Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (3 page)

The next day started as a bright spring morning. I awoke late – it was 10 o’clock. I showered, dressed and breakfasted. I looked out of the window at the blue sky on this mild spring day, at the trees bursting with new leaves and the mundane London traffic. I had an appointment with my
Stockbroker at 2pm apart from which I had nothing else planned for the day, except a visit to the gym. I felt the need to stay fit despite no longer being in the army. I looked across the wall in my drawing room where the picture of Captain Tarquin Collingwood, wearing his uniform and all his medals stared across at me. I could hear the birds singing as I opened the window and took in a deep breath of fresh air. It’s on days like this one’s glad to be alive. As soon as this thought crossed my mind the memory of last night’s phone call from Andrew hit me with as much force as if someone had just struck me across the face.

“I had bloody well find out if Andrews alright!” I said aloud in rebuke to myself.

I tried to deduce whom to call, when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver, “Hello?”

“Collingwood?” the voice inquired.

“Edward?” I sighed in recognition.

“Yes. This is not a social call Tarquin. Look I’m awfully sorry but there’s no pleasant way of putting this
,” Edward paused and my mouth went dry as I sat down and he continued, “A man’s corpse has been found this morning in Moscow. We’ve identified him as a British subject by the name of Andrew Sinclair....I believe you knew him.”

CHAPTER 3 – A RESOLUTION.

Edward called me over to his office. I had first met him when I had been appointed liaison officer between my regiment and military intelligence in the Balkans. The two of us had hit it off splendidly, through shared views on military matters and a fondness for the arts. Edward Palmer was now rather high up in MI6, doing what exactly I didn’t particularly care. My mood was rather grim. After the tedious security I was ushered into his office in that modernist pile overlooking the river at Vauxhall.

Edward’s office looked out on the river. It was dominated by a large mahogany desk, which seemed rather incongruous in such modern surroundings. He rose from behind his desk as I entered, we shook hands and he bade me sit down. He was in his early fifties. He had dark hair and blue eyes, a military bearing and a kindly face. Edward wore an old Saville Row suit which looked none the worse for its age and spoke of his family lineage.

“It’s unfortunate that we should have to meet under these circumstances
,” Edward began sympathetically.

“Yes”, I said under my breath, “You’ve presumably called me here because you have something else you want to tell me.”

“We believe that your friend was killed by former KGB or Russian gangsters or quite possibly both as they’re often indistinguishable”, he began, “Did you know what Sinclair was doing in Russia?”

“As far as I know he was on business, that’s what he told me last night on the phone
.”

“You know nothing more that?”

I shook my head, and told him of the phone call I had received the previous evening.

Edward continued, “I’m afraid that from our information he’s the type of man that would sell anything to anyone if the price was right. Without wishing to be insensitive about it I’m surprised that chaps like Sinclair aren’t killed everyday.”

“Indeed,” I sighed rather in resignation than anger.

Edward resumed, “Sinclair’s firm is Carrington Bendick Holdings otherwise known as CB Holdings; it’s registered in the Cayman Islands. Andrew Sinclair had two partners David Solomon and Matthew Bonham-Carter. We first became aware of CB Holdings when we heard the name mentioned in conversations we intercepted at GCHQ and from one of our agents in Russia. Since then we have had them under surveillance - that was only about six weeks ago. In that time we’ve managed to discern that CB Holdings have been doing rather a lot of business with our Russian friends - in particular high specification electronics, machine parts and certain chemicals.

“What type of chemicals exactly?” I asked intrigued.

Edward took in a deep breath and sighed in vexation, “We don’t know. That’s what’s causing us most concern. There’s a requirement for export licenses in such cases; it’s Her Majesty’s government’s way of keeping track of “sensitive” exports that we’d rather not have sold to unfriendly countries. I can tell you now that much of what they’ve sold required an export licence, but were exported without one. There are invariably middlemen who act for the customer, as much as to conceal their identity if nothing else. There is a good chance that Sinclair and his partners didn’t know for whom these exports are ultimately intended. Also closing down the operation would have alerted the end user whom we naturally wish to discover.”

“
By not getting export licences are you assuming they were trying to conceal these exports, or can we give them the benefit of the doubt?” I conjectured.

Edward looked at me sharply as if in reproach and then as if he thought better of it continued, “I find it inconceivable that they were negligent. I am firmly of the opinion that they tried to conceal these exports from her Majesty’s government, because they knew or strongly suspected that they would not be approved. Sinclair and his partners must have charged a premium, as they were running the risk of going to prison….otherwise what incentive would they have had for running such risks? And as just as much concern to me is that someone was willing to pay that premium.”

“My concern is having Andrew’s murderers brought to justice. I don’t give a damn what you do with this CB Holdings outfit. What have the Moscow police said?” I asked bitterly.

At this point Edward moved uncomfortably in his chair, “According to the Moscow police, Andrew was killed in a road traffic accident - run over by a car.”

“What!” I shouted jumping out of my seat and resting my knuckles on the desk as I looked down on Edward, “You surely can’t believe that!” I pleaded.

Edward raised his right hand and gestured for me to sit.

“Please calm yourself Tarquin. You’d be right to think little of us if we did believe such fiction. We have no doubt that Sinclair was murdered. Death was by strangulation and then it appears his corpse was run over, presumably in order to make it appear an accident.”

“It doesn’t make sense. You’ve just told me that he was strangled first,” I
queried.

“Yes you’re quite right it doesn’t make sense.
Let me explain,” he began, “Based on past form the official cause of death will be that his death was an accident. This is regardless of what the actual cause of death is discovered to be in the post mortem, or whatever passes for a post mortem. One of our people has seen the body. The doctor who examined him has intimated as much to our man there. Such methods of cover up are not entirely unknown to us in Russia.....what with criminals, ex KGB types and official corruption.”

“How can you know so much already? He’s been dead for
less than 24 hours?” I challenged.

“Our embassy has a budget set aside. Baksheesh you might call it. It helps to loosen tongues and opens doors,” Edward advised.

“So his murderers are going to get away with it?”

“
Quite possibly,” he replied embarrassed.

I felt utterly impotent with rage. I got up and walked slowly over to the window and looked out on the river. Tears welled up in my eyes such was my indignation.

I heard the legs of Edward’s chair scrape against the floor as he rose and walked over to me and in a calm consoling voice said, “Our government is keen not to upset the Russians. They have us over a barrel with their energy resources and relations with them are already rather fraught. Our agents in Russia, what few there are, are either under surveillance and thus compromised or busy with other work. Our resources are overstretched, particularly with these Muslims running around. I’m sorry Tarquin.”

Edward placed a kindly hand on my left shoulder.
I composed myself and turned away from the window to face him.

“You still need to find where those exports are ending up and I need to find Andrew’s killers,” I said grimly.

“But why do you care so much? Let it go Tarquin,” he implored.

“You forget – he saved my life!” I retorted icily, “Others might have forgotten such as debt – but not me.”

“You can’t mean going to Russia?” he asked incredulous.

A
steely determination had possessed me as I stood by that window comprehending everything I had just heard. Edward’s face was one of initial shock.

“Tell me what I have to do,” I hissed with deliberation and purpose
.

He sighed in acquiescence
.

CHAPTER 4 – A SCHOLAR AND A SOIREE.

Had I lost my senses in a fit of bravado? Well no matter. I was going to Russia and I would face whatever befell me with stoicism. There was no turning back now. I had never been to the benighted country before, what little I knew of it only filled me with dread. Just then the Captain came on the address system and announced that we would soon be landing in Moscow. I looked out of the window at the bleak landscape.

Just then a stewardess was passing down the aisle. I caught her eye.

“A dry Martini please.”

“Vodka?”

“Naturally,” I replied.

Edward had arranged for me to meet some fellow by the name of Guy Worthington the next day. I got the impression that he was formerly in Intelligence and
Undercover Ops, although Edward had been rather vague. I gulped down the martini in one and felt the better for it. I fastened my seat belt and waited for what could be a bumpy ride – Russia.

After I passed customs I was confronted with the usual faces waiting to meet arriving passengers, some of whom were holding up placards with a name or message. I walked purposefully, whilst taking in my surroundings towards the taxi rank.

“The Metropole
,” I said stooping down to see the driver through the window.

He nodded in recognition. After my luggage had been stowed in the boot we were off. It was a pleasant spring day in Moscow, the sun was shining. Its architecture represent
ed distinct periods in Russia’s recent history: Imperial Tsarist hubris, grim Communist behemoths, Cold War apartment blocks that looked ripe for demolition and post communist nouveau rich vulgarity. Within the hour, after negotiating traffic we arrived in the city centre. The Metropole was an old hotel which had recently been refurbished; it was 5 star, rather large, with all the concomitant features one would associate with such a hotel. Edward had it booked and paid for on my behalf. The lobby was a hive of activity. There was a lounge bar in close proximity to the other side of the main doors.

“I have a reservation....... Collingwood’s the name,” I said confidently in English to the pretty young thing behind the desk. She was blond, buxom and rather beguiling.

“Velcome sir,” she purred as she smiled at me, “You have a message.”

Suddenly the thought of that Swedish chambermaid less than a week ago flashed through my mind....I can’t imagine why.
I got to my room. It was perfectly adequate; a spacious bedroom with elegant decor and an en-suite bathroom tastefully done. It was almost 6pm in Moscow and thus too late to pick up my parcel from the British Embassy. Edward being frightfully efficient recognised that I could hardly be sent into the “field” with no equipment. A parcel had been sent from London in the diplomatic bag. I resolved to collect it the following morning. The message from the receptionist was contained in quality bonded white stationery. I opened the envelope and read the card. It was an invitation for Captain Tarquin Collingwood to attend a reception that evening at the German Embassy, forwarded courtesy of the British Embassy. It seems news of my arrival had spread!

I showered and had a light supper before proceeding to the German Embassy in one of the hotel’s chauffeured limousines. Having been a commissioned officer I was aware of how formal these diplomatic soirees could be, so I dressed in black tie. As my car pulled into the expansive drive of the German embassy it became clear that this was a large gathering. There were ambassadorial cars lining up to disgorge their passengers with exquisitely dressed footmen to open the doors. It appeared that almost every embassy in Moscow had been invited. After alighting from the car, I walked up to the large 18
th
century doors of this old aristocratic mansion and presented my invitation card and was waved in by the doorman after he checked my name on his list of guests. The ballroom was opulent - high ceiling, magnificent chandeliers and tastefully decorated in French imitation furniture, Louis XV I surmised. There was a string quintet playing some Schubert at one end of the room. Everyone was immaculately attired: military dress uniforms, national dresses for the odd African or Arab, white tie or black tie for the rest. The women looked sensational as they glided around the room in ball gowns and jewels with their hair splendidly coiffeured. It was an effort not to be distracted when there was such an abundance of beauty. Just then a waiter passed me with a tray, he stopped and I duly took a glass of champagne. I took a sip. It was at room temperature; a trifle too dry for my tastes but quite acceptable.