by Clive Hindle
“I think you’re right.”
After a couple of hours on the road they stopped. Peter got out and stood talking to his cousin in the second car, then he returned and climbed up next to Jack. “Okay,” he said, “we’re very close, so we’re going to park the cars in the trees over there and go up to the house for a recce. Diana, I’d like you to stay here and keep an eye on the other car. Any trouble, use the gun. Don’t stand on ceremony!” The idea didn’t phase her. Jack felt like staying behind too. He had a feeling the next few moments were not for the squeamish.
“No, last time it was your choice and maybe you are regretting that now but this time we need you with us, Jack,” Peter said. “You have to give credibility to this operation. You must talk to us as if we are from Moscow, not from here. If he escapes from this he must have the impression an out of town team has stung him. Do you understand? It is your job to get this across.”
The gunman was bundled roughly out of the second car; his hands were tied and his mouth gagged. He was led through the woods until they came out on a narrow peninsula at the end of which was a single, large house. "This is his dacha," Peter said, "his country residence. He's out of town, staying here until the heat dies down."
"Do you mean, in connection with Gerry?" Jack asked.
"Oh yes," he replied, "The Chief of Police will go through the motions of rounding up all the usual suspects. No doubt this guy will be high on his list."
“He gave me the impression he wasn’t interested.”
“He would say that, wouldn’t he?” Peter’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Believe me, he will be interested in finding the money. He just plays a long game, as only the cops can afford to.”
They looked at the house. It was a fortress all right. It was built at the end of the peninsula and protected from three sides by sea cliffs. It was approached by a single dirt road across open fields all too visible from the guard tower which sprouted up from the centre of the building on top of the inner of two redoubts. “He is certainly ready to repel boarders,” Jack whispered.
“Hmm! I hadn’t counted on that,” Peter mused.
There was a rustle in the undergrowth and Peter’s cousin appeared. He had been on a scouting mission. "There are dogs in the grounds," he said, “armed guards on all sides of the house. I counted eight men. We have to assume there are more inside, probably another two. They have CCTV.” He pointed with his Kalashnikov up towards the eaves of the house, “See, it is on all four gables. They are well prepared.”
"Are they a problem?" Peter asked. It seemed a ridiculous question but the response was presumably what he’d expected. His cousin spat on the soil and looked at the gunman who was sitting sullenly on the ground, and in Russian he added, “No problem! Not if we can get in.” Jack admired his calmness. A further hurried discussion took place out of earshot of the gunman, who looked up at Jack out of sullen eyes, the loathing and fear suddenly made bright by the moon. “The only way in to avoid the guard tower is from the sea. But the cliffs are pretty sheer. Worse than anything we had to scale in the army.”
“Do we have a rope?” Jack asked.
“We do,” Peter responded, “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, if one of us can get up the cliff, he can rope another up. Create a diversion. Two more then come in through the front.”
Peter’s cousin laughed, “It’s getting up there. Who will do that?”
“I will,” they looked at Jack as if he were mad. “No, I’m serious. There’s usually a line. Can we get down to the cove?”
“Oh yeah, there’s a path down.”
“Okay then. Let’s go.”
“Jack?” He looked towards Peter, “You climb as well as play chess?”
“Twin passions,” He shrugged.
“Outstanding!” the Russian declared.
A few moments later Peter and Jack walked back through the forest towards the vehicles. Peter outlined the plan as they walked. Even though he talked in a mixture of Russian and English, Jack couldn’t get the drift of all the details as Peter described the operation. Back at the vehicles they found Diana sitting on the sill, the gun still in her hand. Peter quickly repeated the gist of what he’d already told Jack. "Let's go," he said eventually. "Diana, you bring the other car up,” he patted her gun. The nephew, Georgi, now looked like a Russian commando, his face blacked over. They moved the vehicles slowly through the trees towards the house, standing back so that they couldn’t be picked up on the CCTV. Jack surveyed the house through binoculars and noticed an open garage with a silver coloured Rolls Royce parked in. He passed the field glasses to Peter who remarked, “Nice, eh? I'm going to enjoy making Chernenko a poor man. If you can give us the advantage of surprise."
Peter’s cousin took a lump of putty out of the back of the Lada. Georgi pulled the gunman to his feet. He snarled defiance, his courage having returned. For about two seconds. Jack watched as Peter strapped the wad of putty to his back. The gunman screamed.
“Not Semtex?” Jack said.
“We sometimes cheat on the fish,” Peter replied with a grin. “Whoosh! It’s raining cod, eh?” Then he held up a dull metal object, “And with this,” he added, fixing the detonator into the plastic explosive, “we guarantee silence.” He reverted to Russian, barking out orders to the gunman, who nodded his head in terrified agreement. Diana translated matter-of-factly. The plan was that Jack and the nephew would go in round the front and would signal on the walkie-talkie when they were in place. The gunman, accompanied by Peter and his son-in-law and brother, would drive the vehicle up to the gate, tell the gateman he had to see Chernenko with news about the mad English (meaning Jack) and, credentials checked, he should be allowed in. But if he wasn’t Georgi would start a diversion and in the commotion they’d take out the gate. The other two then had to get to the door into the main building before the defenders could seal it off.
Georgi led the way towards the cliff path and ten minutes later they were down in the cove where Jack prospected for a route while his companion kept toot. He found one ultimately up a grassy bank towards a crack which half way up bourgeoned into a chimney. The rope over his shoulder he began to inch up the volcanic rock. It had good friction and he gained in confidence as he neared the comparative safety of the chimney. Pulling himself into it he looked back down and got a thumbs up from Georgi. He lost no time and began the delicate task of bridging his way up the chimney, sometimes coming on to the outside wall when the holds were good enough. Like all sea cliffs even if the rock is granite or basalt there was some friability because of wind and salt erosion but it was stable enough. The headwall was the big test and, without protection of any sort, it was a daunting proposition but he found a line which ran right to left upwards and followed it until it led into a scoop which provided a proper foothold. From there he inched up some small holds to near the summit and then it was a leap of faith, a dynamic move from the calves like a ballet dancer’s spring to get his hands on the top and hope there was enough there to give him the purchase to pull himself up. He got his hands on the rim and it was smooth and good only for a mantelshelf move but his body was not in balance for that and for a moment he scrabbled inwards and it was then his hand closed over an incut hold and that was all he needed to get the extra purchase. “A jug!” he said to himself, “a jug! Fortune favours the brave.” He pulled himself up now so he could see over the rim and there was the wall of the house no more than a metre in but there was no guard on this side. A CCTV camera kept watch out to sea for approaching craft but it could not survey this point, which was presumably thought unscaleable.
Heaving himself over now took the rope from off his shoulder and tied a bowline round his waist. He then sat on the edge staying low, his feet dangling over while he paid it out down the cliff face below. Once he felt the tug on it and knew Georgi had it he retired to the wall, braced himself against a rock and waited for the tug which would signal the command to take in. It duly came and he began to take
in the rope as the second man climbed. Ten minutes later his grinning face appeared above the parapet and Jack pulled to help him over. The two shook hands in the dark and collected the rope. They made their way now round the side of the house above the waves below until they were as close as they could get to the wall into the inner grounds.
As soon as the signal came over the walkie-talkie Peter’s brother climbed into the cab of the Lada, armed with a silenced handgun and Peter demonstrated the remote device to the gunman. It would blow him to Kingdom Come if he so much as twitched the wrong muscle.
A few moments later the terrified gunman was driving the Lada towards the high, remote-controlled metal gates, his three passengers, posing as his henchmen, in the passenger seats. The black-clad guards ran to the gate even before the vehicle had reached it. Two of them controlled large Doberman dogs, the others carried automatic weapons. One opened the doors and checked in the compartments. Another came up with a long mirror for underneath the chassis. A fierce exchange of words at the gate left one of them talking furiously on his walkie-talkie. The guy with the mirror stood there, doing nothing. “You see,” Peter whispered, “the same the world over. Sloppy! Lazy bastards!”
The first guard barked out a command to the others. They retired slightly and the gate began to open. The car drove in and pulled up. The guards surrounded it, automatic weapons aimed at its occupants. No one would dare start a fire-fight here, they must have thought. Then, Georgi hurdled the wall and came across the lawn as the guards concentrated on the vehicle. He was on them before they realised and only at point blank range did he open fire with his silenced weapon; there was next to no sound as two guards on the passenger side went down instantly; the dogs fled, yelping; a guard rushed round but Georgi cut him down. The men came out of the car now and they fired too, cutting down the other guards, who, still uncertain of what had occurred, retreated to the house. Peter came out behind them, a long cylindrical weapon in both hands. He fired it at the dacha’s reinforced door as the guards reached it; a screech heralded a mighty explosion as the door blew away. The men advanced on the house firing at will. The gunman rolled out of the Lada and grabbed a fallen guard’s weapon. He brought it to bear. Peter’s cousin had the remote device and pressed the button; the gunman went up in a ball of flame. Watching from his safe house behind the wall, Jack said, “My God, what have I done?”
He was horrified by the thought that he had brought about all this carnage. The cause had been hijacked. It was no longer his. He had promised his friends a reward and they were intent on earning it. He hadn’t envisaged they would be so ruthless. All resistance from within crumbled as soon as the rocket launcher was reloaded. Armed men came out holding out their weapons in gestures of surrender. Peter walked in amidst the smoke, beckoning to Jack to follow. In the first room they came across a guard slumped over the CCTV, knocked out by the blast. In the living room two young women cowered behind the curtains and a fat, ugly man thought he was invisible under the piano. “Mr. Chernenko, I presume?” Jack said.
The gangster was shaking as Jack played his part. The gangster’s elite guard had been blown away by a bunch of fishermen, but he didn’t know that. "I think you have some money of mine," he continued in what he thought the guy could understand. Peter shook his head and began translating so Jack modified his delivery to suit the Russian’s. "You took it from a good friend of mine. Perhaps you remember having him shot? Mr. Montrose, from Hong Kong? I have brought these gentlemen a long, long way to help me get it back.” Jack motioned towards his comrades. The two women, wearing the flimsiest of clothes, so it was obvious what Chernenko had been up to, looked at Jack, terrified as he continued in his calm, modulated tone. "I just want what's mine. These men are all professionals. If I left them to their own devices they would wipe out everyone in this house. They've agreed to play by my rules. So if you will just open the safe and give me back the dollars, I'll be on my way. Yes?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," the gangster shouted in Russian swiftly translated by Peter.
An almighty crack flattened him. Georgi stood over his prostrate body, his other weapon, a sawn-off, shoved halfway down the man’s throat and his trigger-finger twitching. He took no prisoners, this young man. “Cocksucker!” he sneered. Jack thought the gangster's eyes were about to pop out. Peter had in the meantime reacted to the imminent scream of one of the women by strangling it, even as it was born, with his hand over her mouth.
The gangster got the nephew's message more clearly than Jack’s because, when he got up, ashen-faced, he moved straight over to the wall and moved the television. Below it was a floor safe. He opened it with a set of keys from his waistband and, with a glum expression, handed out wads of American banknotes. Peter threw the money to Jack who counted it. There was more than he needed. He said as much to Peter.
"Take the lot," Peter snarled in English, "leave this scum nothing. We are entitled to the costs of the expedition."
Well, yes, he had a point. The costs of litigation did generally follow the event. "Okay," Jack said and he threw the wad to him.
Peter stood up, "Let's kill these guys and get out of here."
"No," Jack replied, "when I hired you guys in Moscow you promised to do this my way. There's been enough killing.”
"Leave this to us," Peter barked at Jack, "Go now!”
A few minutes later, Diana was driving Jack back towards the city. They couldn’t go back to the fishermen’s village because they could blow their cover. They had to head for their hotel. That meant they couldn’t take the money because they would be vulnerable there to the police chief if he got wind of this operation. The vehicles were to be dumped, the fishermen would see they were burnt out.
Peter met them at the hotel two hours later. They talked in hushed tones in the bathroom with the bath running. Jack knew better this time than to ask him what had happened to the group in the dacha, or to the woman at the apartment block. Diana had told him not to interfere. “This is Russian poker,” she said, “we dealt ourselves in, remember?” There was no choice other than to sweat it out till the morning and hope news of their escapade didn’t get out. Jack cursed himself for not having had an escape plan prepared. Apart from that, the expedition had been a rousing success. After Peter had gone Diana took a couple of beers from the fridge. "God smiles on the righteous," she said as they clinked glasses, “but at what price?” He knew exactly what she meant. When they settled down for the night, cuddling up to each other, he found it difficult to get off to sleep. The adrenalin was still pumping around his brain and he had a feeling it couldn't just go like clockwork. A wheel had to come off somewhere. He prayed fervently that he was wrong but the prayer didn't relieve the uneasiness. Finally, he fell into a shallow, troubled sleep in which Gerry Montrose walked with zombies and screaming, naked women.
CHAPTER 7
The next morning Jack got a wake up call from Peter just as the Police Chief banged on their room door, demanding to be let in. He left the telephone dangling, adding, “This could be trouble, old son.” Diana looked anxiously from beneath the quilt as he opened the door. The Chief barged in. Jack tried to hold him back, but he was the law here and that apparently gave him the right to go wherever he wished. He pushed Jack aside and started to walk round the room. "What have you done with the money you took from Chernenko?" He wheeled round and looking Jack straight in the eye.
"Money?" Jack knew Peter could hear what was going on, and he held up his hands as if he didn't know what the Chief was talking about.
"You idiot!" the Chief said, "do you think I don't know?" He raised his hand as if to slap Jack and then thought better of it and lowered it again. "Who was that man you were with the other night?"
"Who?" Jack replied.
"Don't mess with me English. You've brought in gangsters from Moscow to get your money back. That's what you wanted all the time. You pretended to be searching for your friend…."
Jack played for time. The Chief o
bviously knew half the story. “You're welcome to search,” Jack told him, “if you think I have any money."
The Chief looked at him thunderstruck. He could see Jack wasn't joking. "You fool!" he said, "you're even more stupid than I thought, you've given it to those mobsters. You'll never see it again."
"Mobsters? What is this?" Jack was grimly satisfied that he had deprived the greedy Police Chief of his ill-gotten gains.
"I'm going to lock you up," the Police Chief shouted. He took his gun out of his holster. "You'll spend a long time in one of our Russian prisons for this. So will she." He turned and smirked at Diana. "They will like her."
"She's got nothing to do with this."
"Tell it to the Magistrate, now get your clothes on and move!"
This was a tight spot. Jack knew the Chief had him bang to rights but there was still something odd here. He hadn’t come with the cavalry, he’d come alone. This was still a private affair. If it had been official they’d have the Russian equivalent of SOCO’s crawling all over here by now and they’d be frog-marched down the Police Station. Then Diana took a hand. She slipped off the bed holding the quilt over her naked body and moved up close to the Russian whispering something to him. Oh no, Jack was thinking, I hope she's not trying to sweet talk him, but whatever it was she said, the Chief seemed mollified, enough to let them go into the bathroom to change.