by A P Bateman
“How much further?” King asked.
Big Dave was using a Garmin GPS and had stuck it to the dashboard with rubber suckers that kept bouncing out every mile or so. He now had it tucked between his legs, close to his groin. He fished it out and handed it to King. “Here, it’s nice and warm…”
“Piss off!”
Big Dave laughed and said, “Seven miles.” He tucked the satnav back between his legs, still amused at himself. “I reckon we should go the last mile on foot.”
King nodded. He had told the babushka back at the bar that he may be camping under the stars tonight. She had looked suitably unimpressed and told him that he would still have to pay for the room. She had then sold him sausage, cured pork fat, stale bread, and a quarter bottle of vodka at a premium. King had picked up the biscuits and some indescribable cake as well as the powdered milk from a convenience store that seemed to sell mainly vodka and cabbages. King always travelled with his own teabags. Monkey brand. Nothing fancy.
When they had travelled the remaining six miles, Big Dave parked the truck beside some trees near a small lake fed by a fast-flowing stream from the base of a waterfall. He could see trout jumping, late summer mosquitoes swarming the surface, providing the fish with a buffet. King mused that it probably wouldn’t have been all that difficult to catch a fish in a place like this as the water looked to be teaming with trout.
Big Dave hoisted a large bergen upon his back and cradled the AK-47, which looked like a toy in his giant hands. King shouldered the rifle. It was loaded, but he had not worked the bolt chambering a bullet. He wasn’t familiar with the rifle’s trigger and nor the condition of the weapon for that matter. Bolt action rifles can fire if a jolt shifts the bolt from its lug, sending it forward on its spring. The weapon looked well used, which meant it would have worn considerably over the years, its tolerances changed from when it had left the factory. If he needed it, he could make it ready almost as quickly as he could release a safety catch.
“Let’s get out of here before those mozzies realise there’s fresh meat out here,” Dave commented. He led the way, taking great strides up the hill towards the waterfall. “We’ll veer off from the stream at the top, get away from those biting bastards.”
“Okay,” replied King. Lomu had done the recon. He’d been out here shortly after King had arrived in Albania. King trusted the man’s judgement. The fact he had taken leave from an assignment to help King spoke volumes. The man was close to Rashid, too, so he had taken little convincing when King explained that there was no official rescue and the team would be written off. Despite the man’s attempts to delve into King’s reasoning for coming out of his short retirement, there was an unwritten agreement among men like King and Rashid and Lomu, that they would always go the extra mile for a colleague because one day, it might well be them.
The grass plain, which had many sporadic spinneys of trees and tiny lakes soon gave way to thick pine and birch forest. It was one of a dozen thousand-acre forests which had been left to grow after huge deforestation in the region. King knew that a hundred miles further to the west logging concerns were tackling a forest larger than the entire United Kingdom, so they would probably never be back this way again and nature would soon reclaim the region.
“There are a lot of bears here,” said Big Dave. “They’re what they call grizzly bears in the states. Or similar, at least. Maybe not quite so big, but way bigger than black bears. They’re filling up on trout, feral cattle and sheep, as well as reindeer for the winter. Also, blueberries and chives, too. There are thousands of acres of wild blueberries out here. And mile upon mile of chives. But nobody can be bothered to pick them.”
King nodded. In Alaska he’d been close enough to a hungry grizzly to smell its breath. He hoped he would never see one again. “The people have reindeer, trout, chives, and fresh blueberries on their doorstep, and they eat salted pork fat, raw cabbage and stale bread. Go figure.”
“They’re all too drunk out here to be bothered with anything. I’ve never seen people drink vodka with breakfast. I don’t like to generalise, but they’re all alcoholics! And there’s a distinct lack of get up and go. It’s a depressing bloody place.”
King nodded. “I had a shot of vodka this morning. When in Rome. I had to have something to keep the bloody pork fat down.”
“Yeah, the food is off. I could eat a fry-up right around now, that’s for sure.”
“What’s the lay of the land once we’re through the trees?”
“Romanovitch has cut a perimeter of one-hundred metres. Between his fence and the forest. Then it’s like something in Beverly Hills.”
“I checked on Google Earth. It was an old overview, but the grounds looked like a scene from the Somme, like no-man’s-land,” said King.
“He’s had extensive landscaping done. A full-sized eighteen-hole golf course designed by a top greenskeeper, as well as garden terraces. The property was once owned by a tsar and then the communist party and the KGB.” Lomu paused. “I don’t think the Commies went in for country club chic, so Romanovitch has been busy,” he quipped. “Then he had a specialist swimming pool designer from Spain design and construct the pool.”
“And I bet inside is filled with antiques and art from around the world. Stolen, no doubt.”
“Well, you’ll find out soon enough.”
King nodded. He would. If he was lucky.
16
St. Petersburg, Russia
“You have balls being here, Galanis. I’ll give you that.”
The Shepherd shrugged. “I bring with me a message. I hope that because I am alone, the messenger will not be shot.” He paused, nodding knowingly. “Or butchered and sent back in many vodka crates.”
Romanovitch smiled. “I do not imagine further visual aids will be required. Or at least, not yet.”
“I have a message, and I hope to live long enough to take your answer back with me to the brotherhood.”
“To Yosef,” Romanovitch stated flatly.
“Yes.”
“He should thank me for his promotion.”
“He is grieving.” Galanis paused. “He hopes his message will be accepted in the manner it was delivered. In good grace.”
“One can only live in hope,” Romanovitch said with a mirthless smile. “I suppose it would depend upon the message.”
Andreas Galanis nodded. Yosef had said that the Russian would not make a repeat of their last visit if he alone went to meet with him. What would be the point? That was all very well, but Yosef would not be there to find out. However, Galanis had agreed, although since he had landed in Russia yesterday and arranged the meeting, he had had his doubts. He had not been able to travel with his trusty knife, and right now, he wanted to slice out the Russian’s throat and bleed him out like a goat he was about to butcher. He had contemplated procuring a weapon and secreting it upon him, but he knew he would be searched, and the Russian mafia boss’ men had done exactly that. And then some. The humiliation of a rough body cavity search showing a degree of nervousness from the Russian that had not been there before the troubles. Yosef and Galanis had gambled – admittedly with all the risk on Andreas Galanis’ part – that the Russian will have seen the escalation. Felt it, even. He would not do anything to lose face, but he would be both intrigued enough to listen, and keen to see a return to stability and the status quo.
Romanovitch regarded him, then nodded to the guard behind him. He tried to suppress a smile as the Kosovan flinched. “Vodka and caviar,” he said.
Galanis visibly relaxed, but his heart would continue to hammer against his chest until he was back in the air and bound for Albania. Even then, given the Russian’s reach, it would be a nervous flight. “Thank you,” he said.
Romanovitch clapped his hands together. “So, what is this proposition your new boss has for me?” He paused. “Incidentally, we did not assassinate T’Briki. But I suppose you know that by now?”
“We know a great many things.”
&n
bsp; “Having said that, Yosef should be grateful to me. His brother would have been next in line of succession, but now he has the top job. Now he is the Albanian equivalent of me!” He laughed raucously, clapping his hands together twice. “Which is like saying a rat is the same as a pedigree dog! You will agree with me, no? With you being a Kosovan-Greek and all. The Greeks are a noble people. The Greek gods, the mythology, and the history, that is. Not the bankrupt nation of café owners and waiters they are today, who sell their own children so they can eat! No, they were once a nation of great adventurers and scholars. The Kosovans, not so much. But still, better than Albanians, no?” He looked up as a member of the house staff brought in a silver salver of blinis, sour cream, and caviar as well as chilled vodka in a carafe, with a few slices of shaved garlic dropping gently from the surface. “Put it on the table,” he said sharply, then looked back at Andreas Galanis. “So, let me hear your news.”
The man known as The Shepherd took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He had refrained from doing so up until now, uneasy at the bodyguard standing directly behind him. He watched the maid leave and the bodyguard take up position beside the closed door. Yosef had recounted how six of Romanovitch’s bodyguards had encircled them on that fateful day, and at least the Russian had not put on a similar display. All he had to do was sell this. Sell like never before, because his life depended on whether Romanovitch took the bait and sent him back to Albania with a yes.
17
The Ural Mountains, Russia
King looked at Big Dave incredulously as the man pulled out a foil-wrapped sandwich and took a giant bite. “Did you bring enough for everyone?”
The big man shrugged. “I thought you’d be prepared.”
“I shared my biscuits.”
“Dave doesn’t share food…”
“Duly noted,” King replied and took out the bag of food the babushka had put together for him. The sausage was greasy and hard. King took a bite and had to saw his teeth through the gristle and fat.
“Rather you than me, mate.”
King watched the man eating his sandwich. “That looks like a bloody Subway,” he commented. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“I picked a few up in Yekaterinburg,” he replied. “Well, ten of them. Just meats and cheese with some mayo. The salad wouldn’t have lasted long.”
“It looks stale. I do hope it’s stale,” said King.
“Don’t worry about me. Good luck with yours though, mate. That looks like a pony’s dick.”
King tossed the sausage back into the bag. “Thanks for that image.” He reached into his pack and took out the cake, wrapped in paper. He looked up as Big Dave stared at it. It was like a light-coloured fruitcake but with layers of pastry in between that looked soft and buttery. King broke off a piece and chewed. “That’s really, really good,” he lied. It tasted stale and dry. “Wow. So sweet and moist…” He grinned as he wrapped it back up, watching the big man salivate before him. “Too bad, King no longer shares food, either.”
“Bastard.”
“Born and bred.”
Big Dave chuckled, raised the binoculars, and surveyed the ground ahead of them. They were halfway up a gradual slope which rose approximately sixty feet above the property, with enough trees to shield them from view, but with enough sparsity to give them a relatively clear field of view as well. At the bottom of the slope, the ground had been cleared to create around a hundred metres of flat grassland before the fence.
“You’re in the shit, sunshine,” Big Dave announced. “Looks like trembler devices on the fence. And CCTV on the corners of the main house.”
King nodded. “Standard. The intel said as much.”
“Intel?”
King smiled. “You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, and you don’t go after an enemy without learning about them first.”
“Yes, Sun Tzu.” Big Dave grinned. “Have you read the Art of War?”
“Flicked through it.”
“Learn much?”
“A bit.”
“I thought it was a bit shit, really. Should be called the Art of Stating the Obvious.” Big Dave continued to study the property through the binoculars. “So, the asset has been feeding intel? I thought they were a sleeper.”
“This is where we find out if Ramsay is on the ball or not.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then it will get really shooty, pretty bloody quickly.” King handed him the rifle. “I’ll take the AK.”
“Dave doesn’t share.”
“Yeah well, he bloody does today.” King picked up the AK-47 and ejected a round. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and took out a roll of duct tape. Lomu watched incredulously as King wrapped some around the bottom of the shell case and then handed it to him. “Technically the seven-point-six-two by thirty-nine-millimetre cartridge from the Kalashnikov is seven-point-six-two short. It will work in the Mosin Nagant rifle, but probably only the once before the case expands short of the breech and blocks the chamber. The rim of the round for the Mosin Nagant is lipped instead of recessed, so the tape will hold it in the breech. It’s not ideal, and you may only get one shot, but at least it will give you five rounds instead of a paltry four. After that, it doesn’t matter because you’ll be out of bullets anyway. At a range of two hundred metres you will have an additional two inches of drop over the longer cartridges.”
“Is it safe?”
“In that thing, then yes. They’re as solid as a rock, which is why they are still standard peasant issue since World War Two. It may flash some hot, unburned powder out of the bolt vent but should be okay.”
“Should?” Lomu nodded, frowning. “How do you know about the wrong ammunition working in a weapon?”
King shrugged. “I’ve been out there on my own. I’ve had to improvise. There wasn’t always a Chinook and a fire support group there for me on my missions.” He paused. “Right, exfil. If it all goes tits-up, I don’t expect you to come in for me. Provide covering fire if you can, if I’m in the open, that is. Then pull back to where we parked the truck. Wait for thirty-minutes if you can get away with it, then pull back a further two miles south-east and give me ninety minutes.”
“Then what?”
“Hit the road.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“It isn’t much of a plan.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got,” said King. “But Ramsay’s intel is usually spot on. Better than his chances of hitting a bullseye on the range, or of him buying a round at the pub.”
Lomu nodded, considering the options. “I can shadow you in the treeline. The gradient will give me the tactical advantage. But you’ve still got to cross a hundred metres of open ground.” He paused. “You’d better make that call.”
King studied the display of his smartphone, pulled a face. “No signal. Great.”
“Better get higher.”
King nodded, but he delved into his day sack before leaving and retrieved a folded canvas roll. “What sort of phone have you got?”
“A Samsung.”
“Great, give it to me.”
Big Dave shrugged and tossed King his phone, told him the passcode number as King caught it, then trudged up the slope. The trees were birch and pine and there was the heady scent of pine in the air. From the top of the slope, he could in fact see that it was a false summit, and there was a steep slope to a valley with a stream, and a climb he estimated to be a thousand feet which peaked half a mile ahead of him. King could see that the stream would feed the small lake where they had parked the truck. He checked the compass and saw that the heading was dead-on. Good to know, in case he lost the compass or became disorientated. But he was hoping it would be a simpler task that lay ahead of him.
King checked his phone, and then looked at Big Dave’s. Nothing. He opened the canvas roll and selected the coil of copper wire. He fashioned two large rabbit ears, twisting the wire tightly to join it together
, then laid it on the ground while he searched the forest floor for a suitable branch. He soon found an eight-foot bough and started to trim the branches from it with his knife. Then he hooked the rabbit ears over the tip and raised it as high as he could, hooking one of the ends left from cutting the branches over a branch high in a pine tree where he carefully released it and let it dangle. The rabbit ears were now fifteen feet above the ridge, with the wire trailing to the ground. King used a pair of snips to cut the wire, then turned his attention to taking the back off Big Dave’s phone. It would not have worked with the sealed unit of the iPhone, but King knew the aerial output of the Samsung could be tapped into to provide a boost. In a pinch. He pressed the end of the copper wire against the screw fixing the internal antenna of the phone in place, and in contact. He carefully turned the device over and saw that he had a two-bar signal. King knew there was little accuracy in such things. You generally had a signal, or you didn’t, and the five-bar holy grail was usually no different after three bars, and a true signal was more like eight, although displays only went as high as five for simplicity. King dialled Ramsay’s number from memory. The MI5 planner answered on the fifth ring.
