The Long Reach_British Detective

by Michael Leese

  “We decided this fitted with our earlier tip-off so put a bit more into it, but we got nothing. We thought that, if this bloke was out there, he’s pulled out of the business, possibly after learning we were sniffing around.

  “But it all stuck with me because there was something about it that suggested it was true. I couldn’t help thinking that someone really ruthless, operating a sort of door-to-door delivery service for young kids, might well exist.

  “Like I said, I hope you don’t think this is the ramblings of an old man, but I hope it does help.”

  Hooley replied. “That could be very helpful; at least it’s another clue, however small. Thanks for telling me. I think you’re right - it does seem to fit with what we have, so it’s good to be on the right lines.

  “I’m only guessing, but if you operated in the way we do, then there wouldn’t be much in the files about something like that.”

  “I have to admit that you are right there. It never does any good to actually admit you poured resources into what turned out to be a waste of time. The bean counters seem to take a special delight in holding your feet to the fire over that.

  “You don’t need to thank me, by the way, but you can show your appreciation in another way. I’ve got to come down there for a few days next month. If you’re around you can buy me a pint.”

  Promising he would, Hooley ended the call and relayed the information to Roper. He listened carefully and then appeared to stare into the middle distance, which Hooley knew meant he was using his Rainbow Spectrum.

  Moments later he blinked and spoke. “I think your contact is quite right: this does fit. It sounds like he might be the sort of man who would be involved in our problem. Whoever it is, he is going to be resourceful and clever, and this man clearly is.

  “I haven’t picked up anything yet but dark web searches can take a while. I’ve got everything set up so we have a good chance of finding it. We just have to be patient and hope we still have time.”

  “That sounds worrying; what’s bothering you?”

  “It’s because I have been thinking it would take ages to get everything sorted out for moving what’s needed and I said the plutonium was outside the UK. I’ve been wondering if I’m wrong and it’s been here all the time.

  “But then I’m not sure. If it was here why would they need to involve a load of rich Russians?”

  41

  Arkady Sokolov was addicted to the Ritz hotel in London and stayed there whenever he visited. Where some saw an over-the-top display of wealth, he saw glamour and the sort of effortless style that the British were remarkably good at.

  He had flown in last night having prepared for the meeting with Georgi Yebedev by reading the files. They’d originally been put together by the KGB and now maintained by the FSB. Yebedev would have been alarmed by the amount of information his country of birth had on him.

  In truth, Sokolov wasn’t too bothered about most of the details he had read. He had really wanted to know two things: did Yebedev actually have the money he claimed to? It was surprising how many claimed oligarch status they didn’t deserve. He had passed that test easily.

  The second issue was whether he was currently an operational asset for his country or was one of those who might be termed as “reservists”, ready to be used at any stage but currently non-active.

  To Sokolov’s mind, it was an important distinction. If he was current there would be too much FSB activity around him, possibly surveillance or phone taps and internet monitoring. That could prove disastrous. Again, Yebedev had passed.

  The Russian fixer carefully studied himself in the ornate full-length mirror. He had inherited his physique, attention to detail and brains from his mother. From his father he had inherited a powerful love of opulence, which is why he loved the Ritz so much.

  It always amazed him that the Brits could be so good at this sort of thing, along with running the sneakiest and most ruthless of intelligence services. He often speculated that the two ran side by side, since he suspected the dazzle of the glitz distracted you from what they were really up to.

  He smoothed down his jacket and left the room; there was little chance he would fall into any traps, regardless of how cunning a plan was drawn up by MI5, since his mother had also drummed into him that he should never judge by appearance alone.

  Her lessons were heartfelt since she constantly claimed that her husband had never turned out to be the man she thought he would be, claiming “not all that glitters is gold”. Over the years he had come to prefer the English idiom “never judge a book by its cover”. It was a lesson that had served him well over the years, and it had enabled him to successfully extract the genuine from the fakes.

  Everything he had read about Yebedev suggested the man could be trusted, but he would make his final judgement on that once they’d had lunch in the dining room, having arranged to first meet in the Rivoli bar.

  He walked in and was pleased to find his man already there, a glass of sparkling water in front of him. They shook hands and he also ordered water from the waiter who had silently appeared.

  “A long time ago I’d have ordered vodka, lots of it. But I discovered I had inherited my father’s weakness for drink.”

  Although neither man cared for alcohol, he liked to study people’s reactions as he told the story; it was surprising how many would react in a sly way as they filed the information away, clearly hoping to use it as leverage later.

  He was pleased to see Yebedev react with a small shrug. “You are very sensible. Too many of our countrymen have been trapped by the bogus allure of vodka. I always find alcohol makes me even more unintelligent than normal.”

  “I suspect you are being modest, but then that is better than being loud and showing off. I can’t stand people like that.”

  He stopped talking as the waiter brought his drink and then said: “You bear a remarkable resemblance to Uncle Joe.” He used the Russian nickname for Stalin which was a mix of mockery and respect.

  “You are not the first person to say that - and I was even born in the same town, Gori in Georgia. For a while my father was convinced we had to be related but could find nothing. So, unless my great-grandfather had a very secret relationship with his great-grandmother, it is just one of those things.

  “I have to admit I do get some odd reactions. In Russia people ask me if they can have their picture taken with me. It seems there are a few out there who still think he was a great leader; very strange. Having said that, there are those who cross the street to avoid me.”

  “What about here? Do people react in the same way?”

  “Not really. I get the odd quizzical look, but most people ignore me. Many years ago I even tried the moustache but got far too much attention so I shaved it off.”

  The pair finished their drinks and made for the restaurant, where they were shown to the corner table Sokolov had requested. He felt it gave him the best view of everyone else including the immaculately-turned-out waiters pushing trolleys with dishes covered in silver cloches.

  A huge party of twenty young Chinese women was being given the full treatment as their table was surrounded by waiting staff who simultaneously lifted the cloches to reveal the dish. As a spectacle it was pure West End theatre.

  Sokolov had barely glanced at his menu, placing it straight down and seemingly having already made his choice.

  Yebedev looked up from his study and said, “I am thinking of just ordering a main course. I prefer not to eat too much at lunch-time, if that is alright.”

  “Perfect. I am going to have the turbot with the champagne and caviar sauce. Indulgent, but not madly so, and I get to have a tamed version of alcohol, something that appeals to my sense of humour.

  “I would suggest we keep business separate for now and just enjoy these beautiful surroundings while we get to know each other a little better.”

  By the end of the meal Sokolov was confident he could do business with this man and after he had signed for the b
ill, he suggested they head to his suite where they could be guaranteed privacy.

  When they arrived at the room Sokolov surprised him by knocking on the door.

  “One of my guards is inside. I never leave a hotel room empty; too many people can get access and we did a big sweep for bugs this morning. You can never be too careful.”

  As he spoke the door was opened by a very large and smartly dressed man wearing a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He looked like what he was: a top of the range bodyguard with chiseled cheekbones.

  The man nodded respectfully and stepped back to allow them inside to a small sitting room. There was a door on the right, which Yebedev assumed led off to a bedroom. While he had eaten at the hotel many times, he had never actually spent the night there.

  The guard left to wait outside, and the two men sat down on facing armchairs. Sokolov said, “Sir Valentine has told me what you are looking for, but I always prefer to hear it directly - it ensures there can be no misunderstandings later.”

  Yebedev talked for a little over ten minutes. He left out no details, including the role he would be playing, although he did not explain how he came to be involved. When he finished Sokolov spent a long few seconds staring at a point on the floor between his polished black shoes.

  “It will not be easy, and we will return to that shortly. But first I need to know something. Why are you doing this? Why is someone like you involved?”

  He had been expecting this question and knew he was going to have to answer it.

  “I think it is because they want someone they have a hold over, and there is no way I can turn them down without risking everything I have built over the last few years. I have built a new life here in England and that would be over.

  “If people here knew the truth about my wealth they would disown me. Of course, they suspect, but that is different to actually knowing. The people who approached me, the scientist, made it clear they would come after me.

  “I can’t risk that possibility; it wouldn’t just be money. I was worried about the safety of my wife and family. You only have to look at what has happened to other people called traitors to know that.

  “No one would protect me, not the British government, not even the Americans. There would be nowhere to run and hide. While I have no way of knowing if the threats are serious, I cannot take the slightest risk.”

  “You are right to take this seriously, and I have to tell you that even I cannot tell how close these people are to the Russian state. You know how things are there; it could be they are a part and also not a part. But I needed to know you truly recognised your dilemma.”

  “So, can you help me?” He didn’t say it, but he secretly knew this was his only hope of meeting the demands placed on him.

  Sokolov took his time again, this time standing up and gazing out of the bedroom window at the view over Green Park. It was still packed with office workers and tourists enjoying picnic lunches. Just occasionally he could see the appeal of a simpler life.

  Eventually he turned back to look at Yebedev.

  “It is good that you have been so honest with me, since if you had lied or tried to hold anything back I would have known and refused to do anything for you. As it is, I have decided that I should at least try to help - and the important word there is ‘try’.

  “I have never attempted to move a nuclear weapon, or even the component parts, so I will need to find out what is involved. Such knowledge will be very limited, so I will need a few weeks, but no more than that.

  “I will find you once I have the answers to my questions. It may be that I have to pass the work on to another party but, even so, you still have to pay my fees. At the very least, I am going to have to form a partnership with someone and that will not come cheaply.”

  Yebedev had been leaning forward while he listened to the reply. He replied. “I will pay whatever it takes. I can afford to lose money; I cannot afford to lose my family.”

  42

  Georgi Yebedev woke up inside a wooden shed. No, wait. Not a shed; it was the wooden shed that was supposed to represent the birthplace of Stalin. Somehow he was in the Georgian state museum dedicated to the life of the Soviet dictator.

  He couldn’t remember arriving, but he sensed he needed to get out fast before he was caught trespassing. Just then, loud alarms started sounding and he was thrown into a panic as he felt hands touching his body.

  He woke, his heart pounding and covered in cold sweat, to find his wife shaking him by the shoulder. She looked cross.

  “It’s 4am and your mobile has just rung for the third time. Someone is desperate to get hold of you. I’ve been trying to wake you up, but you were sleeping like a dead man.”

  Her words made an involuntary shiver run through his body and she looked at him strangely, muttered something about seeing the doctor, and then threw herself back down on her side of the bed, her body language showing she did not wish to be disturbed again.

  He lay there in the dark for a while, panting and trying to get his heart rate back under control, then swung his feet over the side of the bed and checked his mobile. As she had said, he had three missed calls, each just a few minutes apart and from a private number. No messages had been left.

  He staggered to the bathroom, careful to take the phone with him, and used the toilet. Splashed cold water over his face to little effect, and left the room to go and make himself a cup of tea. He wasn’t worried about the caffeine stopping him getting back to sleep; he wanted something to settle his nerves.

  He padded down the stairs and into the huge kitchen, a temple to eye-wateringly expensive equipment, including a complicated oven that neither he nor his wife had ever turned on, leaving that sort of task to the domestic staff.

  One of the maids had left a tray on the side with everything needed for making the tea; all he had to do was put a bag in a mug and fill it from the tap that delivered a constant supply of boiling water. It was the only bit of the kitchen that really interested him.

  While the tea was brewing he placed his hands palm down on the white marble, enjoying the cool sensation. It was so pleasant he bent and rested his forehead against it. He was more or less back in control, but it was yet another bad night - and he had experienced many of those since getting dragged into the nuclear plot.

  Perhaps his wife was right, and he did need to see the doctor. Right now, he would have welcomed being given a large dose of tranquillisers, or something to combat those dreams. Despite being quite mundane, in the sense that nothing happened, they were very vivid and contained an air of menace that stayed with him after he woke up.

  He was using a tea spoon to squeeze the bag against the side of the mug when his phone started ringing again. He grabbed it, pressed the device to his ear and said “hello” in a voice that caught slightly so that it sounded like he had said “hell.”

  The voice on the other end was calm and businesslike.

  “My apologies for calling you, but an opportunity has arisen, and you need to meet someone in a few hours. I thought you would prefer to be fully awake, so I have been trying for the last thirty minutes.”

  He recognised the voice as belonging to Arkady Sokolov; he was speaking English with the faintest accent. Sokolov added. “I’m sending a car to pick you up at 5.30am.”

  The call ended. He glanced at the oven clock, he had a little over an hour, more than enough time to enjoy a cup of tea and then have a shower and shave. He wondered about having something to eat but realised it was far too early for food.

  He was waiting in the hallway when the shiny black Mercedes S-Class pulled up outside the entrance of his London home. He walked down the steps and opened the rear door to clamber inside. Once the door was shut he was concealed by the impenetrable black vanity glass.

  Sinking into the comfortable leather seat he looked at Sokolov who scowled.

  “He wants to meet us at a service station on the M25, at Cobham.”

  Yebedev recalled that Cobham w
as also home of the training facilities for Chelsea football team. The Russian owner could be often found there.

  “That’s near Roman’s big project.”

  “It’s just a coincidence. He likes the service station because when you leave there are two exits, so you can travel in either direction on the M25. It’s all said to be very convenient.” His expression suggested he didn’t think there was anything convenient about it.

  “Who are we meeting?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that. If the man likes the sound of your project, he will introduce himself at that stage. If he doesn’t, then we need to find someone else.”

  They’d already crossed the river into south London and were on the outskirts of Wandsworth where they would pick up the A3 road. Despite the early hour, traffic heading into London was already snarled up through the one-way system.

  Going against the rush hour meant they made swift progress and it seemed like no time before they were turning into the service area, which was huge. They drove to the most deserted point they could and stopped next to a large white van, indistinguishable from the dozen or more he’d noticed on the drive over here.

  Nothing happened for at least five minutes although Yebedev took his lead from his companion who sat in long-suffering silence. The side door of the van opened, indicating they should get in.

  The vehicle had two seating benches along each side. As the two Russians climbed in, the door slammed behind them and a light came on for illumination.

  Facing them was a man in a dark blue boiler suit, the kind of thing worn by workmen anywhere. But he could have been wearing a diamond encrusted suit of gold for all Yebedev would have cared.

  He had been instantly drawn to the man’s eyes. They were the coldest he had ever seen, containing not a flicker of humanity. But there was unmistakable intelligence at play. This man radiated power and Yebedev had to force himself to break eye contact as he sat down on the bench, shuffling up so that his compatriot could also sit. All the time, the man never took his eyes off him.