The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  “You need good air and good food, try the Black Sea Kalkan and relax, you are always uptight, too many demons in that head of yours Radoslav”, Kolmogorov looks up and signals the waiter.

  Radoslav chooses to slide the heavy armchair closer to Kolmogorov so he can talk without his heavy booming voice echoing off the bare walls. Rearranging the cutlery Radoslav responds. “The demons come from working with you, and you know it, what messed up work are you wanting me to fix for you now? you should know my prices have gone up ever since I sorted those opposed to the gas pipeline, did you notice how everything went smoothly?”

  “Whatever happened to those villagers?”

  Radoslav snorts and laughs at the question, “Are you a humanitarian now?” Adjusting his tie in place around his thick neck he picks up the menu as the waiter approaches.

  “Three Black Sea fish, please and the same in beers please,” Kolmogorov hands the menus back having decided what everyone will eat and drink.

  Volodenka has returned from the toilet, no doubt checking for planted weapons or an IED. He is viewed by Kolmogorov as the top man, the boss of all bosses, however, as an act of secrecy, he allows everyone in the Kremlin and beyond to think he is simply another enforcer. If Radoslav needs to consult with his fellow ‘made men,’ what happens, in reality, he asks Volodenka what action to take next.

  Taking up a seat within earshot but with his eyes dancing between the staff, diners, and the doors he nods at Radoslav giving him the go-ahead to begin discussions.

  “Let us cut to the chase Kolmogorov, I am out of my comfort zone here so close to your spy house and meeting you in public, what is it and don’t mention the stupid flatfish.”

  “Mikhail.”

  Radoslav pauses for a moment, he looks over in the direction of Volodenka who never flinches or acknowledges the name. “Mikhail isn’t with us anymore; he works in London and has drifted away like a ghost ship.”

  “That’s bullshit Radoslav, there is no such thing as drifting away, he is not a division three football player that decides to play in another division, he is one of you guys, and London is simply another city of Russia, well within your boundaries, so try again.”

  Again, Volodenka remains calm and relaxed taking in the peaceful ambience of the charming Georgian restaurant, nibbling on a piece of suluguni cheese and whitefish caviar which he managed to order without Kolmogorov noticing.

  Radoslav shifts uncomfortably in his chair, while Kolmogorov is breathing slowly, attracted by the beautiful sounds coming through the restaurant speakers of the pianist Khatia Buniatishvili playing a piece by Rachmaninoff.

  “Look, Mikhail is one of our top men, but recently, yes he is drifting away. We looked into his affairs and found nothing; I do not believe he has found God or won the lottery; Mikhail will always be Mikhail. We know he is up to something and is not telling Moscow. This is something that will get a man killed and thrown in a freshly dug hole. We figured he was working with the CIA or MI6, as of our strict policies he was sentenced to death. We even had a four-man team in England putting the final touches to the plan. But then we held back.”

  “You wanted to kill him? why not bring him in and talk to him?”

  “Doesn’t work like that, by doing so would have led the spooks back to us, next thing we are digging more holes, once he is out, he will never be allowed back in, if he steps foot in Russia the stain will be wiped clean after leaving the airport.”

  Kolmogorov considers his next words carefully, knowing the surveillance team may have picked something up about him and Mikhail. Having these guys provide information would be the best outcome, but he cannot allow them to know he has been working with Mikhail also. “You said the team held back?” Looking over to check the waiter wasn’t about to arrive with the fish he leans over and asks Volodenka directly, “Why didn’t you just kill him then? Get it over with.”

  Volodenka appears unamused at being drawn into such a conversation in a public place, nonetheless, he simply looks back towards Kolmogorov and without emotion he nods and says, “When the fruit is ripe.”

  They are in the process of their investigations; Kolmogorov considers his time is limited playing two sides of the fence. Once the meal is delivered and consumed, he will make his way back to London on the first available flight.

  Thanking the men for their service he settles the bill and they all leave the restaurant together, the sharp wind bites Kolmogorov as he walks the short distance to Dubrovka, a gated community consisting of new apartments with good security. Spy work like this from a casual observer looks like nothing has happened, what Kolmogorov was really after was checking the mood of the Russian gangster’s hierarchy, looking for threats, for a sleight of hand, finding caution he moves with full senses working at full capacity. His car awaits him in the underground basement. One of the units in Dubrovka doubles as a safe house, an apartment with firepower and a selection of clothes, passports, firearms, and anything else a man of Kolmogorov’s standing would need. The Russian foreign intelligence technical specialists can provide almost anything he requires at short notice. Today they will be left alone, all he required was information.

  The walk back takes him across the carpark of the Макдоналдс. The Russians love of McDonald's has resulted in the yellow arches in his own back yard. Quick stepping over the iced ground he gropes his eyes through each window in the fast-food restaurant and cars for those posing a risk to him. Choosing to walk back instead of leaving his car was a decision he took wisely, the attraction to coax out hitmen was too good. This way he would know if his actions within the committee have made their way to Moscow.

  The night before he made a hole in the fence separating the carpark to the roads into the gated community, as he approached the high-pitched sound of a motorbike came out of the cold wind like a phantom. Spinning around and dropping to his knee Kolmogorov went firm, he spotted the bike sliding to a stop before the pillion passenger jumps off to have a stable shot. The icy roads require an extra second to stop. Too late, Kolmogorov had already whipped out his firearm and had his finger inside the trigger guard. Two well-aimed and timed shots rang out over the cold carpark. The gunman dropped to his knees; the weight of the helmet caused his head to wobble forward resulting in a pathetic headbutt on the hard tarmac. Another shot aimed at the back of the bike rider delivered a round straight through his black leather jacket. Shattering his bones, damaging tissue and organs, the bike then veered off as the accelerator was taking all the weight of the soon to be dead controller, finally ramming into a parked car activating the car alarm. This was the last thing Kolmogorov seen before he made good his escape through the fence as he ran up to the safe house. His breathing intensifying, he entered the required keypad information allowing the magnets to release the lock, he then makes his way quickly straight to the carpark looking over his back then completes a sweep on each dark corner of the basement for threats. His bug out bag was in the passenger seat but first, he checked the car for any suspicious wires or alterations from when he parked it not long ago. Remembering how his backup team never budged from the restaurant, no protection, they must have been in on the hit. His pulse rises thinking who in the Kremlin knows all about him. It is unavoidable, ineluctable, yes, he knows without thinking, it is time for wet work, yet again.

  Warming the engine by screaming out the garage doors and onto the road he reached for his phone, the twenty-minute drive to the Vnukovo International Airport will take ten minutes with or without traffic. His specially modified Volvo XC90 will burst its way through the traffic. The GPS unit has been deactivated, the airbags pulled out, but the ability to make voice-activated phone calls remains. He calls Trevor.

  “Hello, Russia”, Trevor answered quickly.

  “Hello London, I’m coming your way, coming fast, you were right, can’t talk, wheels up shortly,” Kolmogorov speaks quickly while steering aggressively around the vehicles in his path, clipping and bumping those in his way. Closing in on the E
101 taking him to the airport he thinks how he would have liked to settle new scores back there and then, but it would be a blood bath. Getting into a war with the generals of Russian gangsters would take a lifetime. Not something he plans on doing, with Trevor’s connections a new passport, help to obtain a new British identity and a life surrounded with a new bank stocked with freshly laundered money is the end game. Living in a ski resort in Vermont, the cool air and surrounded by rich Americans is his plan, blend in with the tourists and locals, drinking draft beer eating apple pie and far away from the deathly reach of Moscow.

  Pulling into Vnukovo Airport Kolmogorov considers this place no safer than a McDonalds carpark, pulling his official credentials out he shows it to an armed security guard and drives around to the VIP area next to the hanger, the Gulfstream belonging to his agency is inside. To be used only for official work. This is as official as it gets for Kolmogorov, grabbing his bag out of the passenger seat, he strides over to the Gulfstream G280 and is met with a Russian air force officer. “Great to see you, Colonel Kasparov, let’s get this bird off the ground.”

  “Certainly, Sir, we are fuelled and ready when you are, the control tower is cooperating today, and the weather is clear.”

  Kolmogorov likes the Colonel, never asks a question, and provides what he wants to hear. “Do you mind if I sit up with you for a while?”

  “Be my guest, you can help out again.”

  Kolmogorov goes straight into the flight deck and enters the International Civil Aviation Code for London Heathrow into the computer. Behind him, the single Air Force stewardess and another officer proceed to close the door of the aircraft while the Colonel sits beside Kolmogorov and carries out his pre-flight checks and confirmation with the control tower. Kolmogorov checks the Latitude and Longitude, 51.4706001 and -0.461941, full weather observations are fine, so far so good.

  The aircraft starts the taxi out to the runway and take off is granted. Now Kolmogorov can start to relax, goodbye Russia.

  ***

  Freiburg im Breisgau, Germany

  Mark parks the Audi close to the Kastaniengarten in the middle of Freiburg im Breisgau, a small city in the Black Forest of Germany. Multiple cars and people mingling back and forward to the Bier gardens helps to provide the two men with ample cover. Accessing Falcon View, the military version of google maps, allows them to understand the layout of this large town and surrounding terrain. Waiting for the two Delta operators Gordon jumps out and completes a recce of the surrounding gardens and streets. Mark keeps in contact with him using comms. No need to update Jack on their position, keeping signals to a minimum is a priority.

  After about twenty minutes Gordon walks past the Audi and Mark exits the car carrying a black holdall and takes up position some thirty meters behind, conducting some counter-surveillance moves on the way he follows without the need for communication. He knows Gordon is on his way to the meet, his only job is to ensure he is not being followed.

  Entering the Zum Schwabentörle Mark walks up to the two Delta operators and with a warm handshake he sits with them and enjoys a fresh Hefeweizen beer. Allowing Mark to brief the men and explain the objectives Gordon walks along the street outside playing the role of tourist, he slowly munched on a lange rote sausage, geknickt style, ‘bent in half’ as only the tourist’s do. Meandering from a small bistro and peering in the windows of antique shops, allowing an observer to view him as a patient husband, he actively keeps an eye on every other person pounding the cobbled streets. He makes a nickname for those of interest as they pass him by so he can recall them later.

  Gordon checks his watch, ten minutes have passed and Mark, as agreed, exits the restaurant with the two men in tow. Gordon then turns around and makes his way to his layup position. The Gothic Church Freiburger Münster completed in the middle ages stands defiantly from the many wars in the centre of the city. Offering views over the whole area allowing Gordon to check out any threats to both Mark and the Delta boys and also for Jack and the rest arriving later.

  Making his way up the narrow steps he reaches the belfry, prising opening the lock with a small crowbar he opens the trap door above the bell. Pulling himself up in one motion into the spire he quickly resets the door below him. From here the open architecture allows him to get uninterrupted views in every direction. Plugging his ears to protect them from the sound of the bell on the hour he quietly removes his M151 spotting scope from his bag. Fitted with a Leupold MilDot reticle and a night vision adaptor will allow for distance estimation on his target night or day.

  Once he has a fix on Mark, he gives the all-clear allowing the three men to now make their way to the garage they had rented. Another storage location containing approximately several million Euros in cash and various precious metals. To do this successfully Mark needs cover and protection from the storage location to their new one, with this confirmation from Gordon he proceeds with the two Delta men towards the Audi. Now in the car, he hands over the special forces individual weapon, the L119A1s, fitted with sound suppressors and foregrips. To be used if needed. The Delta operators without question quickly check the weapon and the magazine, an overkill perhaps in this peaceful-looking city, so they both apply safe and place them by their legs. Next, they check over their German-made Sig Sauer P226’s and decide to use these as their primary system for now. Keeping these in position the Audi makes its way to the location. Gordon from his position high amongst the crows maintains an eye on each section of the road ahead and in the rear-view mirror, the two Delta guys observing every living thing surrounding the car.

  ***

  London, England

  “Do you know where it is? are you close?” The sound of Muji’s voice is one of anticipation and fear, he cannot afford for this to go wrong. He himself is moving in on Émilie, now that his men are about to deliver, he struck a deal with her. They would walk away unless he met her and she would be left with nothing, Muji held the Ace up his sleeve, having men on the ground he controlled the surveillance, the possible storage locations meaning he could kill all Jack’s team and keep the rewards. Émilie realises she needs to keep him onside and promises more work and higher returns, riches he would never have seen in his life. Muji’s condition is that they meet so he can look her in the eye to make the deal.

  He has asked her to meet him in an upmarket area of London, on her expense. Hurrying to catch a flight back from Paris she knows this is a race against time, the lure of Muji getting his greasy claws on this fast cash and disappearing with it all is weighing heavily on her mind.

  Freiburg im Breisgau, Germany

  “We are on track, don’t worry, I’ll report back when eyes are on the target,” responds Dritan. When he has a scent, his body turns into a machine-like device, no external influences will deter him from his objective. Valmir, driving their rented silver BMW through the small streets of Freiburg im Breisgau towards the last know whereabouts of the Audi, was the person in charge of keeping the HIV positive and heroin addict Dritan under control. Both men hired by Muji and sent over from London are ex-SHISH, Albanian intelligence, kicked out due to their inability to cover up years of corruption and ease of slaying those that stood in their path. Their new employer offered them riches in European inner cities, running brothels, drugs, and arms, although recently they had been hampered by both French and British intelligence and under constant surveillance. Now it was a beautiful feeling to be free again. Émilie managed to pull the intelligence agencies from both the French and British to other targets, allowing a window of opportunity for these gangsters to do their business. Muji was provided with a simple objective, watch them pick up the money, kill and collect.

  The wonders of intelligence allowed the new passports and credit card details to be identified, the car hire company was easily hacked and their GPS on recent rentals allowed Trevor to provide Émilie with Jack’s and Gordon’s positions. Nothing is hidden forever; no level of encryption stays on the dark side for long.

  Muji who h
as now been offered the information on the whereabouts of these men resulted in him changing the deal. Émilie has little options, well, thinking slowly she knows her last resort may have to be used.

  “Remember your task Dritan, take the money and kill everyone that moves,” Muji waits nervously for the response.

  “Pulling onto the street now.”

  Valmir provides Dritan with the location from the slow-moving blue dot on the iPad tracking app, “Turn left, fifty meters dead ahead, there they are, three of them in the car! Should only be two.”

  Driving along Staudingerstraße the three men are pulling up to a line of graffiti-filled garages in a part of town which backs onto the railway tracks. The silver BMW comes to a stop and drops off Valmir, then Dritan drives down a back alley to come around and get a view of the pickup point. Knowing the Audi and the men inside are now trapped they both wait silently to catch a glimpse of the money.

  Mark looks around before moving out of the vehicle as the two Delta guys take up a security position attempting to look as casual as possible. Moments later Mark returns from the garage and beckons one of the men to open the back door as he quickly covers the distance from the lock-up to the car carrying a number of duffel bags. Returning back to get a remaining couple of bags and secure the locker he hears a loud explosion followed by the sounds of rapid gunfire. The years of pigeon shit, feathers and dust covers him due to the shock wave from the hit, drawing his firearm from under his shirt, he keeps his grip high as possible so the bore line of the barrel is closer to his wrist and arm position allowing for maximum recoil absorption. Crouched forwarded he tactically edges towards the front door and exits into the road scanning for his first target. The sight was unbelievable, the car was in flames, the diesel slowly burning, and the two Delta men were on the ground, one had his two legs blown off and the other was missing an arm with the side of his face missing. They took the full impact of the RPG followed by multiple rounds.