The office itself was housed inside a Georgian-style brown brick building stretching along a narrow street, sitting next to a foreign embassy and opposite a café.
Behind the opulent front door, Eugene and Constantine found themselves in an antechamber equipped with an airport-style metal detector and X-ray scanner, manned by a couple of hulking security guards.
The precautions seemed excessive, but apparently Kendrick thought otherwise.
The Sokolovs carried no items apart from their mobile devices, which they fed to the X-ray machine as they walked through the metal detector.
Then they were guided upstairs.
There was nobody inside the large room lined with filing cabinets and shelves brimming with company ledgers. The Sokolovs occupied a pair of Chesterfield chairs as they waited for Kendrick to show up.
They sat in silence, neither of them betraying their frustration, wary of hidden cameras that might pick up their words or body language.
After a few testing minutes, a man entered. Short, balding, with red-rimmed eyes, wearing a pink shirt and no tie with his suit.
“You must be the Sokolov brothers? Apologies for keeping you waiting, gents,” he said as they shook hands and he sat facing them behind a massive oak desk.
“No worries,” Constantine said. “Thank you for agreeing to see us at such short notice, Mr. Kendrick.”
“It’s Trevor. You’re the talk of the town in Monte Carlo, and it came as a surprise when you reached out to meet me through our mutual acquaintances. The sort of business I’m involved in is built on reputations, and they vouched for yours, although nobody knew anything about you only weeks ago. I’m quite honestly intrigued. So, what can I do for you?”
Constantine cut to the chase.
“We’re looking to invest a substantial sum in the British economy.”
“What kind of figure are we talking about?”
“A hundred million pounds. For a start.”
“And what makes you interested in my services?” Kendrick asked coyly.
There was a glint in his hard gaze, but he treaded cautiously. He looked like he didn’t belong to the upper class, someone who’d had to fight his way up from the streets to the top. He was nobody’s fool but he would snatch at any opportunity that presented itself. Kendrick knew exactly who they were and what they wanted, but Constantine played along.
“We’re concerned by certain … obstacles we might encounter as Russian nationals, if you know what I mean. We’ve been told your company can help us avoid such difficulties.”
“You’re not wrong on that count. In fact, I’ve dealt with Russian clients before, acting as their financial intermediary and unofficial treasurer.” It was an elegant euphemism for money launderer, which he was just short of saying. “I believe we can work something out. How about we discuss things over dinner? There’s a lovely restaurant in Soho called Misha’s. They serve the best steaks money can buy.”
“Sounds great. We’re starving.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
7
Inside the café across the street, two young women sat at a window table. One was a peroxide blonde, the other a red-haired vixen. Both were dressed in off-the-shelf cheap chic offerings from Zara. They were chatting over latte, cheesecake, and tiramisu. Wielding iPhones, they snapped selfies and food pics which they uploaded to Instagram. Just two ordinary girls having coffee and chilling out.
Or so it appeared.
In reality, neither had any interest in becoming a social media influencer or improving their gastronomic photography skills. Despite their friendly chit-chat, they remained completely focused on doing their job, the reason they’d booked the table and spent almost three hours at the café. They were spies.
Out of the 150,000 Russian expats living in London, at least half—75,000—were assets of Russian security services.
The two women were SVR agents—Russian foreign intelligence. Their aliases were Tatiana and Olga.
They’d stationed themselves to keep the office of Kendrick Properties under surveillance.
Their position gave them a perfect view of the street, allowing them to spot every person who entered or left the building. They’d been assigned the target Trevor Kendrick, and had to report on his contacts.
They were approaching the end of their shift when they’d captured the Range Rover with their phone cameras as it dropped off two visitors arriving for a meeting with Kendrick. Two men, tall, sandy-haired, sharing what might be a family resemblance. Identification was not among Olga’s or Tatiana’s responsibilities. It was the priority of their case officer.
Twenty minutes later, the blonde, Tatiana, detected fresh activity as she gazed through the window. Twilight approached, and the Range Rover’s LED beams shone brightly as the luxury SUV pulled up in front of the entrance again and the men re-emerged.
“There they are. Back outside,” Tatiana warned urgently. “All three of them together. They’re leaving.”
She pouted her lips, as if posing for Olga’s camera as the redhead got off her chair.
Instead, Olga aimed her phone at Trevor Kendrick and his guests as they climbed into the Range Rover.
She kept tapping at the shutter button until the Range Rover’s taillights receded as it headed out of Mayfair.
Then she scrolled through the gallery to check the quality of the pictures. The shots had come off well, the men’s faces clearly visible.
Pleased with the result, she shared the photos to a messaging app, sending them via encrypted chat to their case officer.
8
Misha’s Bar and Grill was an upscale establishment with white-clothed tables, mahogany wall paneling, and muted lighting. The place was busy, filled with clients dressed in elegant casual attire. Greeting Kendrick, the dark-suited maître d’ led the three of them upstairs to a private dining room. The nude paintings on the walls gave it a feel that was equally decadent and intimate.
As they ordered their food, Kendrick talked about the multimillion-pound properties which he’d sold to affluent buyers—the Saudis and Qataris in Cambridge Gate, and most importantly, the Russians forming a nouveau-riche community around Knightsbridge and Belgravia.
Suddenly, two men entered the private room.
One had a crew cut and the build of a rugby player, a no-nonsense security-type look about him. He was accompanying a round-faced, silk-shirt-wearing man with intense eyes who was instantly recognizable.
Mikhail Dubrovsky, the exiled ex-oligarch.
In his mid-fifties, he looked older than his age, let alone the outdated Wikipedia photo. Wrinkles creased his tanned face and his dark hair was gray at the temples.
“Ah, Trevor!” he said, approaching. “There you are!”
Kendrick made the introductions as Dubrovsky and his security guard, Andy, joined the table.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dubrovsky,” Constantine said.
“I was really looking forward to it,” the man replied.
So that’s the real reason Kendrick brought us here, Sokolov thought. But why had Dubrovsky wanted to see them?
“We must celebrate our meeting,” Dubrovsky said and snapped his fingers.
A waiter materialized, fetching a bottle of vintage wine.
“What makes you think we’re not a couple of Kremlin thugs sent to kill you?” Sokolov asked bluntly.
An uneasy silence fell.
Dubrovsky held his gaze for a moment.
“Are you saying that you’re pretending to be someone you’re not, Mr. Sokolov? Perhaps your cash splash is just for show and the two of you aren’t the wealthy businessmen you claim to be? Indeed, appearances can be deceptive.” Dubrovsky squinted. “Eugene Sokolov. Until recently, an officer in the Russian Ministry for Emergencies and Civil Defense, commander of a special task force unit. Kyokushinkai karate expert. A true Russian hero turned terrorist suspect, with a hefty price tag put on your head by the Kremlin. And Constantine? A hi
storian who dared challenge official propaganda at the cost of his career and nearly his life, forced to flee Russia not once but twice.”
“Impressive,” Sokolov said.
“My friend Andy here is former SAS,” Dubrovsky explained, grinning. “Background checks are among his duties and he has plenty of friends in the right places. So I learned quite a bit about you. Enough to know that we have a common enemy. You’re right, the Kremlin does have a taste for murder on British soil, going as far back as that Bulgarian dissident … I keep forgetting his name.”
“Markov,” Constantine said. “Poisoned in 1978 not far from here on Waterloo Bridge with an umbrella that injected a ricin pellet into his leg.”
“That’s right!” Dubrovsky said, as if Constantine had passed a test. “If the Kremlin is out to get you, you’ll end up dead anyway. I’d rather put up a fight than go into hiding. Fear won’t stop me from living my life to the fullest.”
“What made you cross Frolov, if you don’t mind my asking? It wasn’t much publicized at the time,” Sokolov said.
“As you’re probably aware, most of the Russian oligarchs were crony capitalists. Bureaucrats who never ran any kind of real business. Straw men presiding over KGB-run companies which had been set up to loot capital during the privatization in the 1990s. In return, they got to enjoy billion-dollar fortunes which they could be stripped of in the blink of an eye, with others taking their place.”
“What the Kremlin giveth, the Kremlin taketh away.”
“Exactly. I was one of such front men, heading a state-owned conglomerate which was just a façade for FSB money. The profits from selling off the country’s natural resources were insane, but ordinary Russians never saw any of it as the kleptocrats lined their pockets. I’ll be the first to admit that I was guilty of being part of that system. But when Saveliy Frolov came to power, he wanted to put his own man in charge, someone he could trust. Of course, it also meant he would destroy me if I didn’t give up everything I had. Lock me up—or worse.”
“The Russian media estimated your net worth at around $10 billion. So you lost it all?”
“I would have, if it weren’t for Trevor’s help. Thanks to him, I managed to salvage half of my wealth and funnel the money out, beyond Frolov’s reach, as I escaped to London.”
“Was that the end of it?”
“No, that was just the beginning. Ever since arriving in England, I’ve been plotting Frolov’s downfall.” Dubrovsky tasted the wine and looked at his glass appreciatively. “And you, what are you up to? Why did you come to the U.K.?” he inquired.
“You’re right, we share the same goal,” Sokolov admitted. “The plan is simple. Strike in the heart of the enemy. In the case of the Kremlin kleptocrats, it’s their money. Our objective is to target members of Frolov’s regime and seize their illegal assets. It’s not property investment we’re interested in. It’s legislation. Surely you have the political connections to influence the Parliament and Downing Street. With our backing, a lobby group could make inroads in enforcing stronger sanctions.”
“No. You don’t understand. Freezing such staggering amounts of capital is impossible. The British would never allow it. The impact on the U.K. economy would be catastrophic.”
“But they’ll have to act if Kremlin-linked companies and individuals are involved in terrorism and drug trade. The evidence is there.”
“You’re not listening, are you? We’re talking at least a trillion pounds in equities, real estate, bank accounts, and what not. You can’t just pull it all out and not cause a collapse. Don’t be foolish,” Dubrovsky said.
The realization sank in. “So we’re fighting a lost cause?”
“You’ve picked a losing strategy.”
“And you know a winning one?”
“In fact, I do. There is no magic recipe for success, mind you. But I think I’ve found an alternative plan that might work.”
The perfectly cooked steak dinner was rounded off by créme brûlée and cognac. Dubrovsky was a bit of a sweet tooth.
A non-drinker, Sokolov had opted for some premium bottled water instead. Likewise, Dubrovsky’s bodyguard had barely touched any alcohol all evening, for professional reasons.
They’d spent two hours talking about politics, the economy, and football, which was Dubrovsky’s passion as an avid fan of Arsenal FC.
Sokolov was a good judge of character, and he studied Dubrovsky. The smooth-talking businessman exuded a confident air and infectious energy that easily drew others to him. But his demeanor didn’t fool Sokolov. Lurking behind the outward charm was a bandit who had stripped Russia’s prime assets and siphoned billions out of the country. His hatred for Frolov was driven only by self-interest.
There was nothing likable about Trevor Kendrick, who appeared slimy in Sokolov’s eyes. The fixer avoided eye contact and his flattery of Dubrovsky dripped with hypocrisy. As the dinner drew to a close and the mood became relaxed, Kendrick indulged in snorting a bump of cocaine and leaned back in his chair. Neither Dubrovsky nor Andy raised an eyebrow, apparently aware of Kendrick’s drug addiction, but it filled Sokolov with disgust for the man.
The wine, topped off by cognac, had loosened Dubrovsky’s tongue.
“The sun is going down and a wind is blowing. I wonder what it might bring, what the future holds,” he mused. “I dream of seeing Russia become a democracy again in my lifetime.”
“Now you’re the one who sounds … naïve, Mikhail,” Constantine quipped.
Dubrovsky smirked. “Really? Why? You’ve got something against liberty?”
“I’m a Cossack. Liberty runs through my veins. But the Russian people? If you gave them freedom, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. In any case,” Constantine said, “toppling Frolov isn’t about reforming Russian society. How do you expect Russia to turn to freedom after more than a hundred years of tyranny? It can’t happen overnight. I’m not chasing fantasies. No, I want him gone because he’s waging hybrid warfare against the West. The danger he poses to the world is tangible, and it’s the real reason he must be stopped.”
“Agreed. So, what do you suggest? How do you fight election-meddling in the U.S. and Europe? Meddle back? Support the opponents of Kremlin-backed candidates to even things out? Employ cyber brigades to thwart the Russian hackers?”
“No, that is a defensive tactic. Reaction, which is doomed to fail. We need to be proactive. Take the game to him.”
Dubrovsky nodded. “These are all valid points you’ve made. And I took them into consideration as I began my most ambitious undertaking yet. Project Jutland. But it requires money. A substantial budget.”
“We might be willing to invest. That’s why we’re here,” Sokolov said.
“And there’s a caveat. The project carries significant risk.”
“We’re not afraid of incurring financial loss.”
“It goes far beyond that.”
“What kind of risk are you talking about, then?”
“Death. Three of my closest associates have already paid the ultimate price for their involvement.”
“If we’re going to put our lives at stake, at least we’re entitled to know what exactly we’re signing up for,” Constantine said.
“Fair enough. You’re right in saying that the Russian state has no legitimacy. And before the country can move forward, we have to go a hundred years back. Russian history got derailed in 1917. I want to put it on track. Do what had to be done to set the country back on the right course. The Russian society has been paternalistic for centuries. The Russian people are crying out for a strong leader. But they can’t make a distinction between the person and the position of power, so they begin to idolize whoever holds it. Frolov’s regime isn’t the illness, it’s a symptom. It doesn’t matter if the next president is a torchbearer of liberty and human rights. Eventually, he’ll morph into another version of Frolov and become a dictator. Someone even worse than Frolov might actually take his place—a new Stalin—and the populace will
cheer in adulation. That is the very essence of Russia. It’s the reason why we still descended into tyranny after the fall of the Soviet Union. Such is the nature of Russian presidential power, and undermining it would threaten the whole country falling apart.”
“What’s your solution?”
Dubrovsky finally came to the crux of the matter.
“Russia needs a czar. There’s no other way out of the conundrum.”
“You’re calling for the restoration of the monarchy? Seriously?” Constantine asked.
“I’m dead serious. It’s not the restoration of the old czarism I’m advocating but a modern reassessment. Constitutional monarchy. Russia had begun transitioning toward it at the start of the twentieth century—a few decades too late. The evolutionary path could have saved the country but it was cut short by a murderous revolution. Today, it’s absolutely essential that we return to it for Russian democracy to have any chance of gaining ground. The traditionalist Russian mindset sacralizes formal authority—thus the role should be purely ceremonial, carrying no political function. We must separate the roles of nominal head of state and head of government. There will be a God-anointed figurehead revered by the masses—standing above politicians while they’re competing for the new Duma, forming the cabinet, and doing the actual work of elected officials. Above all, it will ensure that the bureaucrats are replaceable. The new Russian Prime Minister, while running the country, would be unable to usurp all power. And the new Czar, reigning as sovereign, would act as a strong symbol of stability and represent the Russian greatness that the people yearn for. It would safeguard us against populism and despotism. It’s no coincidence that some of Europe’s most progressive countries—Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Belgium, the Netherlands—are monarchies,” Dubrovsky concluded.
“An interesting approach. And do you have a contender for the Russian throne in mind?” Sokolov asked.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 3