridyen.”

  Ollie explained that Katarina would answer our questions, but not here on the street.

  “There is a var in the next street Novosprassky per, I meet you der in den minute,” she proclaimed and then turned and walked off, puffing a cigarette as is the wont of whores.

  A few minutes later we found the rather tatty bar and entered. There were only five patrons all old and rather the worse for wear – alcoholics to a man I surmised. I felt somewhat self conscious, given that everyone turned to look at us as. We were young foreign and smartly dressed – the antithesis of everyone else. A moment later Katarina entered. I watched her as she approached our table. She was in her late twenties, had fine hips, an exquisite pair and a face that was not unattractive. She sat opposite me with Ollie beside me, and then called to the barman for a drink. He brought a small glass of what I presumed was vodka.

  “What can you tell us?” I asked impatiently.

  Katarina looked at me offended and then took a swig of her drink as if in defiance.

  “That night I was vizzy so I no sleep,” she began as she lowered her glass.

  No doubt she was busy on her back thinking of Russia I deduced.

  “I then ere car outside at about 4 o’clock in morning. But it always quiet at dat time so I look out vindow. It still night but I see car and men, but they not see me. The light is off in my flat and I peek at side of curtain. They take out man from back of car. They put him on road and they drive away. The man look dead to me. I vas very......... how you say scared. But then the car come back quickly and run over him and then car is gone. It vas horrible.......horrible.”

  “Who else have you told?” asked Ollie.

  “I tell no von,” Katarina said the fear etched on her face.

  I in my naiveté asked, “Why not tell the police?”

  Both of them looked at me – Ollie in sympathy and Katarina indignantly.

  “I recognise one of men from car. He is Policeman in Criminal Investigation department.”

  “How do you know? Are you sure?” I asked astonished.

  Ollie tapped me on my arm, and I looked at her; she shook her head urging me to desist. Katarina was embarrassed her head bowed. And then it dawned on me. This policeman had been one of her clients.

  “The policeman you saw carrying my friend’s body - his name!” I demanded.

  “Please I tell no one avout this until now. I vant to tell someone, so I tell you. But you tell no one I tell you; otherwise they kill me I’m sure.”

  Ollie and I both assured her that we would not reveal our source.

  “His name is............Sergei Pavlovitch,” she finally relented.

  “Sergei.........Pavlovitch,” I repeated slowly and she nodded.

  A moment later we thanked Katrina and headed to the door of the Bar to leave. As we did so, two men entered and pushed past me. Ollie had to jump aside lest she be knocked down in their haste. Incensed at such rudeness we turned back to watch these two scruffy men. I heard one of them shout at Katrina, who had her back to the door. She turned around in her seat and I saw a look of alarm on her face. The two men went up to her and began haranguing her. She recoiled back in her seat placing her arms in front of her as if for protection. I walked rapidly past Ollie back into the bar, having resolved to teach these Russian “peasants” a lesson. By now everyone was watching this outburst as the two men continued remonstrating with a terror stricken Katrina. This, I decided was no way to treat a woman - even if she were a whore. I came up to the thinner of these men, who had his back to me and tapped him on the shoulder. They were both so absorbed in shouting threats in Russian that I took them by surprise. He turned round to face me. I smashed my right fist into his face and then threw him across the room, so that he crashed into some empty tables and chairs before landing on the floor. Turning my attention to the other man; he nodded at me as if taking up my challenge. He was big, tall and stocky. He had no finesse in movement, for I saw his right arm swinging toward me with plenty of warning. I swayed out of the way and then moved in with an upper cut to his face before sending my left fist into the side of his stomach. He was clearly unfit for he went into a state of wheezing and seemed to have given up the fight already. I grabbed him and then frog marched him to the bar, holding his head by his hair before smashing his face against it a couple of times. Then turning him around I sent him flying against the wall on the opposing side, which contained a display of empty bottles on a sideboard; giving him a kick on the backside for good measure to send him on his way. As he careened into this there was an almighty crash of bottles as they fell on and around him. He slummed into a heap on the floor as the sideboard then toppled on top of him, ensuring that any bottles that had not yet been disturbed crashed and shattered around him.

  The other thinner man had recovered and staggered to the bar, dishevelled and shaken, keeping his eyes on me. I looked past him and saw Ollie still standing by the door where I had left her, seemingly frozen into feminine inaction by my onslaught. If Ollie had been a man she could have thrashed one of these “peasants,” instead of just standing there. What use are women in espionage except as honey traps and sex bait? Why don’t they just stay at home and be good wives and mothers? No one else in the Bar moved or made a sound – captivated as they were by the scene before them. He reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of Vodka, from which he took the obligatory swig before holding it by the neck and then smashing it on the side of the bar. He then came at me lunging with his bottle in his right hand. I purposefully stepped out of the way. As his momentum took him forward I ran around him so that I was now behind him and placed my left arm around his neck. With my other arm grabbed his right arm and forcibly moved it in the hope that it smash against the bar and thereby compel him to release the bottle with the impact. It didn’t work! He was also very strong. I couldn’t hold him so I released him and shoved him forward. He turned around newly emboldened. Just then I noticed Katrina get out of her seat and flee. I could have shot him there and then with my Glock. But that would have been unsporting and recalling Hurd’s strictures to me, it would raise this from the status of a mere bar brawl to a shooting, warranting greater Police attention – the last thing I needed.

  He lunged at me again with the broken bottle. This time I stepped inside his direct path and parried his thrust with my left arm, before swinging my right fist directly in the centre of his face. Then standing to his left I swiftly grabbed him by the front of his throat with my left hand and began to squeeze his windpipe. He started to make a horrid sound as one does when bringing up phlegm. I brought my right hand up and seized him by the back of the neck, simultaneously moving my left leg round so that it was behind him. This was all done in an instant before he could recover from his second lunge. I then pushed him back aggressively so that he fell against my leg and toppled heavily on to the floor. Keeping an eye on the bottle, I now moved so that I was astride him crouching down as he lay on the floor, all the while my left hand on his windpipe. I placed my left foot on the lower part of his right arm thereby trapping it and the bottle. His face had turned red and his eyes had enlarged in terror. He tried to struggle to relieve the pressure on his throat.

  “Release it!” I demanded nodding to my left to indicate the bottle.

  I had him in my power! He must have understood for he released the bottle heralding his capitulation. Accordingly I released my hold on his throat. He gave out an enormous gasp as he breathed, wheezing horribly; relief apparent in his face, with its blood shot eyes, as saliva dribbled down his mouth. I then punched him twice in the stomach f
or good measure. A moment longer he would surely have died. I stood up and took a couple of steps towards the door, surveying my opponents who were both down and out. Everyone’s eyes were on me, their mouths half open speechless. And then one old man sitting at a table stood up and started applauding whilst his companion raised a glass to me and downed the contents in one.

  “Who were those men?” asked Ollie as we rode in the back of the car.

  “Dissatisfied customers...pimps?” I conjectured jocularly, “You know what Russians are like!” I said as I rubbed my painful knuckles, “There’s no doubt in my mind that the authorities are involved in this cover up,” I declared changing the subject.

  Ollie agreed and then called Guy. After she hung up she stated that Solomon did board the flight to Moscow and would arrive this evening.

  We returned to the Embassy, where we dined in the Refectory on chicken curry and rice. There’s nothing quite like good English food when you’re away from home! Afterwards, we entered a large office where several officials including Guy were talking across a desk. I recognised one of them - it was the ambassador Sir Nigel Caltrop. He looked embarrassed at the sight of us. He got up and left the room acknowledging me with a nod and asked Ollie how our “sightseeing” of Moscow had fared. Just then the meeting broke up and other men around the table also left. Ollie and I proceeded to sit on the near side of the desk whilst Guy remained seated on the other side. Only the three of us now remained in the room. Ollie gave an account of our day. Guy took it all in and then leaned back in his chair.