Going Rogue, page 26
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
They had studied the blueprints provided by Pet, planning the best method of ingress into the property and comparing this against the building services plans that she had also miraculously managed to obtain. These were incredibly detailed and enabled them to plan with some efficiency rather than just crashing around in the dark.
‘This weather is bollocks,’ Buster said as the rain hosed down and a thunderclap echoed above them.
‘This weather is actually perfect; gives us some nice cover,’ Tom replied, adjusting the straps on his head-mount. ‘You ready?’
‘Born ready, Bro,’ Buster smiled. Both men pulled ski masks down over their faces and moved off in an impenetrable darkness that was broken only by the occasional flash of lightning. They took a route along the twelve-foot-high perimeter wall that ran adjacent to the approach track. Tom wore the baton in a holster on his belt and Buster carried the stun gun in his jacket pocket. Both had a can of pepper spray in their pockets as well. The rain began to ease slightly as they approached the tall, wooden vehicle gate topped with spikes. Both men flipped the monocular over their left eyes, which gave a curious greenish glow to their surroundings but afforded good vision in the black. To the left of the gate was a much smaller pedestrian entrance in the form of a normal-sized door with a heavy lock. The door did not look well-used if the weeds sprouting out of the cracked concrete were anything to go by.
Tom carefully tried the handle and gently pushed at the gate. It was locked tight.
Tom nodded at Buster and moved to the side, squatting, his body pressed into the wall scanning in all directions through the monocular with his right eye closed.
Buster reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a small leather wallet that contained a set of lock picks. Buster’s speciality in SRR and, latterly, the police had been covert entry to properties, and it only took a minute’s work on the elderly lock before the door swung slowly inwards. He and Tom had performed similar operations on many occasions, and each knew their role inside out. There was barely any need for communication; it was all about stealth and slow, careful movements.
Both men scanned with their night-vision monoculars, seeking out any tell-tale bright spots which would have indicated traces of infrared alarm systems. Seeing nothing, they proceeded slowly and steadily.
Entering the large gardens they moved away from the vehicle drive, where an elderly Mercedes sat, and skirted to the lakeside of the property that they had been observing from their fishing position over the last couple of days. They crossed a section of lawn, still scanning in all directions through their monoculars. Tom looked along the building and, seeing no signs of cameras, nodded for Buster to follow.
He hugged the leading edge of the building as he steadily advanced to the rear of the property, arriving on the rear deck of the property still keeping tight against the wall as he reached the bi-fold doors.
Tom squatted slowly down on his haunches and edged his head around the door jamb. Seeing no one in the large open-plan kitchen, he scanned the exterior and the deck once more. He couldn’t see any motion sensor-activated lights, cameras, or signs of an alarm. It really did seem that the dacha’s main methods of protection were the reputation of its owner and the armed entourage that accompanied him when he was in residence.
He turned and nodded once more to Buster, who moved past him while pulling his pick set from his jacket. Before beginning his work on the lock, he gently and slowly pulled the door handle downwards. The lock moved and the door opened a fraction, silently on well-oiled hinges. Buster gave a thumbs-up to Tom who nodded in return, a little surprised at the careless approach to security that was evident so far.
The dacha was in complete darkness, without even a wink of light or sound anywhere in the large kitchen and beyond. Their soft, rubber-soled shoes didn’t make a sound as they negotiated the polished concrete floor. The building plans they had studied had shown that there were three reception rooms downstairs: dining room, drawing room and kitchen. At the front of the property was a room that had an en-suite bathroom, as did all the bedrooms upstairs. It was therefore impossible to know which room either of the occupants would currently be in.
They slowly approached the downstairs bedroom. Its door was slightly ajar. Tom peeped around the door without moving it and, scanning through the monocular, could see no one in the perfectly made bed.
He turned and nodded to Buster, pointing up towards the first floor. The staircase was made of a pristine marble with elaborate wood and metal balustrades, and they were able to negotiate the steps without making any noise before stepping onto the landing.
They now had a choice of three further bedrooms, with the likelihood of two of them being occupied. Tom had felt that the master suite would overlook the lake, particularly as it had a balcony on the outside. It was most likely that this would be the bedroom used by Zelenko when he was in residence.
With this in mind, they crept firstly to the rearmost bedroom door, which was closed. It did not seem to have an obvious lock and so, controlling his breathing, Tom slowly turned the handle and the door gave noiselessly. He was thankful, once again, for the high standard of maintenance as the well-oiled hinge did not make a sound as it swung inwards.
He slowly looked through the crack in the door at the large bed in the centre of the room. A sleeping form lay shrouded in the bedroom, the covers rising and falling and a faint snoring audible. Tom could not ascertain whether or not it was McEwan so he silently withdrew, making a shrugging gesture at Buster. He moved to the door opposite, which was slightly ajar and was about to repeat the same process when a scraping sound was heard from within, along with a muffled cough. Both men stepped silently to either side of the door and waited as the occupant coughed once more and cursed, quietly, in Russian. The door opened and the housekeeper limped out of the room, yawning.
Tom’s punch to the side of the man’s neck was brutal and powerful, colliding with the man’s vagus nerve chain and interrupting the electrical signals to his brain. Not quite knowing what to do, the man’s brain simply shut down. Buster caught him before he hit the floor and laid him gently down on the floor. He pulled a pair of cable-ties out of his pocket and dragged the still-unconscious man across the smooth marble and secured him to the balustrade.
He was a densely muscled man in his early sixties, dressed in pyjama trousers and a t-shirt, and Tom briefly felt regret at incapacitating someone so much older than himself. A quick glance at the Spetsnaz tattoo on the man’s forearm banished that feeling, turning it to one of relief that a potentially harmful enemy was now out of the game.
Beyond a muffled “thump” the whole encounter had been soundless and ruthlessly efficient. They made a quick scan to ensure that the housekeeper’s bedroom was empty. Tom could see the shape of a handgun on the nightstand, which Buster quickly picked up. He nodded at Tom. At least they were now armed.
The time had come for a bit of shock and awe to secure McEwan, as they had no idea how long the other man would remain out of the game and silent.
Moving back into the corridor, Tom kicked the door to McEwan’s bedroom wide open and stormed in, closely followed by Buster. McEwan was groggily rousing himself, a look of confusion etched over his face as he tried to ascertain what had woken him. Pulling out the pepper spray, Tom directed a stream directly into the man’s face. McEwan’s features screwed up as the concentrated cayenne extract bit into the mucus membranes of his eyes, nose, and mouth. He let out a piercing scream of alarm and shock and clamped his hands to his face.
They did not want to give him time to regain his composure but instead needed to add yet more force to make him feel overwhelmed and powerless. Buster did not hesitate, moving aggressively to him, pulling out the stun gun, and jamming it into his side, delivering 500,000 volts of low-amperage electricity. This overwhelmed McEwan’s central nervous system and locked all his muscles up. He screamed again, his face locked in a grimace. Buster held the charge for a couple of seconds before removing the device.
Tom then dragged the pyjama-clad McEwan from the bed and onto the floor. Spinning him onto his front, Tom produced a set of cable-ties, and quickly and efficiently secured McEwan’s wrists behind his back. Buster removed one of the pillows from the bed and quickly stripped the pillowcase from it, slipping the case over McEwan’s head as a makeshift hood to further disorientate and ensure complete compliance. The Major lay on his front, unconscious and breathing heavily, completely and utterly defeated.
Tom used the pre-agreed hand signals that indicated the next part of the plan. They intended to do as much of the operation without speaking within earshot of McEwan. It seemed the best option that he should have no idea who had kidnapped him, particularly as they planned to re-introduce him into the criminal justice system back in the UK.
Buster nodded and left the room. Tom lifted up his monocular and switched on the room’s light so he could look at the prone, gasping McEwan on the floor, who was now starting to stir. Squatting down next to him, Tom spoke in a low, flat voice that he laced with an Eastern European accent. ‘Right, I know you hear me. We are going on a little trip now. If you make a sound or try to escape, I will kill you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ came the ragged and gasping reply.
Tom stood and carried out the briefest of searches of the room, finding nothing of any interest. There was nothing he really needed, but force of habit made him check.
The angry sounds coming from the landing outside the door suggested that the ex-Spetsnaz housekeeper was regaining consciousness; Russian oaths and blasphemies were now audible, and Tom was relieved that they had secured him.
After a few minutes, Buster returned to the room, his monocular flipped up as well. He nodded once more and showed Tom a battered-looking car key. A thumbs-up told Tom everything he needed to know, and Buster tucked the housekeeper’s pistol into his waistband. It would be handy to have a pistol, certainly until they were clear of the dacha in case anyone else showed up.
Tom gave the hand signal that the operation was complete and it was time to get out of there, drawing his hand across his neck and pointing to the door. Both men squatted down and, taking an arm each, hoisted McEwan up.
McEwan gasped as they began to propel him towards the door. They did not pause as they passed the shackled housekeeper, now spitting insults and curses in Russian at them, as they moved past towards the stairs. Hate flashed in his eyes as he struggled against his bonds, his legs thrashing as he attempted to kick out at them. Ignoring him they retraced their entry route back out into the garden and onto the drive. They paused by the Mercedes, Tom pressing McEwan face down across the boot lid. Buster unlocked the car with the pilfered key and disappeared briefly inside. Tom pulled McEwan back into a standing position as Buster released the boot lid. A quick search of the boot revealed it was totally empty and had nothing that could be utilised as a weapon or implement.
They roughly shoved McEwan in the boot and slammed the lid shut. Tom nodded at Buster, who got back into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine, which purred smoothly as the large diesel engine started.
Tom jumped into the passenger seat. ‘Nice job, buddy.’
‘That’s the easy bit out of the way; we have to get him over the border now. Time to call our friend Oskar,’ Buster said as he pushed the automatic shift forward and moved off.
‘What do you think about the gates?’ Tom said.
‘There is an RF fob on the Merc key, so I am making an educated guess that a press will open it,’ he said, hopefully.
Tom had an uneasy feeling about the whole situation. It had all been too easy so far. This feeling was not helped when, as they approached the exit, the gates smoothly slid open when Buster pressed the small black fob on the key ring.
‘This is worryingly easy. Keep your eyes about you, Buster. This isn’t over yet.’ Tom said, unable to shake a feeling of unease as he pulled his ski mask from his face and threw the monocular in the back of the car.
‘Don’t worry about it, mate. I am cucumber-boy: as in cool as a cucumber,’ he smiled as he pulled his own ski mask up.
They drove along the track towards the main road, pulling in to where the Honda had been left. ‘Right, mate,’ said Tom. ‘I will take the Honda and follow you. If the police show any interest I will make myself the target to keep them away from you, okay? I will see you at the RVP; you clear on where that is?’
‘Yep, no problem,’ Buster nodded. They had previously scoped out a suitable rendezvous point, always known in the military as an RVP, to wait for Oskar.
‘Tell you what, give me the pistol and I will get rid of it here. We can’t cross the border with it in any case. Be careful and don’t drive like a dick,’ Tom smiled.
Buster just shook his head, smiling as he handed over the pistol, a battered but serviceable-looking Makarov. Tom tucked the pistol under a log a few metres into the woods. He returned to the Honda and jumped in and pulled in behind Buster, who was already easing out onto the main road.
They drove at all times just below the speed limit with no erratic movements; what their surveillance instructor would have called, “Boring bastard driving, chaps. No one notices a boring bastard.”
As they drove Tom dialled Oskar’s number on his mobile. The call was answered quickly with a, ‘Da?’
‘We have our passenger and we want to cross as soon as possible, Oskar.’
‘Where are you?’ Despite the fact that it was almost 5am and dawn was beginning to break he did not sound like he had been sleeping.
‘Moving towards the M10 close to Rosnivska.’
‘Ok, just past junction for Rosnivska is small mini supermarket, just like small shack opposite a big yellow café bar called Fazenda. Park in small car park at the rear. There are no cameras and it is very quiet. I will be there in thirty minutes.’ He rang off without another word.
Tom quickly dialled Buster. ‘Borat? What do you know?’ Buster sang cheerfully.
Tom repeated Oskar’s instructions and then said, ‘Eyes about, mate. This just feels too easy.’
‘Stop being such a pessimist, Borat. We are going swimmingly.’
Tom just couldn’t shake the itch at the nape of his neck telling him that something wasn’t quite right. The reason he had survived so long was that the lizard part of his brain was particularly adept at telling him something was wrong, and he couldn’t shake that niggling concern.
After a short while a tiny supermarket, no bigger than a large shed, came into view opposite a yellow, stucco building with the words “Fazenda” emblazoned on a red sign, just as Oskar had described.
Tom got out of the Honda and walked over to the Mercedes, getting in beside Buster.
‘All good?’ he asked.
‘Quiet as the proverbial, mate.’
‘Right. Oskar will be here in under half-an-hour. Let’s use that time to get rid of anything we don’t want to take over the border, and I also think we should take the camouflage kit off. We just want us in there. We can leave it all in the Honda. We will collect it later but we can’t cross the border with all this kit.’
‘Good idea. Stun guns, pepper spray, and batons may not be the best things to take across a border, particularly when we are illegally renditioning a prisoner into an EU member state.’
They both stripped off the fishing clothing, replacing it with the plain jeans and sweatshirts that they had packed in the Honda. They stowed all the weapons and optics in the Honda’s boot and then Tom tucked the car key into the exhaust pipe. They settled into the Mercedes to wait for Oskar with nothing in their pockets other than some euros and dollars, and their passports. If things didn’t go well at the border, they could both find themselves in jail in either Poland or Ukraine. Having only recently got out of a British jail, Tom really didn’t fancy that one bit.
A short while later, a large taxi-liveried Toyota people carrier pulled into the car park, with Oskar at the wheel. He pulled his large frame out of the car and locked it behind him as he walked up to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.
‘I will drive,’ he said, gruffly.
‘Be my guest, old son,’ Buster said, climbing out of the car and getting in the back.
‘Everything okay, Oskar?’ asked Tom as the big Pole climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘All will be well. You have passports?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give to me,’ he held out a meaty hand and took both men’s passports.
‘When we hit border say nothing. Let me do all talking, okay?’
‘Sure thing, boss,’ said Buster.
‘Where is the passenger?’
‘In the boot,’ Tom said.
‘Border in forty minutes. Will he be okay?’
‘Don’t worry about that, Oskar. Just get us over the border.’
With a blank and emotionless look on his face, Oskar gunned the engine and pulled the big Mercedes out of the car park and onto the M10 once more.
He was a good driver, steady and smooth as he wordlessly steered the big car closer to the border.
After twenty minutes, Oskar signalled and took a small turning onto an unmade track just past a petrol station and switched off the engine.
‘Why have we stopped?’ Tom asked, suspiciously.
‘I need to make call to my contact so the right person is at border in Poland. If it is wrong person, we have big problem,’ Oskar said brusquely as he got out of the car
Tom’s feeling that something was not right began to bubble furiously as they sat there. It was made even worse when four huge men, all wearing camouflage fatigues and all clutching AK-47’s materialised, surrounding the car and levelling the assault rifles at the occupants.
