Going Rogue, page 30
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘No chance. This bastard is too good for death. There’s a cell waiting for him in London,’ Buster said, grimly.
Tom carefully inserted the Guedel into McEwan’s mouth, leaving the mouthpiece end protruding. His even and steady breath was audible, wheezing slightly.
‘Right, let’s zip him up and get out of here. The sooner we are over the border the better.’
They closed the suitcase lid, which fitted perfectly despite the fact that a living, breathing human was within. Tom pulled the zip closed around the circumference of the lid but left a six-inch portion of it untethered at the top.
‘That will allow enough air in for the journey. Over to you then, Colin.’
Southby looked distinctly uncomfortable with the whole situation as he stepped up and produced a wrap-strap that was emblazoned with “HM United Kingdom Diplomatic”. The three men manoeuvred the suitcase until it was fully secured length and breadthways with the straps, which were secured with tamper-proof metal seals.
Next, he produced a large, off-white canvas bag with a similar logo as the wrap-straps, stamped on it in black letters. Again, between them they manhandled the suitcase until it was snugly ensconced within the white fabric. He gathered the fabric at the top and closed it shut with a ratchet strap that contained a diplomatic seal on its plastic fob.
Satisfied, Southby said, ‘Right, we are good to go.’ He handed a passport to both Tom and Buster. Tom examined his, which contained his photograph and the name Thomas McAllister on it. The front cover of the red document displayed the words “Queen’s Messenger, Courier Diplomatique”.
‘Nice work, Colin, old son,’ Buster said, clearly impressed.
‘Okay, now listen carefully, chaps. These are QM passports; they afford you full diplomatic immunity when crossing the border and the seals I have put on the suitcase mean that it will not be inspected. I am coming with you as I have crossed borders many times with the diplomatic pouch and I know exactly what to say. We won’t get any grief from the Ukrainians as my hosts are so impressed with the contents of that USB you obtained that they are happy to not ask any questions. The Poles will be a little more formal, but I don’t foresee any problems as long as you let me do all the talking. Are we clear on this?’ Southby was now in charge and his earlier nerves had been replaced with a comforting efficiency.
‘Clear as crystal. Let’s get out of here,’ said Buster.
50
McEwan woke with a splitting headache and little memory of the previous evening’s events. He took a moment to try and re-orientate himself but was unable to shift the fog that sat squarely before his eyes. He reached to the bedside table and couldn’t locate his spectacles; they didn’t seem to be where he had left them.
He paused for a minute, trying to shake the lassitude from his brain. He shook his head vigorously which seemed to do the job, in spite of the headache. Looking on the floor he saw that his spectacles were laying on the patterned carpet, obviously having been knocked off their normal home on the bedside table. He reached down to pick them up and, as his fingers brushed against the carpet, he jolted into full consciousness.
His penthouse had marble floors, not carpet. What the fuck was happening?
It suddenly hit him like a train. He was in a totally different room. What had happened? Had he got so drunk that he had fallen asleep in the other bedroom? Or had he ended up in another room altogether? Fleeting memories of a blonde girl entered the fog of his brain. His heart beat like a drum in his chest as he stood on the cheap and stained carpet. He looked at the room service menu which said, “Hotel Krakowiak, Jaroslaw.”
He leaped out of bed, panic now fully arrived. Jaroslaw. Fucking hell, he thought. He was in Poland.
Banging erupted at the hotel door and a rough voice shouted in accented English, ‘Police! Open up!’
McEwan’s heart was banging in his chest with panic. Poland? How the hell had he ended up in Poland?
He ran to the window and looked out from the first-floor window. The car park below was teeming with police cars, an armoured police van, and helmeted police officers. Something flashed in his eyeline that made him look down. A red laser dot danced around on his chest. He fell to his knees just as the hotel door splintered and crashed inwards. Helmeted officers armed with machine guns stormed in, and he was smashed into the floor and cuffed.
It was all over.
51
‘I need those QM passports back. Hand them over,’ Southby said with a hint of a smile as he, Tom, Buster and Pet sat around a table in one of the nicer Jaroslaw hotels.
‘Sure. But how can we get home? Azov have our passports,’ Tom said.
‘That’s why I have taken the liberty of getting you two emergency passports that correspond with the ones you travelled over with. They’re valid for six months. Please go home now, you’ve caused me a lot of inconvenience.’
‘We’ve also given you enough intelligence on the USB stick and laptop to keep you busy for months. You’ll get loads of kudos for that,’ Tom said.
‘True, it is looking promising. They’ll never convict or even arrest Zelenko though. You know that, right?’ Southby asked.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Buster.
‘With all the intelligence on those computers between all you spooks you must be able to pull something out of the bag,’ said Tom.
‘We will freeze accounts and it will cost him lots of money,’ said Pet. ‘But he still wields too much power, and the unconventional way you guys obtained it makes it difficult to use in court.’
‘Guys, there is an old saying in policing,’ said Tom. ‘He’ll come again. If you are bad often enough, one day you’ll get caught. It’s why the prisons are all full.’ Tom stifled a long yawn.
‘Whatever,’ said Southby. ‘I have to go. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but I would be lying. Stay out of trouble and I would advise that you all go wherever you are going separately. There are some shock waves and I suggest that you all leave as little a footprint as possible.’
They all shook hands and the MI6 man left.
‘So what will happen to McEwan?’ Pet asked.
‘Well the Poles have a copy of the warrant and they tend to move very quickly on them,’ said Tom. ‘It’s a cut-and-dried case for him, so I imagine he will be back in the UK very soon.’
‘So what about our travel back then?’ asked Buster.
‘I am going back to Berlin, so it’s easy for me,’ said Pet.
‘Buster, I will drop you at Krakow and you fly back,’ said Tom. ‘I will take the CRV and return it to Amsterdam. I’ll probably fly back to Inverness from there. We can meet up back at the folk’s place. Maybe we can actually do a bit of fishing and no one will ever know about our little adventure.’
‘Yeah, whatever. At least I don’t get the shitty road trip with your crap banter,’ Buster said, yawning extravagantly. It had been a tough few days and they were all tired.
‘You’ll miss me,’ Tom laughed.
‘Yeah right,’ Buster retorted.
They all stood, readying themselves to depart.
‘Thanks, Pet, as always. And tell Mike I said thanks as well,’ Tom said as they hugged.
‘Anytime,’ said Pet. ‘Mike still always says he won’t forget what you did for him.’
‘I know. But I think I am running out of favours now.’
52
Oleg Zelenko stood on the deck of his dacha, looking over the lake with something approaching annoyance. He was a positive character who always took the best from any situation he encountered but this latest situation was a little more challenging and, he was forced to admit, would disrupt some of his plans, albeit temporarily.
He had learnt from one of his many sources that McEwan had been captured by the authorities in Poland and was likely to be extradited to Britain quite soon. That was inconvenient but it wouldn’t derail his timetable too much. McEwan knew very little, and what he did know would not change anything even if he did reveal it to the authorities.
The theft of his computer by those bastard Britons was inconvenient as there would be trace evidence of all the wire fund transfers he had made between his various holding companies and offshore trusts. He had already instructed his financiers to conduct damage limitation and he calculated that, even if the authorities acted now, he would only stand to lose a few million dollars. He could easily deal with such a minor loss without so much as missing a beat. It really was a trifling matter that would barely even pause his plans.
Igor appeared on the deck clutching a steaming coffee that he handed to Zelenko, who took it wordlessly.
He picked up the two passports that the interfering Britons had been in possession of when his men captured them. He stared at the picture of the dark-haired man with the deep, impenetrable eyes that stared out at him, almost mockingly. Zelenko felt his face flush with anger that these two insolent fools thought they could take his organisation on.
He promised himself that he would not rest until they were both dead. He would spend every penny he had to make sure that he would look them in the eyes as they died in agony. For now, however, they were gone. He would find them, though; he was sure of that. Anyone could be found, it just took money, resources, and determination.
‘Igor?’
‘Yes sir?’
‘These two men,’ Zelenko said, pointing at the passports. ‘I want you to find them. Find them and bring them to me. I don’t care what it costs.’
‘I will make the arrangements, sir.’
A faint buzzing came from Zelenko’s pocket. Plucking the phone out he answered it. ‘Da.’
‘Hello, Oleg. We haven’t met but I’d like my passport back.’
‘Ah, Mr Johnson. Well if you tell me where you are, I will see that you get it back soon.’
There was no response other than a chuckling down the phone.
‘Mr Johnson, you will do well not to mock me,’ Zelenko continued. ‘I have infinite resources and I can find you wherever you are. I will find you and I will find everything and everyone that matters to you and I will make you watch whilst they are slowly killed. I hope you understand.’ He spoke with a low, controlled menace, his face flushing red as his normal stoicism was replaced with rage and a desire for revenge.
‘Oh I understand, Oleg, which is why I’m right here. I’m watching you right now.’ The voice was calm and icy.
‘Really? Is that so? Well why not come and join me for coffee? Igor makes a wonderful espresso.’ Zelenko tried to look calm and collected but he felt a clutch of panic begin to grip him.
Looking towards Igor he beckoned him over. The big man moved towards him drawing the pistol from its holster as he moved, a realisation dawning that all was not as it should be as he registered the fear evident in Zelenko’s eyes.
When Igor was about six feet away there was a sharp crack and his head jolted to the side as a bullet smacked into his temple, blowing a hole in his head the size of a fist as it exited the other side. Blood and brain matter sprayed out like a fountain, covering Zelenko in gore.
Zelenko then saw a tall, lean man power towards him from an evergreen shrub fifteen metres away, a pistol extended in his hands in a controlled but relaxed grip. As he continued to stride towards Zelenko, the muzzle kicked; there was another crack and what felt like a hammer-blow smashed into Zelenko’s upper thigh. The impact of the shot crumpled him into a heap as he hit the floor. Warm blood sprayed from the wound in his leg as the ruptured femoral artery sprayed blood like a hosepipe through the hole in his trousers. Weirdly, there was no pain: just a dull, numb feeling and a spreading warmth as the blood soaked his lower body.
He looked up as the man stood over him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, feeling the strength ebbing from his body.
‘My name is Novak and you had my friend killed.’ The man’s eyes were a deep, impenetrable brown. They projected nothing. A dim part of Zelenko reflected that they were like a lizard’s eyes. He saw no hatred, no satisfaction. Nothing.
Novak stepped forward and pressed his boot just above the bullet wound and pressed hard. The flow of blood eased as the indirect pressure temporarily stopped the bleeding.
‘Your femoral artery is severed, Zelenko,’ said Tom. ‘You have just a few minutes to live without immediate attention. I reckon you will bleed out in about three minutes.’ Tom spoke evenly as if this was an everyday occurrence.
‘I can pay you: name your price. I have as much money as you will ever need.’ Zelenko was panicking now, feeling his strength and life ebb from him as his blood pressure rapidly dropped.
‘I don’t want your money, Zelenko. You know nothing about me. I am not like you; in fact, I am not like many people. I have a problem because of what happened to me when I was a child. I have no conscience, no empathy, and I don’t really care what happens to people. But a good man showed me how to be good. To live to a code so I can be a good man. It is really simple, Zelenko, because all I have to do is to do the right thing. I just have to think: what is the right thing to do? Now if I could put you in jail, I would. But I can’t, so here we are. I’m forced to think: what is the right thing to do?’ Tom paused, staring directly into Zelenko’s panic-stricken eyes before continuing. ‘He would say that bad things will happen to bad people.’
Tom released his foot from Zelenko’s thigh, and the jet of blood spurted out once more as the pressure from his frantically beating heart forced the blood out of the deep, irreparable wound.
‘No, no, no!’ Zelenko cried.
Tom nodded, turned, and walked off towards where he had parked the Honda and secreted the pistol a few days ago.
He was tired and wanted to get across the border; he had a long journey ahead of him. He’d seen a roadside burger joint on the way there and he realised that he was starving.
53
Tom’s return to the UK had been tedious in the extreme. Firstly, the car journey across Europe in the CRV which he returned to the car hire centre on the outskirts of Amsterdam. He tried not to think about how much it would decimate the funds on his prepaid card, although this was mitigated by the thick wad of dollars liberated from the dacha that was tucked in his pocket.
From the car hire centre he took a cab to Schiphol airport, where he had a seven hour wait until a suitable flight back to Bristol was available. Once at Bristol he had a further five hour wait until the Inverness flight to take him back home. His route had been deliberately circuitous, following Southby’s advice.
He had fallen asleep on the short, ninety-minute flight from Bristol to Inverness, only waking up as the cabin began to bustle with the pre-landing routines.
He felt a familiar prickle at the nape of his neck. Despite the fog of sleep that he was shaking from his brain he knew that something wasn’t right. He sat passively, racking his brain as to why he felt that way.
Then he saw him walking back from the forward lavatory on the plane. He was a wiry, Slavic-faced man about Tom’s age who was dressed in cargo pants and a dark polo shirt. He looked military and Tom realised that this wasn’t the first time he had seen him. Sorting through the subliminal memories in his fatigued mind he realised with a flash where he had seen him before. It was back at the Amsterdam car hire depot all those hours ago. Something in the hard features, lean build and military bearing had stuck in Tom’s mind, and now here he was again.
This was no coincidence. From a small car rental outlet in the Netherlands to a low-priced flight en route to the capital of the Scottish Highlands, mirroring a route that he had deliberately picked to throw off followers. It hadn’t been pre-booked; it was consciously conceived of on the hoof. Tom could have chosen to fly from Schiphol direct to Inverness but had eschewed that option on the grounds of tactical tradecraft.
Whoever the person was, he was a potential threat. He studiously ignored Tom as he walked past him on the gangway. He moved smoothly and surely, and Tom could tell that he was trained. Tom sat back in his seat, making no attempt to look back to where the man had disappeared. There was nothing he could do about it at that stage, so his best defence was to project ignorance to the man’s presence.
Ten minutes later all the passengers filed off the plane in the usual scrum and rush to get to the baggage reclaim, car hire, or to meet eager relatives. Tom moved quickly and, having no luggage, was one of the first to disembark and cross the standing back into the small terminal.
Looking in the plate glass windows in front of him he could clearly see his follower walking quickly to close the distance between them. Tom was first into the baggage reclaim hall, where he stood by the revolving conveyor that was already divesting itself of his fellow passengers’ baggage. Tom had nothing in the hold, as he had ditched almost all of his baggage prior to leaving Schiphol to give him the freedom to move quickly. The fishing gear he had dumped in a bin was only cheap stuff and he had long since got rid of his night optics and weaponry whilst crossing Europe. Other than his burner phone, passport and cash he was empty-handed.
His follower entered the reclaim hall and stood waiting, trying not to look directly at Tom. Once almost all the baggage had been reclaimed and all of his fellow travellers had left the hall, Tom checked his watch, affected a big sigh, and strode off purposefully to the nearby toilets. Once inside he stood to the side of the door and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within five minutes his follower entered the room, a look of mild concern on his face. This was replaced with panic and alarm as Tom grabbed him from behind, snaking his arm around the man’s neck and securing it in place in a rear naked choke. He squeezed tightly, constricting the man’s carotid arteries until he went limp and sagged in Tom’s grip.
Tom lowered the man to the ground, feeling relieved as he felt the strong pulse in his neck. He gently turned him onto his front and put him into the recovery position. It was not a time to kill anyone else. He quickly searched the man’s pockets and, looking in his wallet, was shocked to find a US Embassy identity card in the name of Leo Ivanov. An American? He was also even more surprised to see a US passport bearing Tom’s picture under the name Tomo Hodzig.
