Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (6 page)

Ollie and I both assured her that we would not reveal our source.

“His name is............Sergei Pavlovitch,” she finally relented.

“Sergei.........Pavlovitch,” I repeated slowly and she nodded.

A moment later we thanked Katrina and headed to the door of the Bar to leave. As we did so, two men entered and pushed past me. Ollie had to jump aside lest she be knocked down in their haste. Incensed at such rudeness we turned back to watch these two scruffy men. I heard one of them shout at Katrina, who had her back to the door. She turned around in her seat and I saw a look of alarm on her face. The two men went up to her and began haranguing her. She recoiled back in her seat placing her arms in front of her as if for protection. I walked rapidly past Ollie back into the bar, having resolved to teach these Russian “peasants” a lesson. By now everyone was watching this outburst as the two men continued remonstrating with a terror stricken Katrina. This, I decided was no way to treat a woman - even if she were a whore. I came up to the thinner of these men, who had his back to me and tapped him on the shoulder. They were both so absorbed in shouting threats in Russian that I took them by surprise. He turned round to face me. I smashed my right fist into his face and then threw him across the room, so that he crashed into some empty tables and chairs before landing on the floor. Turning my attention to the other man; he nodded at me as if taking up my challenge. He was big, tall and stocky. He had no finesse in movement, for I saw his right arm swinging toward me with plenty of warning. I swayed out of the way and then moved in with an upper cut to his face before sending my left fist into the side of his stomach. He was clearly unfit for he went into a state of wheezing and seemed to have given up the fight already. I grabbed him and then frog marched him to the bar, holding his head by his hair before smashing his face against it a couple of times. Then turning him around I sent him flying against the wall on the opposing side, which contained a display of empty bottles on a sideboard; giving him a kick on the backside for good measure to send him on his way. As he careened into this there was an almighty crash of bottles as they fell on and around him. He slummed into a heap on the floor as the sideboard then toppled on top of him, ensuring that any bottles that had not yet been disturbed crashed and shattered around him.

The other thinner man had recovered and staggered to the bar, dishevelled and shaken, keeping his eyes on me. I looked past him and saw Ollie still standing by the door where I had left her, seemingly frozen into feminine inaction by my onslaught. If Ollie had been a man she could have thrashed one of these “peasants,” instead of just standing there. What use are women in espionage except as honey traps and sex bait? Why don’t they just stay at home and be good wives and mothers? No one else in the Bar moved or made a sound – captivated as they were by the scene before them. He reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of Vodka, from which he took the obligatory swig before holding it by the neck and then smashing it on the side of the bar. He then came at me lunging with his bottle in his right hand. I purposefully stepped out of the way. As his momentum took him forward I ran around him so that I was now behind him and placed my left arm around his neck. With my other arm grabbed his right arm and forcibly moved it in the hope that it smash against the bar and thereby compel him to release the bottle with the impact. It didn’t work! He was also very strong. I couldn’t hold him so I released him and shoved him forward. He turned around newly emboldened. Just then I noticed Katrina get out of her seat and flee. I could have shot him there and then with my Glock. But that would have been unsporting and recalling Hurd’s strictures to me, it would raise this from the status of a mere bar brawl to a shooting, warranting greater Police attention – the last thing I needed.

He lunged at me again with the broken bottle. This time I stepped inside his direct path and parried his thrust with my left arm, before swinging my right fist directly in the centre of his face. Then standing to his left I swiftly grabbed him by the front of his throat with my left hand and began to squeeze his windpipe. He started to make a horrid sound as one does when bringing up phlegm. I brought my right hand up and seized him by the back of the neck, simultaneously moving my left leg round so that it was behind him. This was all done in an instant before he could recover from his second lunge. I then pushed him back aggressively so that he fell against my leg and toppled heavily on to the floor. Keeping an eye on the bottle, I now moved so that I was astride him crouching down as he lay on the floor, all the while my left hand on his windpipe. I placed my left foot on the lower part of his right arm thereby trapping it and the bottle. His face had turned red and his eyes had enlarged in terror. He tried to struggle to relieve the pressure on his throat.

“Release it!” I demanded nodding to my left to indicate the bottle.

I had him in my power! He must have understood for he released the bottle heralding his capitulation. Accordingly I released my hold on his throat. He gave out an enormous gasp as he breathed, wheezing horribly; relief apparent in his face, with its blood shot eyes, as saliva dribbled down his mouth. I then punched him twice in the stomach for good measure. A moment longer he would surely have died. I stood up and took a couple of steps towards the door, surveying my opponents who were both down and out. Everyone’s eyes were on me, their mouths half open speechless. And then one old man sitting at a table stood up and started applauding whilst his companion raised a glass to me and downed the contents in one.

“Who were those men?” asked Ollie as we rode in the back of the car.

“Dissatisfied customers...pimps?” I conjectured jocularly, “You know what Russians are like!” I said as I rubbed my painful knuckles, “There’s no doubt in my mind that the authorities are involved in this cover up,” I declared changing the subject.

Ollie agreed and then called Guy. After she hung up she stated that Solomon did board the flight to Moscow and would arrive this evening.

We returned to the Embassy, where we dined in the Refectory on chicken curry and rice. There’s nothing quite like good English food when you’re away from home! Afterwards, we entered a large office where several officials including Guy were talking across a desk. I recognised one of them - it was the ambassador Sir Nigel Caltrop. He looked embarrassed at the sight of us. He got up and left the room acknowledging me with a nod and asked Ollie how our “sightseeing” of Moscow had fared. Just then the meeting broke up and other men around the table also left. Ollie and I proceeded to sit on the near side of the desk whilst Guy remained seated on the other side. Only the three of us now remained in the room. Ollie gave an account of our day. Guy took it all in and then leaned back in his chair.

“Well, by all accounts it’s been an interesting day and we still have the evening before us. This scar face fellow......Yuri Gromyko is certainly no gentlemen,” said Guy with his usual understatement, “I’ve made some enquiries about Gromyko and by all accounts he’s utterly unconscionable. I’ve rarely come across anyone with so few scruples.”

He leafed through a file and proceeded to relate all his indiscretions, “racketeering extortion.........corruption..........kidnap...........murder........rape and grievous assault. Yes there’s no doubt about it – he’s a bad egg alright,” said Guy as he closed the file.

“It seems to me that he should be in prison,” quipped Ollie.

“In any normal country where the rule of law applied he would be. He spent a short time in the late nineties in prison for corruption and assault but he was released early, probably because of the intervention of someone high up,” explained Guy.

“Where can we find him?” I asked impatiently.

Guy explained that he was unable to locate a fixed abode for Gromyko. “However I’ve been able to discover that Gromyko was a member of the KGB which has now been renamed the FSB. After his conviction he was expelled in disgrace, but he still seems to have good relations with existing and former members.”

“He’s so rank even the KGB had to get rid of him,” I observed bitterly.

Ollie who had been listening intently asked, “Is there anything you can tell us about these people in the state security apparatus? Might one of them be Sergei Pavlovitch?”

“Yes, how did you know?” asked Guy incredulous.

CHAPTER 8 – SUBTERFUGE AND THREATS.

Guy showed me a photograph of Pavlovitch, which I duly studied for a few seconds: he had coarse facial features and dark hair. The photograph was inside a dossier. It stated that he was in his mid thirties with dark hair and five feet ten in height. Guy explained that he was also known to them, with all the connotations that that entailed. So Pavlovitch and Gromyko knew each other! That much I assumed as soon as I learnt of him from Katarina, now it was confirmed by Guy.

“I’ve no doubt that these two are acting as pawns on some else’s instructions. Someone is pulling their strings,” declared Guy mixing his metaphors.

Moments later we were travelling through Moscow. The driver and Guy were in the front, with Ollie and me in the back seat. Guy had explained that intelligence had led them to conclude that it was likely that Solomon would be coming here to meet with a client. Now with Solomon’s arrival we might just get closer to discovering who that Mr Big was. If the truth be told I was in a state of great excitement and anticipation. There was so much I wanted to ask Solomon. I had come out to Russia with a degree of foreboding, but as perverse as it may sound I was rather enjoying the suspense and the adventure – I reproached myself for feeling like this, but there you have it.

Our car parked in a street called Povarskaya ul. It was quite an affluent neighbourhood and rather reminded me of Knightsbridge in London. Just then a black Mercedes saloon drew up in front of the luxury apartment block about 20 metres along the road from where we were parked. Three men got out - two larger men from the front who were seemingly chaperoning the smaller man who had alighted from the back seat.

“That’s Yuri Gromyko,” I announced. His frame and appearance were unmistakable despite the years; although I couldn’t see his scar at this distance. My desire to exterminate him was reawakened, as I recalled all those whom he had killed in the Balkans.

“The other man is Sergei Pavlovitch,” said Ollie.

“There’s our man Solomon,” said Guy referring to the smaller man.

“He looks rather furtive and suspect,” observed Ollie.

“That’s probably because he’s been coerced here,” mused Guy.

The three of them
then entered the building.

“So they’re your pawns,” says I to Guy using his own metaphor, “What do we do now to discover their “
King”?”

“Well we could listen in on their conversation..........” suggested Guy casually.

“How?” I asked

“Well my dear Tarquin,” Guy began rather smugly. He then went to explain that having advance notification of Solomon’s arrival in Moscow, even down to knowing which flight he was on, enabled him to be compromised. By which he meant that the authorities in London with co-operation from the airline, could manipulate where Solomon sat on the flight and accordingly who sat next to him; such as the pretty young girl who distracted his attention sufficiently, so as to enable her to plant a small electronic listening device in the upper breast pocket of his jacket. Guy opened the glove compartment and removed an electronic device the size of a small personal radio. He switched it on and we were greeted with a crackle.

“I must say Guy there’s clearly more to you than meets the eye,” I said

“Guy is renowned for practising the dark arts,” purred Ollie in approbation.

“I hope your praise is justified. What we did was risky. Any number if things could have gone wrong - the device may not work, if Solomon is searched and it’s discovered he may go the way of Sinclair. Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” advised Guy cautiously.

Just then faint voices could be heard from the device in Guy’s hand. He turned up the volume. We closed the car windows. This is what I heard, supplemented by later information as to who was there and my interpretation of what happened.

They had entered one of the luxury apartments. Solomon was standing with Gromyko and Pavlovitch either side of him. At the other end of the room was a man whom I later knew as Vasily Ustinovich Zhukov.

“Ah Meester Solomon, how nice of you to come,” Zhukov said, knowing full well that Solomon had hardly had much choice in the matter.

He was there for two reasons: a desire not to be killed like Sinclair and the enticement of money - rich rewards had been promised for what was being asked of CB Holdings.

“So Solomon let us talk business yes?” invited Zhukov.

“Yes of course Mr Zhukov
,” said Solomon apprehensively.

“I was disappointed with your organisation. We agreed on a deal and your comrade decided to...............re-negotiate. You should understand I never do that............unless I deem it appropriate. Sinclair not understand that...........” and then raising
his voice, “He want to charge higher price..........who he think he dealing with? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do?” said Zhukov angrily.