by A P Bateman
“On my credit card…” she trailed off, realising her mistake.
“And the phone?”
“Card,” she said. “I bought two of them. My daughter was missing her friends. The phones should be fine, they’re pay as you go.”
King frowned. “But if your daughter called somebody and they got hold of that person’s phone, they could use the find my phone feature.”
Anna covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh god! They’ve probably gone to Anushka’s house, Dina’s best friend from the international school. Another Russian family living in Biarritz.”
“Go upstairs and get your daughter,” he paused. “And get some clothes on. Don’t pack, just be ready to move. And leave both of those phones upstairs.”
He returned to the window, saw the passenger door of the Range Rover open and the man get out. He had to be six-feet-six and two-hundred and fifty pounds, and he looked like he lived in the gym. Another man got out of the rear door and stood beside him as they both surveyed the house. He was five-six and wiry. A stark contrast to the giant, but by the look of him, no less dangerous. King could see that both men were armed – the contours of their leather jackets indicated sizeable firearms of some description.
King checked the lock on the door, then hurried over to the door the two of them had come in through and locked that also. He could see that the windows were closed as he crossed the kitchen and went into a utility room that branched off it. There were shelves with washing powder and liquids, ant-killer, slug-pellets and drain-cleaner. Below were stacks of newspaper and magazines, and alongside the shelving were recycling bins filled with glass bottles, and another two with tins and plastic. At the far end of the twelve-by-fifteen utility were domestic appliances and a small generator. Next to the generator was a five-litre can of petrol.
King went back to the kitchen, saw the large man in the middle of the road, his eyes on the upstairs of the house. The smaller man was opening the gate, about to step into the garden. He didn’t have much time, but he already had a plan. Of sorts.
Petrol is an evaporate. Once spilt it will not last long in a flammable state. It has a low flash-point, high burn-rate and because of this, it expels its energy quickly. King took three glass bottles out of the recycling bin. One had previously contained wine, another vodka and the third still had remnants of orange juice at the bottom. King placed them on the ironing board and picked up the tub of slug pellets. He glanced at the back of the box, then opened it and scooped out handfuls, dropping them into the bottles until they were around one-third full. King then picked up the stack of newspapers and tore the sheets off, rolling stacks of ten or twelve sheets into tight tubes. He put them to one side, picked up the petrol can and poured the petrol into each bottle, leaving a gap of about three inches from the top. He had spilt some petrol, but it would soon evaporate. He then pushed the paper tubes into the bottles, where they soaked up the fuel almost instantly. The pellets were soluble and had already started to turn into a purply mush at the bottom of the bottles. King peered around the doorway, before he eased out, carrying the three bottles carefully. He could no longer see the men, but he knew they would be checking the back of the house.
Anna appeared at the top of the steps, her face ashen and her eyes wide. She had changed into jeans and a shirt and wore a pair of pumps with sequins all over them. “They are here,” she said. “They are trying to get in one of the windows!”
“Where?”
“Come with me,” she said. “You will see them.” She looked at him, precariously carrying the three bottles. “What are those?”
“Something your motherland came up with,” he said. “Molotov Cocktails…” He placed two of them on the kitchen counter, carried the larger of the three – the vodka bottle – with him as he bounded up the stairs. “Show me,” he said to her.
There were four large bedrooms upstairs and a mezzanine area set aside as a cosy-corner with a selection of paperbacks on the windowsill acting as a mini library. Anna veered to the right, stepped past one of two double beds and stopped just short of the window. “Down there,” she said.
King peered down, saw the larger man prising the shutter with a large screwdriver, the smaller man standing back a few paces with a mini-Uzi machine pistol held at the ready. He placed the bottle on the floor, then reached for the locks.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here.”
“But you’ll kill them both!”
“They have guns,” King said. “Machine guns. They’ll cut us to shreds.”
“But while they’re round the back, we could get out the front way!”
King looked at her. “Yes. You’re right,” he said. “Get your daughter and wait for me downstairs.”
He watched her go, then turned back to the window and eased the catch. It was stiff, and he applied enough dynamic tension to avoid it giving suddenly and making a noise. He got it undone and started to ease the window outwards when the smaller man looked up, his eyes on the window to the room next door. He then looked directly at King, brought the mini-Uzi up to aim.
King ducked backwards, the window shattering and a trail of bullets slamming into the ceiling. Plaster dust fell and debris from the ceiling and shards of glass scattered across the wooden floor. King reached for the lighter in his pocket, got it lit and dabbed the flame on the petrol-soaked paper wad. It flamed instantly, and he grabbed the bottle and threw it down hard in their general direction. He did not know if the men had moved, but he guessed they hadn’t when he heard the screams above the woof of the petrol igniting. He got to his feet, chanced a look and saw the smaller man on his back, his feet on fire as he scrabbled backwards on his backside. He had dropped the machine pistol and was looking horrified as the giant clawed the air, staggering onto the lawn, leaving a sticky trail of burning fuel that singed the grass in his wake. The addition of the slug-pellets, largely consisting of Methiocarb - a substance which liquifies at 114°c and turns to syrup - meant that the fuel stuck in place and allowed the petrol vapour to burn for longer and more intensely than it normally would have, like an improvised napalm.
The giant’s blood-curdling screams started to die down but were replaced by those of the smaller man. King peeked out, saw he was patting his feet with his hands, but the sticky fuel merely stuck and burned. The man leapt up, staggered the twenty-metres or so to the pool and threw himself in.
King bolted down the stairs, barging Anna out of the way as he reached the bottom. She was in shock, her expression one of terror as she shielded her daughter.
“I’m sorry…”
King silenced her with a right jab to her jaw and she fell to the floor, already unconscious. Dina screamed, and King glared at her. “Stay there!” he shouted.
He dashed over to the window, saw two men at the Range Rover. They were taking cover behind, aiming pistols at the house, unsure what to do next. They had heard the gunfire, the screams, but it took a lot to run towards that, and these men were not that type.
King unlocked the door, lit one of the tapers of newspaper, and picked up the bottle. He took a deep breath to ready himself, then opened the door and darted outside.
The men froze for a second, enough time to get the bottle airborne and travelling in a gentle arc across the road. He ducked down, as they opened fire. One man had a fully-automatic Glock and wasted his twenty-rounds on the house, the garden wall and the open doorway. King hoped that the girl had stayed put. He heard the vehicle engulf with flames, the woof that petrol makes in large quantities when it ignites. He ducked back into the house, used the doorframe for cover as he peered back outside. The bottle had landed just short of the Range Rover, but the liquid had spilt underneath and engulfed the vehicle in flames. The men were on fire, stumbling into the fence and unable to escape the horror of the flames. Everywhere they trod started to burn, the syrupy fuel sticking to and burning whatever it encountered. The Mercedes had started up and was reversing erratically away. It
had caught some of the burning fuel, its front wheels burning fiercely.
King turned and walked along the side of the house. He could see the man in the pool. He was clinging to the side, breathing erratically, fighting the pain. He looked up at King as he walked past. The giant was dead, but still burning. King never ate roast pork, something he had learned many years before whilst operating in areas where war had been fought from the air, or rebels had ethnically cleansed entire villages. The smell would always stay with him – the smell of fuel, of rendered fat, of burned meat. It clung inside the nostrils, the sweet and sickly essence of death. There was a distinct likeness to over-done pork that always took King back to those hellish scenes.
King picked up the smaller man’s machine pistol. It was an older version, where the action fired from an open bolt. The bullet visible in the neck of the magazine. A squeeze of the trigger and the bolt would slam forward, the firing pin fixed and take the bullet to the breach where it would fire instantly and cycle until the trigger was released. Not an ideal design for grime and debris, but it was instantly recognisable as empty or loaded. He walked over to the pool, aimed at the man clinging to the side.
“What were your orders?”
“Fuck you…” the man winced, the side of his face was burned too.
“She warned you, didn’t she?” King asked. “At the window.”
The man smirked. “What the hell did you expect? You killed her husband.”
“And you came here to kill me?” The man shrugged like it was nothing. “And her?” King asked.
“What?”
“Did you come here to kill her too? Her daughter as well?”
“Why the hell would I kill them?” the man asked incredulously.
King shot the man in the forehead, turned and walked back to the house without seeing him sink to the bottom of the pool, a trail of blood discolouring the water like a pale, crimson mist. He checked the weapon’s magazine as he walked, best guessed there were ten rounds left. He could see the Mercedes on fire a hundred metres up the road. The burning wheels had set something alight in the engine bay, or perhaps the fuel lines underneath, and the flames had taken hold. King had no way of telling if the driver or whoever else had been inside had gotten clear. He couldn’t see anybody, so entered the house vigilantly, the weapon aimed in front of him.
Anna was on the floor, her back perched against the sofa, her daughter cradling her as she rubbed her jaw. She looked groggy, possibly only coming round in that moment. She looked up at King, her eyes wild and her expression full of hate.
“Bastard!” she shouted at him.
“You called them, didn’t you?” he said quietly. “When you got the coffee.”
“Of course,” she said. “I said what I said to you, because it suited me. I survive. That’s what I do. I survived back in those days with the Bratva, and I continued to survive by marrying one of them. I knew they would be looking for me, and I knew they would leave me alone if I helped them. And I rated their chances more than yours.”
“Let me know how that’s worked out for you?”
“Bastard!” she shouted again. The girl flinched, and Anna held her arm, squeezing tightly. “This is the man who killed your father, my dear.”
The girl looked puzzled for a moment, then sad. She said nothing, but tears were welling in her eyes.
King ignored Anna, looked at the girl and crouched down. “I’m sorry for you, Dina. Truly I am,” he paused. “I understand your pain. But I gave your father a chance to live. More of a chance than he gave me.”
“Bastard!” Anna shouted.
King raised the machine pistol at Anna. “Shut up!” he snapped at her, his eyes as cold and blue as glacier water. He turned back to the girl. “You look like a smart girl,” he said. “You can choose to hate me for what happened, perhaps even wish me dead. Or you can let it go and get on with the rest of your life. The first option will bring you nothing but misery. The second option will define you, bring you happiness. The ability to love the people you get close to and enjoy life to the fullest.” He stood back up and walked to the door, pausing briefly to turn back and look at her. “My name is Alex King,” he said. “Remember it. If you want to get even one day, well I’ll most likely deserve it. But believe me, I’ll be ready, and I don’t die easily. And I won’t think twice about killing you.”
54
“About time. You’re playing fast and loose with the woman you love.”
“I was injured after taking down Nikolai. I needed a few days to get sorted,” King lied seamlessly, then paused. “And the area got pretty hot with the police. I had to lie low for a while.”
“But you’re ready for your next task now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I will text it to you now. And no contact with me until it’s done.”
“Whatever.”
“No, Mister King. You will receive the target and the address. You will do the job and you will keep all communication switched off until it is done. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“And no collateral damage.”
“Sometimes it’s inevitable.”
“Not in this case!” Helena snapped.
“I’ll see how it goes.”
“The guards are one thing, but no civilians. No non-combatants. Understand?”
“Like I said, I’ll see how it goes.”
“There will be no collateral damage, or you will never see your woman again…”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Plenty. But make sure you understand. No collateral.”
“Send me the details.”
“Nearly there,” she paused. “And then you will see your beautiful, feisty Caroline again. Unless of course, you fail…”
King heard the line go dead. He smiled, feeling that she had been suitably rattled. He held the phone in front of him, willing the text to come through. He took out the piece of paper that Anna Sergeyev had written Romanovitch’s details on. She could have been lying, but he doubted it. She seemed to want Helena Milankovitch derailed as much as he did. She ran with the fox and hunted with the hounds. He suspected he couldn’t trust a word she said.
The text came through, a silent vibrate that King had set the phone to. He unlocked it and read the text. Goran Romanovitch was the target. King held up the paper alongside the phone. Helena had included GPS coordinates with her text, but the two addresses were identical.
King had his next target.
He was another step closer.
But there was no mention of Catherine Milankovitch. Only Helena’s insistence upon zero collateral damage.
Not only was King a step closer, he was now decidedly out in front.
55
Tbilisi International Airport (TBS),
Georgia
“I’ll get the car,” Ramsay said. “You two stay here and keep an eye on the bags.”
“Yes, Dad,” Rashid quipped as Ramsay walked away from them.
“You like winding him up, don’t you,” Marnie stated flatly. “He’s not so bad.”
“No, he’s okay,” Rashid agreed. “But he’s done a lot of desk work, pressed the flesh and signed a lot of documents off. Not to mention had a few lunches on expenses.”
“He was pretty handy at Botha’s place,” she countered. “Got you inside quickly when everyone was being shot at.”
“True,” he conceded. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he looked at the screen as he took it out. He turned away from Marnie and spoke quietly. Marnie watched him, as he nodded, concentrating on the voice on the other end. She caught his eye and smiled, but he turned away without returning her gesture. Rashid slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked back over to her.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
Rashid watched Ramsay signing documents at the Hertz desk, showing his licence and talking animatedly with the hire company agent. He turned back to Marnie and bent down, kissed h
er firmly on the lips. She went to pull away, but he tucked his hand behind her head, felt her submit and kiss him passionately back. When he pulled away, he smiled. “Sorry, luv,” he said. “Got to go. Don’t try and find me, I have something to do.”
“What?” she asked, shocked and confused. She looked over at Ramsay, who caught her eye, but looked back to the hire car rep. “What do you mean; go?”
“Got to see a man about a dog,” he said. He slung his travel bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit without another glance.
56
London
Another day of drizzle, the humidity of summer exacerbated by the heat and fumes of the heavy traffic. Simon Mereweather had left the COBRA meeting and was on his way back to Thames House. It was only a short drive, but as expected, the traffic was gridlocked. MI5 were using motorcades less frequently in recent months, preferring to blend in with the rest of the London traffic. Mereweather travelled in the rear passenger seat of a pool car, the anonymous Ford Mondeo crawling with the flow of commuters, sight-seers and taxis. Upfront, his regular driver was accompanied by Mereweather’s bodyguard.
His phone was hot, messages, texts and calls coming in from MI6, GCHQ, the MOD and various departments within MI5. The impending visit from the Russian president was first and foremost on the security and intelligence community’s agenda, given the dire lack of relations between the two countries after the Russian’s had been accused of biological attacks on former KGB double-agents on British soil. Russia’s relationship with many countries who had supported Britain, expelling Russian diplomats, was at an all-time low. Now, with a new Russian president and a new British Prime Minister in place, the visit was viewed as critically important on the world stage. However, with Russia’s involvement in supporting the Syrian regime, and an accusation of covert biological attacks in predominantly Muslim Chechnya, many Islamic extremist suspects had been heard on what GCHQ called network chatter. Their Echelon listening system had picked up talk of assassinating the Russian president.
