“Wow, even the Chechens are in our way again. Can’t be good,” David conceded as he massaged his forehead.
He looked at Boris who now stared out of the window, deep in thought. Arthur was silent on the phone. Arthur was always silent, so it didn’t mean anything.
Andrei carried on, “There are two other leads. Colonel Ivanenko blames Misha for losing his position with the SBU. We weren’t able to make much progress, but the colonel has the means and motive to hurt Misha. He may work with the SBU, alone or, who knows, perhaps with the Russians or Chechens. Ivanenko could be involved, but for now I suggest that he should continue to receive his monthly pension so he won’t have any suspicions yet.”
“And what about Nazar,” David asked, remembering the thug from Misha’s past turning up in Odessa.
“Well, I put my men on him as soon as you called me the other day. It can’t be a coincidence that he was involved in a raid on one of Misha’s businesses. Nazar has a strong motive. In fact he has two: his fucking fingers.”
“This sounds like a twisted Agatha Christie novel,” David said. “We have twelve suspects in a room and probably the butler did it. I have a headache. My head is exploding.”
Boris leaned forward and gestured to David that he was ready to speak.
“Good job so far, Andrei. But I want you to keep digging. Whatever you need, you call me.”
“I will do that, Boris. I have one more thing. This is going to blow you away…”
BOOM!
David thought that his head exploded. His ears were ringing. He grabbed his head with both hands forgetting that one was broken. His ears were sensitive to loud noises after spending years in the military, enduring loud artillery barrages. After discovering that his head hadn’t actually exploded, he understood that the blast was heard on the phone.
“What the fuck!” David cried, looking at Boris and wincing from the acute pain in his arm.
“Andrei? Arthur?”
“I’m here,” Arthur’s unmistakable growl replied.
“Shit...It’s Andrei. Andrei! Andrei!” David screamed at the phone.
He exchanged a worried look with Boris. This was bad. Arthur’s voice came through again, flat and emotionless.
“Try Andrei on his mobile phone.”
Boris fished his mobile from his pocket and punched in Andrei’s cell number.
“Not fucking available,” he snarled.
Finally, after a number of attempts to reach someone in Moscow, one of Andrei’s subordinates called Arthur to report that Andrei had been blown up by a car bomb set off next to his office. The bomb was large enough to bring down the whole building with multiple casualties. Within minutes the area was full of police cars, fire trucks, ambulances and secret service agents. There was no way to approach the debris at the moment.
David didn’t know what the others felt, but he was in a panic. Even when participating in military operations in Lebanon as a soldier of the Israeli military and being under mortar fire from Hezbollah, he didn’t feel such horror. Nothing was more terrifying than trying to fight an unseen enemy.
“Listen,” said Boris. “As long as a few of us are still alive to hear this, you must know the following. I’ve spent the last two days with the Minister of Defence of Ukraine, working on him so he would appoint Neplokho Defence as the intermediary for selling naval systems. While most of the base in Crimea will remain leased to Russia until 2042, in 2017 parts of it will return to Ukraine, meaning there’s the possibility of Ukraine becoming a big player in the sale of naval systems. This is going to be a huge project and we want in. Misha insisted I make this potential deal a priority.”
After taking a deep breath, Boris continued, “I took Taras to my usual resort to indulge him with sauna, prostitutes and non-stop drinking. After he was completely drunk and exhausted from all the physical activity, he started to mumble about the Russians and Belarusians. I thought that he was speaking about the highway. However, he mumbled something along the lines of ‘the soviet union will rise again,’ ‘the three true soviet republics will unite,’ ‘the traitors can go to NATO,’ and so on. He was mostly talking to himself without really noticing that I was sitting there with him. Perhaps the steam and heat of the sauna, together with the vodka got him confused. He isn’t a young man anymore and shagging two young whores in the heat, while drinking non-stop, took their toll.”
Boris gave another dramatic pause before delivering the punch line.
“Then he said, once he realised that I was there with him, ‘I didn’t want your boss to end up like that. It was the Puppet Master who wanted him dead. All this nonsense about Ukraine joining the EU had to be terminated.’ Then, on the verge of fainting, he mumbled ‘the Puppet Master called your boss his son-in-law. Your boss isn’t his son-in-law, is he?’ He then lost consciousness. What do you think this means?” Boris asked.
It was a lot of information to take in.
“One more thing I should mention. Andrei located the apartment from where the shot must’ve been taken. It’s overlooking Parus Business Centre’s entrance and was rented for a short period a few days before the attack. But we’re still working on trying to identify who rented it. The tracks are well covered and we couldn’t find any leads yet. I have an entire team working on it.”
David was the first to respond.
“So it’s Nazar, Colonel Ivanenko and the SBU, the Russians, the Chechens or this mysterious Puppet Master. Who the fuck is the Puppet Master? White Tiger, Puppet Master. This sounds like a fucking fairy tale. What next, a talking lion and a dwarf with big feet? We have no fucking clue who did it, do we?”
Boris shook his head.
“And what is with this son-in-law business?” David carried on breathlessly. “Misha is the son-in-law of the Puppet Master. Are you fucking kidding me? What is this, Darth Vader tells Luke Skywalker that he’s his fucking father? Am I crazy or does everyone else think that none of this makes any sense? It all sounds like a melodramatic Latin soap opera. We must call Masha to find out if this son-in-law thing means anything.”
Then Arthur finally added his thoughts to the conversation.
“I know Puppet Master. He was head of KGB before the end of Soviet Union. He was my instructor in officers’ academy for short while on strategic operational planning. He’s no longer with KGB, of that I’m sure. If he’s behind this, and judging from the multiple targets dealt with precisely and simultaneously he may well be, then officially nobody is behind this. If he’s involved, then he’s the prime adversary. All others play secondary roles.”
David and Boris were in shock.
“What a big fucking pile of shit,” concluded Boris wisely, pouring himself a large vodka. “That what happens when you climb the rich tree. Too many people want to see you fall down; those that you stepped over on your way up and those who are still above you.”
38 The Work of the Righteous is Done by Others
Tel Aviv, 2013
David was asleep at his flat in the centre of Kiev. Unusually, he had gone to bed at ten o’clock, feeling drained after a stressful couple of weeks of flying back and forth between Tel Aviv and Kiev. As he lay in bed, tired but struggling to fall asleep as the recent events played over and over in his mind, his mobile phone started ringing on the table beside his bed.
“Hello. Who is it?” David said drowsily.
“David. This is Shimon. We have information for you. Can you talk?”
It was agent Shimon of the Israeli Mossad.
“Is your end secure?”
“Of course. Listen to me. A Chechen man called Xava Zelimkhanov is going to board a flight from Grozny to Tel Aviv, via Moscow, tomorrow morning. Ruslan Sanayev has sent him. We suspect that Xava is going after Vorotavich. We don’t want to get officially involved, but the information is verified. We leave it to you. Once you extract information from Xava, we expect you to report back. Understood?”
“Understood,” said David. “Thanks, Shimon. I appreciate
it.”
David swung his legs awkwardly out of bed and nursed his painful, still broken arm. After padding uneasily to the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he called Arthur.
“Arthur,” he said once the connection was made. “I have something for you. A man called Xava Zelimkhanov is going to land at Ben Gurion tomorrow on a flight from Grozny coming through Moscow. He might travel under a false identity, so be aware of that. My connections tell me he’s coming for Misha. Get him and squeeze every bit of information from him. Don’t kill him before he talks, we need to start connecting some dots.”
“Da,” Arthur answered, and killed the connection.
***
Arthur waited at Ben Gurion arrivals area. Accessing the Russian security services’ archives was a matter of connections and money. Arthur had both. His contacts had located Xava’s file in the archives and emailed the picture that morning, so Arthur was ready to intercept his prey. The secret services had a thick file on Xava as he had fought against the Russian Army in the second war in Chechnya. Arthur flicked through the file with interest. Xava was a professional.
The plane landed on schedule, and Arthur shadowed the target as he walked to the taxi rank.
Xava stopped momentarily as he looked around, and Arthur bumped into him, quickly injecting a strong tranquilizer into Xava’s thigh. It took less than two seconds for Xava to almost collapse into Arthur’s arms. Arthur held on, smiling and patting Xava’s back.
“Oh, my friend. You drink too much on the flight, yes?” Arthur said as he easily manhandled Xava away. There was nothing suspicious in two men hugging each other and one helping the other to walk to their car. To a casual observer it was just another drunk Russian visitor needing a helping hand.
A white BMW pulled up alongside Arthur, and the driver, Uri, who was a former IDF and Israeli SEAL, jumped out and helped Arthur get Xava into the back seat. They exited Ben Gurion and headed east to pick up Highway 6, which would take them to Qalqilya, a Palestinian city in the West Bank. Around forty five minutes later they arrived at a small garage on the city’s outskirts, where they had an arrangement with the garage owner to ensure their privacy.
Arthur blindfolded Xava and tied him naked to a chair in the middle of the empty garage. They waited another forty five minutes to let the tranquiliser leave his system, before splashing cold water on his face. After a bit of slapping, Xava came around.
“Good morning, sunshine. You’re going to tell me why you’re here, who sent you and who shot Mikhail Vorotavich. You can do it quickly and we’ll kill you quickly. You can do it slowly and we’ll kill you slowly. Your choice. We have all the time in the world. You’re going to tell us everything anyway.”
Arthur removed Xava’s blindfold to let him have a quick peek at his captors. The traditional torturer’s tools of the trade were spread out on a small table next to Arthur. As ironing the flesh was one of Arthur’s favourite methods, a brand new steam iron was puffing away and making friendly noises, signalling that it was ready for use. Uri’s preferred style was more surgical. A scalpel, ten long, thin nails and a small hammer.
After twenty minutes, Xava couldn’t take anymore.
Xava cried out in pain as Arthur ironed the inner thigh, creeping slowly towards the groin area.
“Stop! Stop! Infidel dogs! Just stop. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Good, now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Start talking.”
“I came to kill Vorotavich. Ruslan Sanayev sent me. I heard that Ruslan wants Vorotavich out of some tender so his boss can take it instead.”
“So the Chechens tried to kill Misha?”
“No. No, they had nothing to do with the assassination attempt on Vorotavich. I swear. If they did, then I would know. The work was done by others. That’s all I know.”
“Bullshit!” Uri shouted, and smashed a hammer into Xava’s fingers. Xava screamed in agony.
“It hurts, no? Don’t worry, I’ll stop the pain,” Uri said softly as he picked up the scalpel and started slowly slicing off two of the shattered digits.
“Stop, please stop. I don’t know who tried to kill Vorotavich. I swear to Allah.”
“Is there anyone else working with you?” asked Arthur.
“Yes, yes. There was another guy on the plane with me,” Xava said. “We never work alone. Sultan Alidarkhanov is probably slicing the throat of your fucking pig boss right now.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said, and shot Xava in the head.
“Bloody hell!” Uri shrieked. “He must know more.”
“No, he told us everything. We can’t hang around here; this Sultan may be at hospital already. Quickly go tell owner to get rid of this scum. We need to move.”
Uri rushed off to settle up with the garage owner, while Arthur made an urgent call to his people at the medical facility.
“Is boss okay?” He asked, once the call was answered.
“No change in his situation,” the guard reported.
“Don’t leave his sight. I want one of you in room with him and second one at his door. We believe Chechen guy is on way to hospital to kill boss.”
“No problem.”
“I’m in West Bank now, so I’ll be there in about an hour, okay?”
Arthur hung up before the man could answer, and speed-dialled David to report what had just happened. Uri reappeared and together they sped off back towards Tel Aviv.
“Is sorted?” Arthur asked Uri.
“No problem.”
“Good. Now get a move on.”
It took over an hour to get through the heavy traffic and reach the hospital. Arthur rushed to the private room where the guards reported that nothing untoward had happened. Arthur did a search of the hospital, but there was no sign of Sultan or anyone else that shouldn’t have been there.
This was puzzling. Arthur knew when a tortured man was lying, and Xava had been telling the truth.
The Chechens sent men to kill Misha this time, but it wasn’t them who shot him. While the Chechens were the worst foes that Arthur had fought, there was only one who was even worse: the Puppet Master.
***
Agent Shimon flashed his credentials to the guard, who signalled to his partner for the barrier to be raised. The SUV with blacked out windows headed to a distant hanger which, although it looked abandoned, was actually a cover for the entrance to the underground holding area. The SUV pulled into the hanger and disappeared from sight.
Agent Avner jumped out and opened the rear door. Taking the prisoner roughly by his restraints, he pulled the hooded man from the vehicle, where he crumpled in a heap at Agent Avner’s feet.
“Get up, Sultan,” Avner sneered. “We’re going to have a little chat about what you’re doing here in my country. Do not think you can withhold anything. I promise you that if you refuse to answer our questions, we have many ways of persuading you otherwise. Everybody talks before the end.”
Sultan Alidarkhanov rose to his knees with his head bowed. Avner looked at Agent Shimon, who smirked back at him. Years of experience told them both that the prisoner was going to comply with little or no pressure.
Shimon joined his partner and, taking an arm each, they lifted Sultan to his feet and frogmarched him to the entrance of Mossad’s Interrogation Centre.
“I wonder if the other guy will be an easy nut to crack?” Agent Shimon speculated.
“David has some tough Russian friends. We shall see when we compare notes with him.”
39 Another Day at the Office
Kiev, 2013
The clock reached four a.m. and the man opened his eyes. He had trained himself to wake up when he needed to, always before any alarm clock went off. Iron discipline. Rely on nothing and no one but yourself.
He had executed more than twenty five people in the past five years, and to those in the know, he was considered the most reliable, slick assassin in Russia. His operators knew that he got the job done, no matter who the target was. No discriminatio
n based on age, gender or race. He was an intense man, who killed people for a living. No wonder that people who knew his profession, weren’t comfortable around him. He liked the mix of fear and respect that he evoked in others. His codename was the White Tiger. It was appropriate. The tiger sits at the top of the food chain, subordinate to no one.
After taking a cold shower, he ate breakfast, dressed in his normal plain dark-grey clothes, checked that his equipment was ready, closed the suitcase, and left his apartment. Just another day at the office.
The key was under the rug as requested. He entered quickly and locked the door behind him. The apartment was empty, except for one chair and a kitchen table. He moved the table next to the window. He placed the suitcase on the floor, opened it and assembled the Dragunov sniper rifle. He attached a bipod to the rifle, placed it on the table, loaded it and scanned the area through the optical sight. His target was to emerge near the high rise business centre, approximately three hundred metres away. The perfect distance for the shot.
Three cars pulled up in front of the Parus Business Centre and parked one behind the other. He zoomed in on the number plates and smiled when the numbers matched the ones he’d memorised. A driver got out and lit a cigarette, and leant casually against the black Rolls Royce. The shooter looked at his watch: 3:37 p.m. Good. He was ready.
Following the driver’s example he pulled out a pack of red Marlboro cigarettes and lit one. He had some time to kill before he killed a man. Nothing moved inside his soul. He drank some water that he’d brought with him and performed a few simple stretching exercises to prepare his muscles for a long, motionless wait. He assumed the position, looking through the rifle’s scope, and waited.
After a while a blonde woman approached the driver, said something and stayed nearby. It was the target’s wife. She dialled her mobile phone and spoke for a few seconds. It would be soon.
Less than five minutes later the target emerged from the building accompanied by two other men. The blonde walked towards him and the target stopped, kissed her on the cheek, put his arm around her shoulder and walked with her to the awaiting car. It was the perfect moment.
Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Page 28
