Going Rogue, page 28
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘Oh dear,’ Tom sneered. ‘Someone is trying to play the Nazi camp guard. Sorry Piotr, you’re not fooling me. I like the Spetsnaz tattoo; though did they kick you out? Is that why you are now a house bitch?’
Piotr let out a growl of fury and swung the knotted rope directly at his head in what, to Tom, seemed to be in slow motion. Tom felt the disturbed air as the rope whistled past, within a whisker of his ear.
Tom laughed. ‘Pathetic old goat,’ he said, spitting in Piotr’s direction.
Piotr’s face flushed crimson and he advanced, the rope raised and aimed at the top of Tom’s head as it swung forcefully. Tom watched the rope’s arc as it circled overhead towards him and, at the last moment, moved his shackled hand as far as the chain would allow. The rope tangled briefly with the chain and Tom used his free hand to grab it and pull it violently towards him.
Piotr’s instinct was to resist but Tom was stronger and in a better position, so the heavier man was pulled closer. Piotr planted his leading foot close to Tom in order to rebalance and pull the rope back.
The man’s leg was now in range, and Tom lifted his bare foot high and then stamped violently down and inwards on Piotr’s knee joint, smashing the patella inwards and rupturing all the ligaments. Piotr bellowed like a wild animal as he tried to reset his foot but the joint was destroyed and he fell sideways, hitting the floor directly in front of Buster who lifted his foot and stomped down, hard, on the prone Russian’s throat, smashing his windpipe to smithereens.
Piotr began to gasp and clutched at his ruined throat, attempting to cough but what was left of his oesophagus would not allow any air to pass. He turned brick-red and then purple as he thrashed, unable to breathe, panic and fear in his bulging eyes. Soon his struggles eased and then stopped, a puzzled look in his eyes turning blank as the life left his body.
‘Fuck,’ said Buster.
‘I thought we weren’t killing anyone on this trip?’ asked Tom.
‘No, we said you weren’t killing anyone,’ said Buster. ‘I never said I wasn’t going to. Now, much as I’d love to chat about the ethics of death, we are still shackled and I can’t reach him to see if he has the cuff keys.’
‘Hang on, I’ve an idea,’ Tom said, disentangling the rope from the chain. He took the rope’s frayed end and cast it like a fishing line across Piotr’s face. After a few efforts it snagged on the dead man’s spectacles. Very gently, Tom pulled the rope back towards him with the spectacles attached.
‘Can you use the glasses frame to make a pick and get us out of these cuffs?’ Tom asked.
‘Do bears shit in the woods, Borat?’
‘Quickly. He said there’s someone else here and the others could be back at any time.’
Within a minute, Buster had used the thin wire frame to fashion a makeshift pick, and seconds later both men were free.
They quickly dressed in their discarded clothing and searched Piotr, locating the key to the room and removing the pistol from his belt.
‘Right, let’s lock him in and get the fuck out of here,’ said Buster.
‘You okay mate?’ Tom asked.
‘Yeah, I’m okay. Never killed a man close-up like that.’
‘Buster, look at me, mate. Look at me now,’ Tom commanded. ‘We had no choice: it was kill or be killed. But right now is not the time to think about it. We need a car and some cash, and we also need to find out who is left. Let’s get it done.’
‘Right. Let’s go,’ Buster said, fully operational once again. ‘Remember, you ain’t killing no one.’ Tom said nothing, simply raising his eyes in resigned acceptance.
They climbed up the stairs and into a garage in which sat a sleek Mercedes AMG coupe.
‘Nice,’ said Buster.
‘Nice, but not for us. We need something a little more anonymous,’ Tom said.
The internal garage door led into the corridor that led from the front door to the kitchen. Making no attempts at stealth they strode down the corridor to where a stocky man in camouflage clothing was sat at the kitchen table, a coffee cup before him, looking out of the open bi-fold doors. He didn’t turn as Tom approached but simply said in Russian, ‘It sounds like you are having fun with them, Piotr.’
Tom brought the butt of the pistol down hard onto the man’s head, sending him slumping forward, his head crashing violently into the table. They quickly cuffed the unconscious soldier and carried him between them back down to the cellar. Opening the door, they threw the now-groaning man into the room and quickly locked the door once more, throwing the key into a box of rusting car parts on the floor.
‘Buster, see if there is a car on the drive and find the key,’ said Tom. ‘Failing that we’ll take the Merc in the garage. I’m going to see if I can find our passports and anything else of value. Sound the horn when you’re ready to go.’
‘Roger that, mate,’ Buster said and then left.
Tom quickly scanned through the rooms until he entered a small and sumptuously appointed office. A laptop computer sat on the rosewood desk along with a stack of papers and correspondence, all of which he gathered up to take with him. Moving to the drawers, Tom checked each in turn but found nothing of value beyond some stationery. The final drawer, though, was locked tight and he used an ornate letter opener to pry it open. Inside sat a bundle of hundred dollar bills, secured with a band, which Tom pocketed. There was also a small USB thumb drive in the shape of a football shirt in the colours of FC Dynamo Kyiv. Without a thought, and on the basis that it had been in a locked drawer, he tucked it in his pocket.
A blast from a car horn outside jolted him from his musings and back into the reality that they were in a very dangerous situation. As unfortunate as it was that he couldn’t find their passports, it was far more important to get out of there before anyone returned. Making his way quickly out of the building, he was met with the welcome sight of Buster sat at the wheel of the old Mercedes, clearly the property of the recently deceased Piotr. As Tom jumped into the passenger seat, Buster said, ‘Well I thought the old bastard won’t be needing it: being dead and all,’ he smiled grimly.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I don’t want to be around when the torture party returns.’
Buster pressed the RF fob, the gates slid open, and the old Mercedes purred as it glided out of the dacha.
‘Are we heading for the border?’ Buster asked.
‘No. Not without passports, anyway. Even if we had them, I am not going until we have McEwan.’
‘You don’t think that’s going to be a bit tricky now?’
‘I don’t care. McEwan is either coming with us to Poland, or he dies. That’s it.’ Tom said, grimly.
‘You’re not killing him; that was the agreement. You can’t make yourself feel better by killing every problem you come across.’ All traces of levity had now gone from Buster’s voice.
‘In which case, I have a plan,’ said Tom. ‘Let’s go.’
48
The next morning, Tom and Buster sat in their room in an anonymous Lviv guesthouse, taking stock of events so far. They had got back in the early hours of the morning, both dog-tired. Tom had picked up a first-aid kit and some food from a twenty-four-hour garage, and both men had dressed their wounds. Buster was still in some pain where his fingernail had been ripped out, but it wasn’t serious. A simple clean-up and a dressing and he was good to go. Tom had a nasty cut on the inside of his lip, but it was nothing too bad. Bearing in mind the situation they had been in, they had escaped lightly and both men were thankful to still be alive.
The guesthouse was a simple, clean and unpretentious place and, more importantly, the owner was happy to accept cash from the bundle of dollars Tom had liberated from the dacha. He also didn’t seem bothered about their lack of passports.
Following their escape from the dacha they had driven back to the supermarket on the M10 and retrieved the Honda CRV, that thankfully still contained all of their belongings. Buster had driven the Mercedes into one of the less salubrious neighbourhoods in Lviv and abandoned it in a housing estate with the engine still running and the door ajar. They figured that having it stolen was as good as anything for covering their tracks. Setting fire to a car always attracted more attention than was necessary, and having it disappear into the criminal fraternity in Lviv would keep it out of the hands of the police, or the Azov Battalion, for a considerable time: if not permanently.
‘We need to speak to Southby,’ Tom announced as they lounged on their beds.
Buster nodded as he stifled a deep yawn. ‘I agree. But how do we know he didn’t rat us out? It was his man that put us right into the hands of the bastards.’
‘We can’t be sure either way; that’s why we need to speak to him.’
‘Is it safe to do so?’
‘We’ll be careful.’ Tom said, fishing into his wallet for the card that Southby had given them a few days ago. Picking up his phone, he dialled.
‘Southby,’ the agent answered, flatly.
‘It’s Novak,’ Tom replied, equally curtly.
‘Where the hell have you been? I can’t get hold of Oskar and I am being asked questions.’ Tom could detect the stress in the MI6 man’s voice.
‘We need to meet. Where are you?’ Tom replied.
‘I’m in Lviv trying to find Oskar and you two. Your phone has been out of contact, so has your friend’s.’
‘Not over the phone. When can we meet?’
‘Same place as last time. Can you make it in one hour?’
Tom looked at his watch, it was almost noon. ‘Make it two hours.’ He hung up.
‘What do you know?’
‘Hotel bar in two hours. He sounded stressed out.’
‘Why two hours? We don’t need that long and we need to get moving. Much as this is a pleasant guest house, it’s a little dull and I am starving.’
‘I think we should dictate how this meeting goes with Southby; we want him on the back foot.’
‘Agreed. I’m gonna rip his testicles off if he sold us out.’
‘Let’s go. We’ve a little recce to do before the meet.’
*
Colin Southby arrived at the hotel bar a little after 2pm, hoping that Novak and Rhymes would already be sat in the same booth. He really needed to get to the bottom of what had happened to Oskar, as his bosses were getting a little concerned. Oskar had been an excellent asset for him for a couple of years now, regularly passing high-quality intelligence on the people trafficking networks operating between Ukraine and the EU. That had led to a good few disruptions and the dismantling of some sophisticated networks using corrupt border guards and customs agents.
The intelligence had been gratefully received and had really helped with the quid pro quo relationship between Britain and the Ukraine. The new regime in the country were desperate to get to grips with the corrupt activities of the traffickers and arms smugglers. As a result of the high-quality intelligence he had supplied, his contact at the Security Service of Ukraine—or SBU—had reciprocated with some high-grade intelligence into a gang smuggling automatic weapons into the UK. They had arrested the couriers at Dover and as a result a large quantity of AK-74 assault rifles had been seized. The credit he had received for that was huge, and his bosses had hinted at a promotion and a new posting in the States.
He was genuinely tired of the Ukraine. The politics were mind-boggling and the grip some of the more undesirable elements of the military held over the government was troubling, to say the least. Life had been so much more straightforward when he had been in the army. You always knew where you stood.
He checked his watch and saw with some alarm that it was almost 2.20pm. There was no way that Novak and Rhymes should be this late. He hoped fervently that nothing had happened to them, or the questions he would be asked would be very hard to answer. Everything was so delicately poised in Ukraine at the moment, with the new president trying to tackle government and military corruption; the last thing he needed was two dead Brits who had been engaged in rogue action. He was confident that his cover story was tight, but just rumours of bad practice or even just being seen as “unlucky” could really blight a career in the SIS.
Southby dialled Novak’s number once again but the phone was dead. No voicemail, nothing. He frowned as he composed a brief text that he sent to Novak’s phone. ‘Call me urgently.’
He had thought that his plan was a sound one, once he had received a tip that Novak and Rhymes had travelled to the Ukraine. If he let them proceed with the plan, he would be happy to see that scumbag McEwan sent back to face justice. A word in an ear and a whisper in the right corner was often sufficient for the right people to make the right assumptions about who had made things happen. It was how things worked in the shady world of espionage and agent handling.
He looked around, feeling far too exposed in the hotel bar. He couldn’t tell who was watching and so he made a snap decision: he would go back to his hotel and wait for a few hours to see if Novak made contact. If he heard nothing, he would assume the worst and go back to Kyiv to begin working on damage limitation measures.
Leaving the bar, he walked quickly towards his own mid-priced hotel, only a few minutes’ walk away. He always laughed when spies in films stayed in penthouse suites in the best hotels, ordering champagne and caviar from room service. The reality was that, like the rest of the civil service, they usually stayed at the cheaper, chain-type hotels and any corporate credit card bills were scrutinised; you had to account for every penny spent.
He hurried through the lobby and took the lift up to his third-floor room, letting himself in with his key card. Discarding his jacket on the bed he sat with a sigh on the armchair in the corner of the small room, scrubbing his face with his hands as he tried to organise his thoughts. How was he going to deal with this situation? Should he report it to his bosses? That would only prompt a whole heap of new questions that he wasn’t quite ready to answer, until he had time to assess all the consequences.
The shrill tone of the room phone made him jump out of his reverie.
‘Yes?’ he answered, brusquely.
‘Mister Southby, we have a package for you at reception,’ the heavily accented voice said.
‘Fine. I will be down in a moment.’ That was strange, he thought. His staff at the embassy knew where he was staying, but a parcel was unusual.
He left the room and rode the lift down to the lobby where the smiling receptionist handed over a thick, A4-size padded envelope.
‘Who delivered this?’ he asked.
‘Courier, sir. Just a few minutes ago.’
He thanked the receptionist and went back to the lift. As the lift door closed, he ripped the envelope open and reached inside. He frowned when he saw that it contained just a small USB pen drive in the shape of a Dynamo Kyiv football shirt. He turned the small, plastic item over in his hand, his mind racing over who could possibly have sent the drive. What did it contain and why had it been sent to him?
He was still mulling this over in his head as he entered his room, the USB drive in his hand.
He was greeted by the dark, blank eyes of Tom Novak in the armchair, an expressionless look on his face.
‘Jesus, Novak. You scared the shit out of me,’ Southby said.
He was propelled forward by an almighty shove in the middle of his back, sending him flying onto the bed. Turning, he saw Rhymes behind him, a big, nasty smile on his face.
‘How…? How did you get in here?’ he stuttered.
‘Shut up,’ Novak said in a low, menacing voice. Buster circled the room and sat on the edge of the bed facing Southby. Buster was an all-round nice guy, but he could look tough and intimidating when the mood took him.
‘I’ve been looking all over for you and I was waiting for you to call. I can’t get hold of Oskar either...’
‘Shh!’ Tom held his finger to his lips his eyes locked on Southby’s. His eyes were deep and dark, almost like a shark, and frankly he was scaring Southby rigid. There was an emptiness in his eyes that projected utter ruthlessness. ‘You don’t need to talk right now, Colin. You just need to listen. Now, we called your agent, Oskar as you suggested we do. He joined us close to the border when we had McEwan secured. He then betrayed us and put us into the hands of Zelenko’s Azov thugs and got himself executed for his troubles. They cut his throat while we watched, Southby, and I’m not that happy about it. Now you have to convince me that you did not know that that was going to happen. If I am not convinced, then the consequences for you are not great. I am sure you know lots about me, and you probably know what I am capable of.’
Southby was about to speak when Buster interrupted. ‘It’s true, Col’ old son. I’m only here as his travelling conscience. I’ve managed to stop him killing people on this trip, so far. However as one of the fuckers ripped out my fingernail, I’m currently feeling pretty pissed, so I may stop trying to curb his unpleasant instincts if you start bullshitting us. Comprende amigo?’
‘Look, I didn’t know. I had no idea, I promise. He had worked with me for some time and had given quality intelligence on trafficking gangs and gunrunners. He was the best at getting contraband and people over the border. He knew everyone.’ Southby’s eyes were wide and he spoke rapidly, desperate to convince them that he was telling the truth.
‘Had he ever given intelligence on Zelenko or Azov?’ Tom asked.
‘No. Just criminal gangs.’ Beads of sweat were forming on his head that he brushed away with his sleeve.
‘What do you know about Zelenko?’
‘He is very powerful and massively corrupt. He made huge money at the fall of the Soviet Union, as he took care of a number of the gas fields. He has links to Azov and has supported them financially for years, although we don’t have proof. He’s just too big for law enforcement to bring down. He has dirt on politicians all over Ukraine and enough money to make himself unreachable.’
