Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  There was a second of suspense before she asked, “Did you kill Yuri?”

  “Kill whom?” I stammered taken aback.

  “Yuri Gromyko is killed and then you appear – is this just a coincidence?”

  “Who the devil is this Yuri Groshika person....or whatever he’s called?” I retorted.

  “Gromyko - his name is Gromyko,” she insisted, taking umbrage.

  “He could be the Czar for all I care! I haven’t killed anyone,” I protested, “By the way how was your trip to Azakistan?” I asked casually, neatly changing the subject.

  “Not good. There was a...” she searched for the right word, “...explosion in the Bactria Valley.”

  “I......see,” I said phlegmatically, “How did it happen?” I asked, wanting to know what the Persians thought as to who was responsible.

  “The Iranians think it was Israel and America.”

  “I see,” I said guardedly, inwardly pleased, feeling that suspicion would not then fall on me; and returned to my seat, from where I could see Zhukov snoozing in his.

  I sipped my gin and tonic thoughtfully. Her perception in thinking I had something to do with Gromyko’s death was as admirable as it was troubling. If she thought that, how long would it take Zhukov to think it? The stewardess appeared and laid our respective tables for lunch. Just then Anastasia returned to her seat and I felt an uneasy tension between us. The stewardess returned to the galley at which point Zhukov awoke and visited the cockpit, leaving the two of us alone.

  I whispered across to her, “Anastasia what is troubling you? I hope we’re still friends.”

  She took a gulp of her drink as if she needed it to fortify her, looked fore and aft to ensure our privacy and turned to face me, “I lied to you when we met in the Onegin Gallery. I told you I knew very little about Zhukov’s business interests – that is not entirely true,” she then paused tantalisingly, with me hanging on her every word, “I know....everything!” she concluded emphatically.

  CHAPTER 35 – AN INQUISITION AND A SPY REVEALED.

  Just then, to my disquiet, Zhukov returned and frustrated any further conversation. As I looked out at the clouds I reproached myself for allowing her to deceive me. She owed me nothing, certainly not loyalty; her allegiance was to Zhukov – I’d been a fool to think otherwise.

  Dinner was served: Sevruga Caviar served with blinis with a shot of chilled vodka; Green Leaf Salad with a vinaigrette dressing, Filet Mignon with a Béarnaise Sauce with assorted vegetables, followed by dessert, with a chessboard and fruit accompanied by fine wines. I declined the wine and just drank water. It was undoubtedly a splendid meal – the best I‘d had on a plane. I would actually have enjoyed it more, were my mind not preoccupied with Anastasia’s appalling revelation that she’d been lying. As I chewed on a piece of filet mignon, it made me question whether there had been an ulterior motive for seducing me - was it possible that it could have been for a reason other than my charm and good looks? During the meal Zhukov kept peering at me; which in my state of anxiety caused me to wonder whether the two of them were in cahoots, playing out some fiendish rouse.

  When the meal was over and everything had been cleared away, but for the brandy, Zhukov came over and sat opposite me. At his instigation the stewardess brought over a lacquered wooden box and opened it before me. Curious, I looked inside; it contained Cohibas – Cuban cigars. I’m quite partial to a Davidoff once or twice a year; so this was a pleasant surprise. I reached in and took one gratefully, as did Zhukov. I half expected someone to come along and rebuke us for this guilty indulgence, as I took my first puff - but having your own plane means you can make your own rules. The cigar had rather rejuvenated my spirits; comforted as I was by the sweet smell of the tobacco.

  Zhukov, looking contented exhaled a cloud of smoke and then sat back, gazed at me directly and asked, “So I am interested to know what you have been collecting in Iran?”

  Concealing my alarm at this question I blew a cloud of smoke languorously as I thought of an answer.

  “Oh you know,” I began casually gesturing with my hands a trifle nervously, “the odd Khorasan Carpet, a Safavid period miniature......that sort of thing.”

  He seemed to approve, “Quality is everything....not quantity. I would rather drink the best once a year, than rubbish every week that is only fit for a peasant’s table.”

  I took a sip of my brandy and asked, “What brought you to Iran?”

  “Business,” he answered reticently before looking away.

  There was silence in the cabin for a few moments. Anastasia read her book, whilst Zhukov and I smoked our cigars, sipped our brandy and gathered our thoughts – like two rutting male deers circling each other before re-engaging in combat.

  The silence was broken as he looked in my direction, “Is it coincidence that we are both in Iran at the same time?” he smiled at the question and shook his head in disbelief, “My life has taught me not to believe in coincidence.”

  “Stranger things have happened!” I pointed out, before looking out of the window.

  I could feel his eyes upon me, piqued at my summary dismissal of his observation.

  What are you doing here?” he asked accusatorially raising his eyebrows.

  “As I told you, I’m here collecting art works,” I said calmly as I turned to meet his glance.

  “Do you believe in loyalty Mr Willoughby?” he asked changing the subject.

  Feeling rather light headed, I promptly replied, “Yes”

  “I knew you will say yes,” he replied jubilant, “Russians they not know loyalty....” he paused as his brain searched for the next part of the sentence, “....especially women!” he concluded raising his voice in triumph, as he pointed toward Anastasia menacingly.

  I observed him aloofly through a cloud of smoke; and noted with scorn that whether they be high or low in society, this was the natural state of the Russian - a pathetic and angry drunk.

  “Who’s been disloyal?” I asked intrigued, laced with a hint of foreboding.

  He suddenly leaned forward and gestured for me to do the same.

  “One of my man.....is been killed just now in that airport,” he said conspiratorially, “He was loyal and good worker.......his name was Yuri Gromyko.”

  I assumed a solemn appearance, as one should upon hearing such news. His notion of what constituted a good worker would be regarded with revulsion by most. The delicious irony that unbeknown to him he was talking to Gromyko’s killer was not lost on me.

  Then raising his voice and looking directly at Anastasia he hollered, “She is responsible!”

  “Zhukov, perhaps you’ve drunk too much, Anastasia is very loyal,” I said in her defence.

  He raised his index finger and waved it at me, “I thought she was wonderful.....but I was wrong. You know I have had her followed. She has been meeting strange man in coffee shop ....or in the park.....they were foreign men. Why?” he barked staring directly at her.

  “You’ve had her followed?” I asked in reproach.

  Anastasia looked up from her book and started remonstrating with him in Russian, outraged at her privacy being violated. They argued. When they had finished, Zhukov got up and went to the toilet.

  “What’s he talking about?” I hissed across the aisle at her.

  Both of us were constantly looking fore and aft to ensure we would not be overheard.

  “I was meeting British M16 officers,” she said.

  “What!” I said aghast.

  “I am informer for British intelligence.”

  My jaw dropped as the enormity of what she said sunk in. My mind was racing. Suddenly I recalled Guy telling me in Moscow about “spies, contacts and informants,” when telling me about Persian nuclear designs. My god Anastasia was one of those informants!

  “But why was he having you followed?” I asked urgently.

  “He is always suspicious or perhaps he suspected me,” she answered calmly, her eyes beseeching me to help her.

&
nbsp; “But why the lies?” I asked.

  “I did not know you. It was safer for me to say little as possible,” she said candidly, “Was it true about your friend? Was he murdered?”

  I sat up straight and peered into her eyes, “Yes, it’s all true,” I replied resolutely.

  “Then Zhukov is right,” she said, “It cannot be a coincidence that you are here?”

  In this outbreak of honesty between us, I decided to take a gamble, “You’re right Anastasia! I did kill Gromyko! Zhukov now believes you’ve betrayed him. He’ll kill you won’t he?” “Gromyko was horrible man. I am glad you kill him,” she said visibly shuddering at the thought of him. She then brought her mind to her own fate and averted her eyes as if the truth were too painful to be borne, “Yes.....I am in danger,” she conceded. She sat back in her chair; her face betraying stress and anxiety.

  Once in Moscow we would be in his domain. I wanted a clear head - I summoned the stewardess and ordered black coffee. Zhukov’s suspicions regarding me being in Iran at the same time as him were troubling me! It was I judged in the interests of both Anastasia and I imperative, that we divert the plane from Moscow – our lives depended upon it! If I were to adopt this course I had to think it through quickly - preferably before we entered Russian airspace. My coffee arrived. I took a sip. It was black and hot and I could feel the caffeine going to work.

  I had to size up the opposition. I got up and walked over to them and sat in the empty seat. The same two who were earlier eating and drinking were now sleeping. Whilst the dark haired one who had previously been reading a magazine opened his eyes, when he saw me he looked away to peer out of the window.

  “What do you do for Zhukov?” I enquired gently.

  He picked up his magazine, whilst still looking out of the window and then turned toward me, deliberately obscuring the lower half of his face with the magazine and avoiding eye contact.

  “Please excuse,” he said in a gruff Russian accent.

  He then stood up and looked up and down the aisle – there was no one to be seen and then while still avoiding eye contact, he gestured for me to follow him, leaving his magazine on the table as he did so. I was puzzled and curious. I watched him for a moment, his back to me as he reached the toilet and then rose from my seat. I saw the stewardess standing in the galley as I past it, eating her lunch. He was standing outside the toilet his back to me.

  “What is it?” I whispered impatiently as I came and stood by his right.

  He then looked over his right shoulder directly at me, so that for the first time I could see his face unimpeded. Initially the colour of his hair threw me.....

  My mouth opened agog so astounded was I; and then I whispered incredulous, “Jules?”

  CHAPTER 3 6 – A CASUS BELLI.

  There was so much both of us wanted to ask and say to each other, but couldn’t without arousing suspicion. The odds had moved in my favour – one of the enemy it transpires was now a new found ally. Buoyed by this good news I told him in whispers that I wanted the plane diverted from Moscow before it entered Russian airspace. He nodded.

  “When Zhukov and I start fighting, that will be your cue to “take care” of your sleeping companions!” I said glancing down at them before bringing my eyes back up to Jules.

  “Understood!” he replied

  I returned to my seat. A moment later Zhukov also resumed his original seat opposite Anastasia, having returned from the cockpit. For several minutes no one said a word, then Anastasia got up grabbed her handbag and went to the rear of the jet. His suspicions of Anastasia’s treachery were well founded. I had decided to call off my ceasefire against Zhukov, as a devil may care attitude took hold of me, emboldened by Jules’ presence. I looked at him and wondered how I would kill him now that I had discarded my weapons. As I dwelt upon this question I realised how much I actually wanted to kill him - thinking of Andrew and now the life of Anastasia which he threatened. He was as bad as Gromyko - no scrub that, he was worse. Gromyko had merely been an instrument which Zhukov used – but it was Zhukov who was the font of evil. Buying and transporting uranium for the Persians was just another deal for him; warranting no more comment or taxing of his conscious than my buying foie gras. I went to the galley with my coffee, ostensibly for some sugar, but also for an ulterior motive. I returned a moment later with my purpose suitably served and resumed my seat.

  “What business were you really doing in Iran?” I asked abandoning all caution as I looked at him directly, before raising the cup to my lips as I sipped my coffee.

  He gave a sinister laugh, “I’ve already told you,” he said attempting to control his emotions.

  “I don’t believe you!” I said brazenly.

  His face betrayed astonishment and then turned a shade of crimson in fury.

  “A friend of mine recently died in what was claimed to be a road accident in Moscow.”

  “I am sorry but it is nothing to me,” he said dismissively before glancing out of his window.

  I braced myself as I was about to make my denouement, when Anastasia returned to her seat.

  “Are you sure it’s nothing to do with you Zhukov?”

  “Listen to me. Why you talk to me about all this nonsense?” he began, clearly irked.

  What are you going to do?” I taunted, “Have me murdered and then try and pass it off as a road accident?

  Zhukov began a laugh which he then promptly stifled; incredulous at the inference that I knew what had become of my friend, before insulting my intelligence, “I do not know what you mean. I thought the English were polite,” he upbraided me, his voice rising with his irritation. “Enough!” he stormed, “Perhaps you have too much to drink,” he ventured haughtily and then menacingly he looked at me directly in the eyes across from his seat, his lips barely moving as he spoke with icy precision, “Be quiet.....otherwise....when we arrive in Moscow.....I vill make sure that my people........take care of you.”

  I felt my heart beat harder and my fury increasing, as I ignored his threat and asked “The friend of mine who had the “accident”......his name was Andrew Sinclair of Carrington Bendick Holdings.”

  I discerned a flicker of recognition in his eyes at the name, yet he was remarkably composed. He gave out a small guffaw as he shook his head slowly from side to side as Anastasia looked on in apprehension

  “When you said you believed in loyalty, I can see now.....that you really do believe it. It is sad, but accidents always happen,” he said feigning sympathy as my blood ran cold.

  He looked out of the window as if he regarded the matter closed, not realising that I knew everything: the witness account of Katrina the whore, his meeting with Solomon, the Beluga CC238 the Uranium yellowcake, Anastasia’s testimony and the fact that I had seen him and his Mercedes in Azakistan with the Persians.

  I fixed my eyes upon him and exclaimed with complete indifference, “Do you like Beluga? Or perhaps you prefer Beluga CC238?” I enquired with utter equanimity.

  Zhukov looked toward me in a flash, the blood draining from his face as his eyes narrowed.

  After he had gathered his wits he demanded anxiously, “Where did you hear this?”

  “I know you’ve been selling it illegally to the Persians,” I announced calmly.

  Zhukov smirked, “I was right about your presence in Iran not being a coincidence,” he purred contentedly, “I must think your story about buying artworks was exactly that – a story. You are a British spy,” he proclaimed, “In Russia ve know how to deal with spies,” he announced icily, before continuing, “I think you should enjoy my hospitality while you can Mr Damian Willoughby......it vill be the last thing you do.”

  CHAPTER 37 – A TOAST INTO THE HEART OF DARKNESS.

  Zhukov pressed his call button to summon the stewardess and asked for the Cristal. She returned a moment later wearing white gloves, carrying a tray of three flutes and a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne 1999. I suppose if you’re rich enough to have your own plane it
would be unthinkable to fly without a decent “cellar” onboard. With all solemnity she removed the foil and the wiring before corking open the bottle, accompanied by the characteristic pop sound as a small mist was emitted from the chilled bottle. I watched this somewhat bemused, while Zhukov was utterly preoccupied with the anticipation and ceremony of opening a fine bottle of champagne. She poured enough into a flute, for him to taste. He sipped and then nodded in approval; as the stewardess poured Anastasia and me a glass.

  “I told you I only drink this on special occasions,” he announced as I took my flute from the tray proffered by the stewardess.

  “And what’s the occasion?” I asked before taking a sip.

  Zhukov lowered his glass and looked across at me, “The death of a British agent and spy,” he announced laconically, “How many men have gone to their graves having drunk such a fine champagne? I am doing you a great honour Mr Willoughby – this is Cristal 1999 an exceptional vintage.”

  A perverse honour indeed I thought! So he was going to toast my death. Despite my provocations he maintained a serene demeanour, which I begrudgingly admired.

  “Do you imagine yourself as a latter day Tsar?” I enquired attempting to puncture his hubris, “This Cristal brand was created for Tsar Alexander II. What would he think if he knew that a common thief and murderer like you were drinking it today?”

  He put down his flute utterly composed and told me to enjoy the champagne for it would be the last thing I would do. I had had my fill. I stood up with the champagne in my hand and strode over to Zhukov and looked down at him as he gazed up at me expectantly.

  “This otherwise exquisite champagne has turned sour in your presence,” I declared holding up the flute at face level, as I affected an expression of disgust as I turned and examined it in the light. And then turning my gaze down to him, “Oh and I feel it incumbent upon me to tell you that I killed Gromyko; two shots to the heart I believe it was,” I proclaimed nonchalantly. Before he had a chance to react to this piece of news I threw the entire contents of my flute directly in his face and took a couple of steps back. Anastasia gave a gasp of surprise. He screamed some oaths in Russian and stood up, barely able to comprehend my audacity as the Cristal ran down his face. He glanced down to his jacket to see it soaked and dripping. He then looked up at me, his face red with anger. He picked up a flute and hurled it at me. I ducked. It missed.