From Russia Without Love

by Stephen Templin

  Xander caught a piece of Animus’s shirt pocket and tore it. Then he attempted to move both horizontally and laterally from under the heap. Animus battled to keep Xander from escaping, but seeing his grief made Animus’s strength crumble.

  Sergey pulled men off the dog pile in an attempt to free Xander, but Animus’s men piled on faster than Sergey could tear them off. At the bottom of the dog pile, Ivan threw a punch, and Animus feared it was directed at Xander.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Animus warned his men.

  “Where is she?” Xander demanded, his voice becoming high pitched and frantic, his body twisting and turning. “Where is she?” Animus’s men held him. “Where is she? Animus!”

  Animus slipped to the side of the pile, and Sergey tore him away. He didn’t have the steel in his muscles to return to the mass of men, and he didn’t know what to say to Xander.

  Xander’s body trembled, and his eyes caught Animus’s. “Don’t try to avoid this.”

  Animus stood there speechless, unable to deliver the tragic news.

  “Take me to her!” Xander said.

  Sergey stopped resisting Animus’s crew, knelt down, and patted his boss on the shoulder.

  “Take me to her, damn you all!” Xander cried, his voice quaking.

  For Xander’s sake, Animus wanted to believe she wasn’t dead, but he’d seen her corpse himself, and he was grasping at nothing.

  “Bring my Evelina!” Xander yelled. “Bring her to me!”

  His body became unsteady, as did the will of the men holding him, but Xander’s emotions were still raw. Tears ran down his face as he now seemed to fight inward, trying to embrace his denial but unable to hold on. Animus’s men continued to hold him, and Xander’s voice became garbled as if he were drowning in anguish, drowning in reality.

  Only one word was discernible. “Niet!” No!

  The rest was the gibberish of a man whose spirit was dying.

  Animus could no longer distinguish between Xander’s agony and his own. He shrank in on himself, feeling smaller as the room stretched wider and a wave of wretchedness swept over him, drowning his cries.

  14

  _______

  William’s men must’ve been working hard even after Chris, Hannah, and Sonny went to bed, because when the SOG team awoke, they found their luggage sitting in the living room. Chris put antiseptic on his shoulder and bandaged it carefully. The evening’s rest seemed to have helped, because he could move it more freely. Even his strained ankle didn’t torment him to stand on.

  While Sonny showered, Hannah sat next to Chris on the sofa. “The last time I was in London,” she said, “I chased a man I thought was a terrorist for the Taliban. I bagged him on British soil before I flew him to a black site run by the Agency in the Czech Republic. The interrogation got a little rough, and it was discovered that the prisoner didn’t work for the Taliban,” she said, dipping her head. “He was a British citizen. Later, when the British government found out… well, they were livid.”

  “You’re lucky your career survived,” Chris said.

  “After the British got their citizen back, they figured out he was a key recruiter for al Qaeda. Officially I was forgiven, but unofficially, I wasn’t.”

  “Sounds like you did the right thing.”

  “I was younger and less experienced,” she confessed, “but my instincts were good. Instinct is something that can’t be taught. I see it in you, too. I’ve never told anyone that story. The only other people who know are those who were directly involved or heard it from the rumor mill.”

  He met her eyes and smiled. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded.

  Before they could say anything more, Sonny came out in his business attire. They’d be doing recon around United Kingdom Petroleum Headquarters this morning and needed to blend in with the other business people in the financial district.

  “Let’s get some grub,” Sonny said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them.

  They approached the dining room, and William’s cook invited them to sit down for breakfast and excused William for being late. The cook served cold smoked herring, eggs, toast, grilled tomatoes, and sautéed mushrooms with orange juice and coffee. Because caffeine would adversely affect his shooting, Chris avoided the latter but helped himself to the rest of the meal.

  “What’ll our cover be today?” Hannah asked before she took a bite of her eggs.

  “Strip club owners,” Sonny said, his mouth full.

  Hannah grimaced. “You have a one-track mind. But I’ve never been in one, and I wouldn’t know how to own and operate it.”

  “We could do some research,” Sonny said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

  Chris swallowed a bite of tomato and mushroom. “How about something to do with the outdoors? We all know about that.”

  Hannah nodded. “Outdoor clothing.”

  “We could call it Outdoor Mountain Clothing,” Chris suggested. “OMC.”

  Sonny rolled his eyes. He didn’t outwardly support the idea, but he didn’t oppose it, either.

  Hannah took a sip of her coffee. “We’ll say we’re based in the US and are expanding operations abroad to the UK.”

  “If Xander plans to attack UKP Headquarters,” Chris said, “he’ll probably check the place out before he hits it. Maybe we can catch him or his men while they’re scoping the place.”

  “And maybe one of his goons will lead us to him,” Hannah hoped aloud.

  Chris nodded. “We could try to find an office space to rent nearby, too, so we can put UKP under surveillance.”

  “Who’s going to pay for that?” Sonny asked. “We don’t have an account for Outdoor Mountain Clothing.”

  “The Agency has given me a nondescript account I can use for payment,” Hannah said.

  “It won’t take all three of us to put UKP under surveillance” Sonny said. “At least one of us could inspect nearby hotels and other places to figure out where Xander might be staying.”

  The others agreed, all seemingly pleased with their plan, and then focused on their meals. Breakfast was nearly over when William finally arrived.

  “We’re going to try to rent out an office space near where we think Xander will try to conduct surveillance and then wait for Xander or one of his thugs to show up,” Hannah told him as she stood up, setting her napkin back on the table. “Can you hold on to our luggage until we’re ready for it?”

  William nodded, his gaze shifting from Hannah to Chris to Sonny and back again as they prepared to leave. “Of course.”

  “Thanks,” Hannah said. “We’ll be back.” She patted him on the shoulder as she headed for the exit, Sonny and Chris hot on her heels.

  They walked to Kensington Station where they hopped the Tube to Piccadilly Circus. They got off and weaved around several blocks to Duke of York Street. There, the presence of CCTV cameras permeated the city. Duke of York Street fed into St. James Square, a road surrounding a lush park facing the Naval and Military Club, the Buchanan House, and UKP on the corner.

  Across from the UKP building and next to the park stood a uniformed police officer, wearing a checkered sleeve and helmet band. Armed only with a radio and baton, his mission seemed more of a hopeful deterrent than defense. Standing at the corner, there was a man dressed in a suit and tie, like any other businessman except for the white cord that ran from his ear down into his shirt. The City of London Police would surely do a better job of going undercover, so Chris guessed he was security hired by UKP. Nearby, he noticed a white van with tinted windows—possibly police, and hopefully not Xander’s crew. It seemed the London Agency chief of station had really informed the British authorities as he said he would, and they were taking the threat with some seriousness.

  “If Xander plans a kidnapping, assault, or explosives, he’ll need large-sized vehicles like an SUV or van,” Chris said. “If they follow the one-way streets, they’ll come down from Duke of York Street be
fore traveling clockwise around St. James Square to hit UKP.”

  Sonny’s eyes focused on the building adjacent to UKP. “What the hell is that building?”

  Chris shifted his gaze to look. “I don’t know, but if it’s office space, maybe we can rent it out and post surveillance.”

  Hannah headed toward the entrance. “I’ll find out,” she said.

  Soon, she returned and said two companies occupied the building, with no available space to rent.

  Chris shrugged, and they resumed their clockwise recce around Saint James Square. Across the street from UKP was another office building with a sign reading, Offices and Suites to Let.

  “Hot damn!” Sonny said. “That’s convenient.”

  They went inside and spoke to a receptionist, who connected them with their letting agent. The agent appeared and gave them a tour of available office spaces, all fully furnished and complete with a kitchen, lobby, receptionist, cleaning, and maintenance services. “We also have shower rooms and dry cleaning,” the agent said.

  The trio smiled at one another. They chose an office on the second floor, right on the corner of St. James Center and Charles II Street, giving them a view of the side of UKP’s building and its main entrance.

  “You also have a view of the St. James Gardens,” the agent told them happily.

  Chris smiled at her. He didn’t give a damn about the garden view.

  “Could we have a moment to discuss it, please?” Hannah asked.

  “Yes, of course.” The agent stepped out of the office and closed the door behind her.

  “The trees in the square are blocking our view of the road around the square,” Chris said. “We won’t see the tangos until they’re almost to UKP, and then it will be too late.”

  “We could set up surveillance cameras,” Sonny said.

  “We could,” Hannah said. “I can ask Langley to fly out the equipment and a tech to install it. That would give us a view of the entire stretch of road.”

  “Or maybe Young can hack into the CCTV camera feeds,” Chris said. “That might be faster.”

  Sonny grinned. “I like that even better.”

  “I’ll give him a call,” Hannah said, as she walked out of the room.

  “Don’t you hate it when I’m right, Sonny?” Chris smirked.

  Sonny shrugged, then winked. “It’s bound to happen once or twice.”

  When Hannah returned, she brought the agent with her, and they finalized much of the rental agreement for the office space. Once that was settled, they rented a vehicle, which they used to pick up their luggage from William’s place, as well as to go shopping for sleeping bags, computer equipment, extra monitors, and food so they could live in the office while keeping UKP Headquarters under surveillance.

  They were on their way back to the office when Hannah received a phone call; their Gulfstream jet had landed at Luton Airport, north of London, and was standing by.

  “One more stop,” Chris said, swinging the car around to head for the base.

  They were going to need their rifles.

  They were nearly finished setting up when darkness settled on the city. Young gave them a call and said he was able to hack into some CCTV feeds. He explained how to hook up their computer to begin surveillance. An image appeared on their screen, but it wasn’t an image Chris was expecting.

  “Something’s wrong with the feed,” Hannah said into the speakerphone.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Young asked.

  The monitor was showing the interior of a club where a topless dancer gyrated around a pole.

  Sonny was glued to the monitor. “Nothing’s wrong with the feed,” he said.

  Chris gave Sonny’s shoulder a good smack.

  “I think you know what’s wrong with the feed,” Hannah said.

  Sonny’s brow creased in deep folds as he pleaded his case. “There’s nothing wrong with that feed. We just need more feeds.”

  “This feed is coming from Duke of York Street,” Young said.

  “We need a view of the street,” Hannah said, “not the inside of a strip club.”

  “I was just messing with you all,” Young said, clearly trying to bring a little levity to the situation. “That was the Gaslight Club.”

  The screen went blank and a view of Duke of York Street replaced the image of the stripper.

  Sonny slammed his fist down on his desk. “What the hell is wrong with you, Young?”

  Young just chuckled quietly from across the Atlantic.

  15

  _______

  The day after Evelina’s death, Animus sat alone with Xander in the older man’s hotel room.

  “How are you holding up?” Xander asked.

  “I don’t understand how those Americans slipped out of our hands,” Animus said. “How are you holding up, sir?”

  Xander breathed deeply. “When I was with Evelina, nothing else seemed to matter.”

  Animus nodded.

  “Now I am angry,” Xander said. “I cannot shed another tear for her. I am all cried out. I wish I could cry more, but I cannot.”

  Animus understood that feeling all too well. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Xander patted him on the leg and straightened his spine, determination steeling his features. “We will continue with our plans to bomb UKP headquarters. After the bomb goes off, we will sweep through St. James Square and shoot everyone on sight. Then we will make our escape and contact the media and tell them 21D will continue its attacks until UKP stops construction of TAP. The West must stop its meddling in Greek affairs. For Greece and everyone, it is time to de-Westernize the world.”

  “Yes, sir,” Animus said.

  “First we need to build the bomb. Do you have the cannon fuse, diesel fuel, mixing buckets, and the thirteen barrels I told you to acquire?”

  Animus nodded. “And the duct tape, plastic pipe, screws, power drill, and scale you asked for, too. We spread out the purchases with different men at different locations—just like you explained.”

  “You called earlier and said Boris has the nitromethane?”

  “Yes, sir,” Animus said. “He used his fake ID to pose as an FIA drag racing crew chief and paid cash for it.” Using the cover of a member of the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile was his idea, and he was quite proud of it.

  Xander rubbed his chin in silence for a moment as if reviewing a mental checklist. “And you already acquired the blasting caps, shock tube, and Tovex.”

  The Tovex was a highly stable water-gel explosive, and it wasn’t easy to get. But they’d managed.

  “Ivan snuck into British Seismic Exploration and took it. They’ve been gathering the materials and storing them in the safe house for weeks before you and I arrived.”

  Xander nodded. “I know you already told me, but I had to hear it again. I am not in my normal state of mind. I just need reassurance that something in the world around me is stable when so much has gone wrong.”

  “Well, all we need is fertilizer to shape the charge and oxidize the nitromethane,” Animus said.

  The corners of Xander’s lips rose, creating more of a sneer than a smile. “Yes, we need fertilizer, and the UK is the ammonium nitrate fertilizer capitol of the world. You know what to do.”

  Animus nodded. Then he stood, walked to the door, and opened it. Before he left, he stopped and turned to look at Xander. “I’m sorry about Evelina.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Her killer was Chris Johnson, the American legal attaché who came to your party.”

  The muscles in Xander’s jaw worked. “Ivan told me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Animus said again.

  He waved a hand, dismissing Animus. “I want to be alone now.”

  Animus nodded and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. The sound of something heavy hitting the wall sounded inside Xander’s room, like a chair that had been thrown. Xander had always seemed in control, but Animus had never seen or heard him like
this.

  Animus walked down the hall, stopped at Ivan’s room, and picked him up. The two exited the hotel and found their van in the parking lot. Ivan pulled a magnetic sign out of the trunk that read, Wellington Farms. He affixed it to the side door of the van before driving them northeast out of London.

  “Xander said you told him Evelina’s murderer was Chris Johnson,” Animus said.

  “I hope you’re not angry,” Ivan said. “I know you wanted to tell him yourself but couldn’t.”

  Animus bowed his head. “Thanks.”

  They rode a little over an hour and a half in silence until they arrived at the importer’s warehouse in Essex. Ivan dropped Animus off out front.

  He was anxious about the whole transaction, but he hid his nervousness as he strolled through the front door and approached the clerk. “I’m Edward Wellington, and I ordered some ammonium nitrate fertilizer.” Animus handed the clerk his business card.

  The clerk shook his hand and read the card. “Oh, yes, Wellington Farms.” He sounded bored, just going through the motions of his job as he put the card in his shirt pocket. “Will this be credit card or cash?”

  “Cash,” Animus said.

  “If you’ll fill out your company information on this form, please…” The clerk handed him a pen and a clipboard. “Once we input you into our computer, you won’t have to fill this out again—just sign for it.”

  Animus filled out the form and signed at the bottom before returning it to the clerk.

  The clerk took it and briefly glanced at the paper. “Can I see some ID, Mr. Wellington?”

  Animus presented his UK driving license and showed his face boldly to make it clear he wasn’t hiding anything.

  The clerk took a cursory look at the license then Animus’s face before returning his gaze to the paperwork on his counter. “Okay.” His tone became apologetic. “We have to do this to protect against terrorists making homemade explosives.”

  Animus grinned and paid the man. “I understand.”

  “Thank you.” The clerk turned and called out to one of the warehouse workers. “Fertilizer pickup!” Then he turned to Animus. “Just bring your vehicle around to the side and park next to the first pallet.”