Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  “Well, by all accounts it’s been an interesting day and we still have the evening before us. This scar face fellow......Yuri Gromyko is certainly no gentlemen,” said Guy with his usual understatement, “I’ve made some enquiries about Gromyko and by all accounts he’s utterly unconscionable. I’ve rarely come across anyone with so few scruples.”

  He leafed through a file and proceeded to relate all his indiscretions, “racketeering extortion.........corruption..........kidnap...........murder........rape and grievous assault. Yes there’s no doubt about it – he’s a bad egg alright,” said Guy as he closed the file.

  “It seems to me that he should be in prison,” quipped Ollie.

  “In any normal country where the rule of law applied he would be. He spent a short time in the late nineties in prison for corruption and assault but he was released early, probably because of the intervention of someone high up,” explained Guy.

  “Where can we find him?” I asked impatiently.

  Guy explained that he was unable to locate a fixed abode for Gromyko. “However I’ve been able to discover that Gromyko was a member of the KGB which has now been renamed the FSB. After his conviction he was expelled in disgrace, but he still seems to have good relations with existing and former members.”

  “He’s so rank even the KGB had to get rid of him,” I observed bitterly.

  Ollie who had been listening intently asked, “Is there anything you can tell us about these people in the state security apparatus? Might one of them be Sergei Pavlovitch?”

  “Yes, how did you know?” asked Guy incredulous.

  CHAPTER 8 – SUBTERFUGE AND THREATS.

  Guy showed me a photograph of Pavlovitch, which I duly studied for a few seconds: he had coarse facial features and dark hair. The photograph was inside a dossier. It stated that he was in his mid thirties with dark hair and five feet ten in height. Guy explained that he was also known to them, with all the connotations that that entailed. So Pavlovitch and Gromyko knew each other! That much I assumed as soon as I learnt of him from Katarina, now it was confirmed by Guy.

  “I’ve no doubt that these two are acting as pawns on some else’s instructions. Someone is pulling their strings,” declared Guy mixing his metaphors.

  Moments later we were travelling through Moscow. The driver and Guy were in the front, with Ollie and me in the back seat. Guy had explained that intelligence had led them to conclude that it was likely that Solomon would be coming here to meet with a client. Now with Solomon’s arrival we might just get closer to discovering who that Mr Big was. If the truth be told I was in a state of great excitement and anticipation. There was so much I wanted to ask Solomon. I had come out to Russia with a degree of foreboding, but as perverse as it may sound I was rather enjoying the suspense and the adventure – I reproached myself for feeling like this, but there you have it.

  Our car parked in a street called Povarskaya ul. It was quite an affluent neighbourhood and rather reminded me of Knightsbridge in London. Just then a black Mercedes saloon drew up in front of the luxury apartment block about 20 metres along the road from where we were parked. Three men got out - two larger men from the front who were seemingly chaperoning the smaller man who had alighted from the back seat.

  “That’s Yuri Gromyko,” I announced. His frame and appearance were unmistakable despite the years; although I couldn’t see his scar at this distance. My desire to exterminate him was reawakened, as I recalled all those whom he had killed in the Balkans.

  “The other man is Sergei Pavlovitch,” said Ollie.

  “There’s our man Solomon,” said Guy referring to the smaller man.

  “He looks rather furtive and suspect,” observed Ollie.

  “That’s probably because he’s been coerced here,” mused Guy.

  The three of them then entered the building.

  “So they’re your pawns,” says I to Guy using his own metaphor, “What do we do now to discover their “King”?”

  “Well we could listen in on their conversation..........” suggested Guy casually.

  “How?” I asked

  “Well my dear Tarquin,” Guy began rather smugly. He then went to explain that having advance notification of Solomon’s arrival in Moscow, even down to knowing which flight he was on, enabled him to be compromised. By which he meant that the authorities in London with co-operation from the airline, could manipulate where Solomon sat on the flight and accordingly who sat next to him; such as the pretty young girl who distracted his attention sufficiently, so as to enable her to plant a small electronic listening device in the upper breast pocket of his jacket. Guy opened the glove compartment and removed an electronic device the size of a small personal radio. He switched it on and we were greeted with a crackle.

  “I must say Guy there’s clearly more to you than meets the eye,” I said

  “Guy is renowned for practising the dark arts,” purred Ollie in approbation.

  “I hope your praise is justified. What we did was risky. Any number if things could have gone wrong - the device may not work, if Solomon is searched and it’s discovered he may go the way of Sinclair. Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” advised Guy cautiously.

  Just then faint voices could be heard from the device in Guy’s hand. He turned up the volume. We closed the car windows. This is what I heard, supplemented by later information as to who was there and my interpretation of what happened.

  They had entered one of the luxury apartments. Solomon was standing with Gromyko and Pavlovitch either side of him. At the other end of the room was a man whom I later knew as Vasily Ustinovich Zhukov.

  “Ah Meester Solomon, how nice of you to come,” Zhukov said, knowing full well that Solomon had hardly had much choice in the matter.

  He was there for two reasons: a desire not to be killed like Sinclair and the enticement of money - rich rewards had been promised for what was being asked of CB Holdings.

  “So Solomon let us talk business yes?” invited Zhukov.

  “Yes of course Mr Zhukov,” said Solomon apprehensively.

  “I was disappointed with your organisation. We agreed on a deal and your comrade decided to...............re-negotiate. You should understand I never do that............unless I deem it appropriate. Sinclair not understand that...........” and then raising his voice, “He want to charge higher price..........who he think he dealing with? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do?” said Zhukov angrily.

  Having vented his fury there was a momentary silence as he assumed a calmer demeanour and then continued, “You will deliver everything as agreed on time. My clients are important, they are also impatient. Deliver the goods as agreed and I will make sure there are no problems with customs. You are getting paid well – you agree?”

  “We’re having difficulties with the Beluga CC238 Mr Zhukov,” wailed Solomon.

  “I do not want to hear of your problem,” said Zhukov imperiously, “You have received the money as agreed so far?” Zhukov asked.

  “Yes thank you.”

  “I will keep my side of deal. You keep your side of deal you understand Solomon?”

  “I want to discuss the delivery schedule Mr Zhukov. Some of the dates will be difficult to achieve. May we delay the last delivery by one week?” implored Solomon summoning up all his courage.

  “That will not be possible. Apology if this is a problem, but this is vhat my client tells me.”

  “But we cannot do it Mr Zhukov!”

  “These are my client’s requirements. I am sorry for it. You know vhat to do. Don’t fail me Solomon. If you do, my client not happy - den I not happy. That will not be good for you. Now get out,” barked Zhukov.

  Just as one heard the sound of Solomon turning to leave with his escorts, Zhukov called after them, “Be careful how you cross the road in Russia Solomon. Remember what happened to Sinclair. I would hate for you to have accident. Russian drivers so careless,” he said attempting to feign sadness as he made his not so veiled threat.r />
  As I heard them leave the room Zhukov could be heard laughing in a maniacal fashion; no doubt sending a shiver of fear through the blood of Solomon at such an implied threat to his life.

  CHAPTER 9 – A ROOM WITH A PARTNER.

  Good advice I thought.

  “His concern that Solomon should not get run over whilst in Moscow is quite touching,” I said trying to bring a bit of levity to the proceedings.

  “That was a thinly veiled threat if ever I heard one,” said Guy, “........an admission no less.”

  “So Zhukov had Andrew killed,” I reflected grimly, “Who is he?”

  Guy proceeded to relate to me everything he knew of Vasily Ustinovich Zhukov. It started in the early 1990’s after the Soviet Union collapsed, when through nefarious means Zhukov acquired state run factories in Russia and the Ukraine for a knockdown price, which he then sold on for an enormous profit – several million US dollars it is believed. It was this fortune that enabled him to become a big player in the underworld and thus expand into so many different areas. He’s been involved in arms dealing in Chechyna and Afghanistan, extortion, kidnap, smuggling, drug trafficking and the occasional murder.

  “What a nice fellow,” purred Ollie sarcastically.

  Just then Solomon with his escorts came out of the apartment building and drove off.

  “Do we follow them?” I enquired of Guy.

  “No. We know where he’s staying. After he’s stewed for a couple of hours you and Ollie can pay him a visit.”

  Later that evening Ollie and I arrived at the Kempinski Hotel. A moment before we arrived, Ollie took a phone call informing her of the number of Solomon’s room. Upon my enquiry she explained that the British Embassy had informants, one of whom worked at the hotel. We swept in confidently into the plush lobby, which was adorned with a fountain and piped music and walked up the stairs unnoticed.

  The questions I would at long last be able to put to Solomon kept going through my mind, as we walked down a corridor looking for the door numbered 316 behind which lay our quarry. I raised my hand and knocked thrice. We waited a moment. I knocked again slightly louder. We then heard the sound of someone approaching the door from inside and a few seconds later the door was opened whilst still on the chain, just wide enough for Solomon to get a look at us.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” he said nervously.

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” I counselled.

  My English accent seemed to relax him somewhat. With this in mind I decided to assume the role of the affable English fellow, “Good evening Mr Solomon, my name is Collingwood.....Tarquin Collingwood and this is Ollie Beaumont,” I said cheerfully.

  He was curious now rather than nervous.

  “I knew Andrew Sinclair, he was a friend of mine. May we come in?” I asked gently.

  He opened the door and stood aside for us to enter.

  When the door was closed he asked, “I’m sorry about your friend. But what can I do for you?”

  “Mr Solomon, I want to know what Andrew was doing in Russia, who killed him and why,” I said firmly.

  “I know nothing, other than that he was here on business and was involved in a car accident,” he said disingenuously, “If you want to know more you must speak to the Police.”

  “Mr Solomon please,” pleaded Ollie, “Mr Collingwood has come all the way from London to investigate his friend’s death, can’t you be more helpful?”

  “Andrew was my business partner. I was naturally distraught when he died. I don’t know what else I can say,” he said opening his palms to emphasise his point.

  I thought I would have one last attempt at being civil.

  “I’m sure you know more than you’re telling. Please....Andrew and I knew each other since we were at school together,” I beseeched.

  My pathetic pleading only seemed to embolden Solomon. He was now a different man to the one who had initially opened the door to us. He drew himself up and said with faintly concealed derision that we should stop wasting our time, that he knew nothing more and that we should return to England. My patience was finally exhausted. I went up to the odious Jew and in an instant grabbed him by his shirt and pinned him against the wall. He was so shocked he said not a word.

  “I want some answers Solomon. All you’ve done is lied to us. I know of your meeting this evening with Zhukov. Start talking!” I screamed at him.

  And then as if to reinforce my point I punched him on his left jaw with my right fist and gave him a good shake. Ollie was as surprised at my remonstrating with him as I had been. He was perspiring and cowering at my every word.

  “Remember the road safety advice you received this evening? I would hate for you to die in the middle of the night on some lonely road as my friend did,” I said sneering at him, with a cold deliberation and implacability that I perversely enjoyed, now that my blood was up.

  My mention of road safety suddenly caused Solomon’s eyes to light up in recognition. He nodded his head in acquiescence and relented.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out initially and then, “Alright........alright. Please stop,” he begged.

  I released my grip. Solomon wiped down his sweat and poured himself a drink. I watched him closely as he moved around the room in case this was a ruse of some sort; my fists clenched ready to deliver blows. He sat down in a chair nursing his whisky. I ordered Ollie to pour me one too. She handed it to me and I gulped it down and felt the calmer for it. I handed her the empty glass and demanded another. I then took a chair and placed it about five feet from where Solomon was sitting and sat down.

  “Getting it off your chest will make you feel better. Confession is good for the soul or so they say,” advised Ollie gently to Solomon.

  He gave a wry smile, now looking more relaxed he said, “I really am very sorry for Andrew’s death. He was young and intelligent. I was appalled when I heard the news, believe me.”

  “As was I,” I said grimly, “What can you tell me about Andrew’s death?” I added quickly.

  Solomon looked up at me wearily and explained that although he had no evidence that Zhukov was behind his death, he had no doubt that Zhukov had ordered Andrew’s murder.

  “Andrew was a chancer, which if you’ve known him as long as you say you have, you will know to be true,” continued Solomon.

  I could only nod in agreement recalling his audacity and bravery at Vania Goric.

  “Andrew wanted to charge more money than we had agreed, he wanted to get more favourable terms. I told him to be content with what we had, but he wouldn’t listen. He told me a few days before his death that he was receiving threats. This only served to make me more anxious, but Andrew insisted that he would be alright. I was in London whilst Andrew was here in Moscow. So I am not fully cogniscent with his negotiations with Zhukov and his people, but I understand that they were angry with Andrew and his bold demands which they saw as reneging on our agreement. And the next I heard was that Andrew was dead one morning,” recalled Solomon a forlorn look etched on his face as he sipped his whisky.

  It was clear if Solomon was to be believed, that he was unable to shed much light on Andrew’s death beyond what he had already said and this of course was my main concern.

  “What are you actually selling to these people?” asked Ollie getting to the heart of things.

  Solomon sipped his whisky and looked at Ollie no doubt wishing she hadn’t asked such a question, “Just a few parts of machinery,” he added rather obscurely.

  “Come along Solomon,” I encouraged.

  He gave me a look that said he didn’t want to be flung against the wall again and began, “Zhukov asked for metal pipes and other pieces of high specification machinery.”

  “Metal pipes?” I queried.

  “Yes, he gave us very specific requirements for them: diameter, grade of steel required, strength, the dimensions, that sort of thing.”

  “What were they for?” asked Ollie.

  “Zhukov never said.
I once asked him and he gave me a look that said don’t ask. I suppose he calculated that we didn’t need to know - so long as we got him what he wanted.”

  “You must have had some suspicions as you knew these exports were illegal,” said Ollie rather witheringly.

  Solomon responded meekly that he thought it best not to think or ask too many questions.

  “What’s Beluga CC238?” I persisted. Solomon gave a look of surprise but no more.

  Solomon sighed, “Zhukov wanted something from a supplier in Canada whose contact details he provided. We were to obtain the supplies only from him. He was quite particular about that. And before you ask what, I don’t know other than it was some chemical I think – he simply referred to it as Beluga CC238. We’ve supplied him with several previous consignments.”

  “That’s what you’re having problems supplying?” Ollie piped up.

  “How do you know that?” he asked astonished.

  “Never mind that,” I said dismissively, recalling our surreptitious eavesdropping earlier in the evening thanks to Guy, “Beluga CC238 that’s code for something. What would require such an elaborate euphemism?” I wondered out aloud.

  “If you don’t know what the substance was, can you tell me the name of the supplier,” asked Ollie intelligently.

  I was in awe of the girl, brains and beauty, she was certainly Oxbridge material. I could see the logic of her question; don’t know the chemical than perhaps the identity of the supplier might provide a clue. We both looked expectantly towards Solomon.

  “I’m in a very difficult position. You know what they did to Andrew. I don’t want to go the same way. My life would be in danger,” he wailed.