The Bootneck
Page 26
He handcuffed Nick to the steering wheel amidst his protests. He knew that if the Chameleon Project operative was truly determined to do so, he could escape. Now, he was looking at Carl, he was struggling and bleeding from the shoulder.
“Bet you wish that we stole a real ambulance now, eh?” said Connor as he rifled through the Pole’s pockets. He didn’t find anything.
He located and collapsed the sniper rifle into the tactical case. He manoeuvred the former Ranger to lift him.
“Luckily, I was wearing a vest. But he caught me in the shoulder—”
“—hey,” said Connor abruptly. “I have my own problems,” then smiled.
“What took you so long?” said Carl, who smiled back.
“That’s rich coming from an American.”
The hitman grimaced as Connor hoisted him up, holding the tactical case in one hand. After a few minutes the rendezvous point appeared, and a euphoric feeling came over Connor—the ambulance was still in place. He opened one half of the double doors to reveal a comatose Ravil and his bodyguard with part of his head missing, blood splattered all over the wall.
“What happened here?” asked Carl, as Connor set him down.
“Insisted on coming, didn’t he? Nothing I could do,” replied Connor nonchalantly. Connor ripped open one of the first aid boxes producing two pistols.
“Keep both of these on you. This pistol’s mag is empty. I have to drive, and Nick has to try and treat you. Have this one in his sight and this one hidden. If he goes for this gun, you’ll know where his loyalty really lies. That’s what the loaded pistol is for.”
The two men looked at one another, and Carl gave him a slight nod. “OK.”
Connor left the back of the ambulance, closed the door and made his way to the driver’s side. He smiled inwardly as he saw Nick still in the driver’s seat, but his handcuffs were removed.
26
Makar fought to control his anxiousness. He’d made two phone calls: one to Roderick and the other to Damian. Both had rang out. He then made a call to Ravil himself. There were five rings and an English voice answered in a tone of a call centre operator.
“Hello, Ravil Yelchin’s phone.”
“Who is this?”
The tone of the answering voice changed, “I am the person who will slaughter your boss and send pieces of him to your Mafioso brothers in Moscow. Unless, you do exactly as I say.”
“Why should I care?”
“Because if you are who I think you are, it would highlight your failure in protecting him. And you don’t want that now, do you Drago?”
Makar took a breath, and answered, “I’m listening.”
“I want to know the details of who is involved in this collaboration of yours, and I want Bruce McQuillan back.”
“He’s dead, I am afraid,” said Makar, hoping he could break McQuillan for an advantage.
“Well, you better bring him back to life before Mr Yelchin here follows the same fate. Do not lie to me again.”
Makar frowned—how does he know I am lying? Has Ravil told them?
“When?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Connor clicked off the call. He was outside Louis’s warehouse in the van his friend had procured for him. The rain began to drizzle. His phone rang, and he answered it with a quick, “Hello.”
“That will have been Makar. Ravil’s right-hand man.” It was Jamie, speaking of Connor’s last call.
“How do you think he’ll play it?”
“He is a very clever man. He knows he has to retrieve Ravil and a swap for Bruce McQuillan is reasonable. It is the request for information that he will not give up. It goes against the Russian Bratva’s Omerta,” said Jamie’s distorted voice.
“Even information, regarding people who are not members of the Bratva?”
“Yes, even then.”
“Any ideas of how to play it?”
“We wait.”
“What do you mean, we wait?”
“He cannot go to his friends in Moscow, at least not until he has exhausted all other avenues. He will go to whoever they are dealing with here. Then I will find out just how far and deep it goes.”
“How exactly do you plan on doing that?”
“I have a few suspects, and when he reaches out, I will be listening.”
“Then what?”
“It is your country. You tell me.”
Connor thought for a moment. “Trials of powerful men get so convoluted, and those trials cost the taxpayer money.”
After a moment or two, “I agree,” came over the line.
Makar clicked off the call and steadied his breathing. He began to contemplate his options. The real enemy was faceless. Carl Wright couldn’t have been a part of this in the beginning. He had to have been recruited by an unknown entity. Whoever they were, they had technical support good enough to intercept CCTV and unsecured emails—how else would they know of Pierre Gaultier’s and Ravil’s movements?
They were ruthless too. Damian and Roderick were two of the most capable men in the London Bratva, and both now were presumably dead. He fought the urge to curse Ravil for his lack of care and stubbornness; he knew anger wouldn’t help him. The voice on the phone gave him pause for thought too. It seemed to belong to a relatively young man—one completely devoid of fear.
However, they’d made a tactical mistake. In asking for the details of who was involved, it revealed that they did not know or at least were not sure themselves. That meant that Bratva’s UK business associates hadn’t let their morals get in the way of their greed. And that meant he could still use them. He dialled a memorised number.
“So you’re saying that Henry Costner isn’t a traitor?” Connor asked, incredulously. He and Carl were back with Jamie in his caravan.
“We made contact yesterday. I told him to call me on a secure line. I had counter traces on there and recorded the call. Listen to this.” Jamie replied, pressing play on the recording.
‘Tell me how you were propositioned and why you didn’t report it immediately.’
‘I was propositioned at a private club by someone who’s name I won’t mention over the phone. This was over the course of two meetings— one to feel me out and one to proposition me. He told me that, with the influx of domestic Jihad terrorism, the security services were getting stretched to breaking point and organised crime was about to spiral out of control. He told me that it was ‘better the devil you know’ and indicated that the Russian Mafia could take control of organised crime in the UK. He also inferred that they might help manage our domestic terrorist threat. All this would be in exchange for protection by the security services and a few highly placed people within the Government. All of this sounded misguided, but almost noble until he mentioned money. £75 million for the both of us. That’s when I knew.’
The recording clicked off.
“How did he manage to contact you? You strike me as someone who keeps well under the radar,” asked Carl.
“He did not. After Bruce had been taken, I began working to locate and de-encrypt his various email accounts looking for anything that may help us. MP Costner had emailed him on the day he was kidnapped attempting to warn him. Bruce had not opened it before his kidnap.”
“What do you think? Can we trust him?” asked Carl.
“Mr Costner transferred twenty-five million pounds into an account of my choosing yesterday.”
“How the fuck did you get him to do that?” asked Connor.
“I asked him to.”
“How did he know you are who you said you are?”
“Before I came to work with Bruce, I was being hunted by the SVR. Desperately reaching out for friends, an unknown source directed me to McQuillan. That source turned out to be Henry Costner.”
“And he’s proved this?” asked Carl.
“Yes.”
Connor and Carl looked at one another but didn’t pursue it further.
“What about Makar?” asked Carl.
Carl rubbed his palm with his thumb while Connor remained impassive.
Jamie continued. “We need to put in extra precautions. Also, he may or may not have recruited the help of his British contacts.”
“Wait, why wouldn’t he have recruited them?” Connor looked bemused.
“Because he may not trust them. He may not be sure if they got cold feet or if they were ever truly on his side. This is a fanciful hope, and we have to presume he has contacted them for help.”
“What’s that mean for us?”
“That we have to put in countermeasures. But remember, any support given to him cannot be too overt. Makar is a shadowy figure, but no one gets to his level without being noticed. Interpol, the SVR naturalmente, Mossad, and MI5 all have files on him, even if they are light on detail and sometimes inaccurate. But, he’s known, and if the link is made between him and them, that’s not good for them.”
“Whoever they are, they are done for anyway,” replied Connor, his eyes opaque.
“I know who the original traitor is now,” said Jamie.
They both stared at him expectantly.
He told them.
Makar was back in another hotel room when the vibration of the call he’d been waiting for came through.
He answered it swiftly.
“Merrywood Industrial Park, 22:00, tomorrow night, south entrance. You and whatever security detail you want, but you’ll inform me of the numbers beforehand. In answer to your inevitable stalling to obtain the information I require, let’s just say I have taken certain pictures of Mr Yelchin,” said the voice. “Let’s also say that what goes on between Mr Yelchin, an unknown man, a dildo and a pair of rubber gloves is his own business, but that will only remain so as long as he co-operates once out of my custody. I can’t imagine the dent to your organisation’s image if those pictures got posted on the internet. He suits the pink dress by the way.”
The phone clicked off, and Makar stared at the screen.
Whoever was behind the voice knew exactly the best way of hurting the Bratva—attack its reputation. He briefly wondered why he was being allowed a security detail. It came to him; they wanted the men where they could see them. He knew the course of action to take.
Roger Stanton wore an expensive charcoal suit. He sat in the rear of the Jaguar XJ in a secluded location overlooking the lights of London. He smiled—my London.
One thing Roger Stanton enjoyed more than anything else was the combination of money and power. He’d both, although he could only overtly enjoy the latter. If he flaunted the wealth he’d amassed over the years, there would be suspicions.
The Russians naively thought they were the ones pulling the strings but, Roger knew what he was doing. He’d given them the perception of control over the most influential city in the world. They’d do anything to hold on to it, including turning on one another such is the criminal mentality. He’d had to accept the seventy-five million pounds for the show of it, but he planned to take so much more. He had made Ravil believe he wanted to retire.
After the Bratva took over control of the underworld, he would begin to tax them. This would be in exchange for keeping them out of the grip of law enforcement agencies, anti-terror organisations and intelligence agencies both in the UK and internationally.
Having the head of MI5 watching your back would be too much of an ace. No matter how much they tried to coerce him through blackmail, he’d force them to pay, as not to do so would be strategic suicide—they needed him to retain his position. Now, there was a complication. Makar had requested a face to face meeting, and his tone had been one of insistence.
At first, Stanton suspected an assassination attempt, but Makar had allowed him to select the location and agreed to arrive alone—a small reassurance as it was.
When Stanton asked him about Ravil’s whereabouts, Makar had explained that the meeting would revolve around the same question. This answer sent a bolt of concern through Stanton: What had happened to Ravil? Was he dead or simply missing? Did another authority have them in their possession? The first phase of their plan was underway, and the Bratva leader was needed now more than ever.
Stanton decided to wait until Makar arrived before jumping to any conclusions. One thing he’d learnt in almost three decades within Britain’s Intelligence Service was not to lose energy over speculation.
An aqua-blue Chrysler Crossfire pulled up beside the Jaguar, and the formidable looking, smartly dressed Russian got out and made his way to his vehicle. He opened the door of the Jaguar and took a seat next to him. Stanton took a breath to speak, but Makar had already begun.
“Ravil was kidnapped by an unknown team at the Blackheath golf course yesterday morning. They killed two of my men, and they have called twice today. Once was to confirm that they have Ravil in their possession and the other to agree that they would exchange Ravil for Bruce McQuillan.”
Stanton couldn’t keep the shock off his face. “How… how do we even play this with McQuillan dead?”
Makar smiled. “Bruce McQuillan isn’t dead. We have him.”
“Why on earth would you do something like that and keep it from me?” spat Stanton in an exasperated fury.
The Russian replied calmly. “The same reason you made me come alone to a location of your choosing—because there’s a lack of mutual trust. Besides, you needn’t worry. He hasn’t given us anything, despite our best efforts.”
Despite the Russian’s calm aura Stanton couldn’t contain his enraged panic. His voice came out strangled, louder and a few octaves higher.
“It’s not just the things he knows. It’s the things he’s willing and capable of doing. He has friends—friends I do not even know about. If he’s in any fit state, he will come after us, however long it takes. Christ, why do you think I told you to take him out before we preceded?”
“Do not be troubled. I do not want Mr McQuillan alive any more than you do.”
Stanton took a few moments to compose himself. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want? I want support so that this goes smoothly.”
“Smoothly hand over Bruce McQuillan? So you can obtain your boss?”
“Mr Stanton, please rest assured that I would rather Ravil die than Mr McQuillan be handed over alive.”
Roger Stanton just stared at the Russian, and it clicked into place.
Connor looked across at the Russian’s impassive face staring back at him. The man looked like a bank manager at first glance; except a bank manager wouldn’t be looking at a guy like himself with such a lack of emotion after being kidnapped. They were in the back of a Mitsubishi Delica with the seats facing one another. They didn’t speak.
Connor had a while before getting ‘into character’. In these moments of reflection, he realised that since this began, despite the danger and the odds stacked against him, it was the happiest time of his life. Perhaps it was because of the risk and the odds against him. He knew that was only part of it, though. He was aware that systems and laws governed the world. Some were a necessity, to prevent anarchy, but others were manipulated to suit the desires of a select few. They targeted the downtrodden masses. Influential people in positions of great responsibility, who turned out to be corrupt, were the worst in his eyes.
Honour was something his father had cherished and had passed on to him. The trouble was he knew, there were very few honourable men in crime. It was all fun, games and excitement until one had to face a lengthy custodial sentence, and then true characters were proven depressingly thin on the ground. The fact the people you were protecting with your silence were unlikely to return the favour lessened one’s resolve.
Still, that wasn’t the case in the Royal Marines. It was ingrained in a Royal Marine recruit to look after his comrade or his oppo. The ‘buddy-buddy’ system, in which you constantly looked out for you
r ‘buddy’ and it spilt over into the day to day life when Marines were together. Harsh training and operational environments strengthened this philosophy. Therefore, he’d accepted Louis’s offer of assistance who was now driving the Mitsubishi.
Connor remembered his circle of civilian friends becoming smaller and smaller when he didn’t recognise that quality in them. He’d keep the ones who at least entertained him. It was the reason why many former-marines could not mentally let go of the Corps. They would feel a lack of loyalty most civilians have for one other.
He thought about Roger Stanton. For a man to be the head of the nation’s security service, only to collude with the very people he was meant to be protecting the country against made him break out into a cold fury. Still, now he could fight back.
They’d had more success than was rational. This thrown-together team had managed to take out one of the most powerful arms dealers and kidnap the most powerful crime lord in Europe. All this while being unsure if elements of MI5 were tracking them. Still, it didn’t matter how many battles you won unless you won the war. That was a long way off yet.
Though Roger Stanton was the one he wanted to make suffer, he knew the Russian in front of him had caused a lot of suffering himself. He stared into Ravil’s eyes and decided—I am going to kill this cunt too.
Roger Stanton stood in The London Library perusing some of the rarest and oldest European history books. Usually, he liked to come here for the quiet. He began flicking through a book he wasn’t interested in borrowing—not that he was interested in borrowing any book today. He had come to see a man who had selected the library for the meeting.
“It’s a classic, ‘The Campaigns of Napoleon by David Chandler’. All leaders should read it,” sounded a voice behind him,
“So that they don’t make the same mistakes of overreaching?” answered Stanton.
“Maybe, although he will be remembered for centuries.”