Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  “Come on, Freddie, pick up the bloody phone.”

  Kendrick let out an exasperated sigh. The Russians might want to kill him, but not if he killed them first.

  Frédéric Shkodran Berisha, or Freddie, did not mess about.

  When his phone rang, he was busy smashing the face of a man strapped to a chair inside an abandoned industrial building in East London. The bloke was a rival gang member who’d stepped on his turf and needed to be taught a lesson. Under the glare of overhead lights, his face was a bloody mess. As Berisha delivered the blows, the blood splattered on the concrete floor at his feet.

  Still physically strong for a man well into his fifties, with a graying buzz cut and weathered face, Berisha did not shy away from the dirty work to keep himself in shape, despite his position. He was the don of a powerful Albanian organized crime group which specialized in narcotics and human trafficking. In recent years, Berisha’s gang had cornered around seventy percent of London’s prostitution market and sold over 500,000 kilograms of cocaine, making him one of the richest bosses in the British underworld.

  The phone kept ringing.

  It was Kendrick, calling over an encrypted chat app. It had to be something important. Kendrick laundered the money they earned from their criminal activities, so Berisha couldn’t ignore him. He had to pick up the phone.

  He wiped specks of blood off his calloused knuckles with a towel draped over his bullish neck.

  “Vazhdo,” he said in Albanian, telling his lads to continue.

  The two lads wore matching black Adidas tracksuits, and their square-jawed faces suggested a family resemblance. Indeed, they were cousins hailing from a remote town in the region of Shkodra, known for centuries in Albania as bandit country, belonging to the same clan as Berisha. They eagerly picked up where he’d left off with the beating. Wielding hammers, they decided to go for the kneecaps. The poor sod’s screams echoed around the walls.

  “What is it, Trev?” Berisha asked in a rough voice as he hit the answer button. Despite having lived in London for more than twenty years, he still spoke with a thick Balkan accent.

  “Freddie, I need you to send someone over to my place for extra security.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some wankers want to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “Russians.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They’ve already murdered Mikhail.”

  Berisha raised an eyebrow. “Dubrovsky? Dead?”

  “Carked it shortly after we had dinner together with the tossers.”

  “You got their names?”

  “Sokolov. Eugene and Constantine. No doubt I’m next on their list. I want you to … sort them out.”

  “Fair enough. You know where to find them?”

  “They’re staying at the Hilton on Park Lane. Asked me to book it for them. I provided the transportation as well. Kevin is driving them around and keeping tabs on them.”

  Kevin Hide was an ex-convict, now working as Kendrick’s driver and doing odd jobs for him like delivery of the drugs. He was the one who’d brought Kendrick into contact with the Albanians.

  “Perfect,” said Berisha. “All right, listen up, this is what we’ll do. You ring them up and tell them you need to meet urgently at a safe spot. Don’t mention Dubrovsky or else you might scare them off. Send your car after them and tell Kev to bring them to the old warehouse. He should know where that is. My lads will take it over from there and handle the rest.”

  “Thanks, Freddie. There’s something dodgy about those Sokolovs. Especially the younger one. You’ve got to be careful with them.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be hearing from them again. And I’ll send someone to look after you, right away. Where are you hiding at?”

  “My new place in South Kensington. I’ll send you the address. And Freddie …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have your guy bring some coke with him, will ya?”

  Berisha killed the connection. His thin mouth twisted in a grin as Kendrick shared his GPS location through the maps app.

  He forwarded the coordinates to a different number. His contact in the SVR, the Russian foreign intelligence service.

  “OK,” a chat bubble popped up in acknowledgment.

  Trevor Kendrick was right that the Russians were after him, but it wasn’t the Sokolovs.

  Kendrick enjoyed a steady supply of dope, but the poor bastard had no idea where the powder came from. The drug shipments arrived from Latin America via people from the SVR. The same men who’d sent someone to kill Kendrick. Berisha’s Russian business partners had also told him to plant a zombie knife in a dead drop for their killer to do the job.

  They’d be most pleased to learn where Kendrick was holed up.

  And more than happy to get rid of the Sokolov problem.

  12

  Like every other hotel in the chain, London Hilton on Park Lane was posh yet businesslike. It also appealed to them for sentimental reasons, similarly to the Hard Rock Café located just a block away. The names acted as reminders, bringing certain memories from the past.

  They were in the hotel’s lobby bar, reflecting on the day’s events over green tea, when Sokolov’s phone buzzed.

  “Who is it?” Constantine inquired.

  “Kendrick.”

  Sokolov tapped the answer button.

  “Hi, Trevor. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s urgent. But I can’t talk about it over the phone. We’ve got to meet. Where are you?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “Is your brother with you?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Brilliant. Kevin will pick you up in two minutes.”

  “Why won’t you come here instead?”

  There was a moment of hesitation.

  “No time to explain. Believe me, the matter is serious.”

  “Okay.”

  Sokolov ended the call and tucked the phone away.

  “Something gone awry?” Constantine asked.

  “Kendrick wants to see us. Face to face. Right now.”

  “Why the rush? Can’t he wait until tomorrow morning? I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “Neither do I. I don’t like the guy, but there was real tension in his voice.”

  “Perhaps Dubrovksy’s had a change of heart and called the whole thing off?”

  “Maybe the Russian security services are threatening him and he needs our help.”

  “Or he’s high on drugs and he’s pranking us as he’s got nothing better to do. Did you see the small mountain of cocaine he snorted?”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. He might be slimier than an eel, but he’s our only link to Dubrovsky. What if it’s something really important?”

  A shadow crossed Constantine’s face.

  “Wait, Gene. What if Kendrick is setting us up? It could be a trap.”

  “We’ll see. There’s no way we can back out. And if he’s plotting something against us, we’d better confront him sooner rather than later and set the record straight. Let’s go and figure out what game he’s playing.”

  The Range Rover had traveled well beyond Canary Wharf and Sokolov began to worry.

  Although he was unfamiliar with the city streets, he’d figured out that the half-hour trip had taken them to some of the less glamorous parts of the British capital. Sitting next to the chauffeur, Sokolov had a close view of the car’s GPS navigation screen. The map showed that Kevin was driving them through the East London district of Barking, past bleak-looking high-rise blocks, until the SUV pulled up at the back of a warehouse unit of a large industrial building. Only the Range Rover’s LED beams lit up the large loading zone. There were no other vehicles in sight.

  For someone like Kendrick, obsessed with luxury and security, it was an odd choice of location for a rendezvous—assuming it was going to happen. Sokolov’s instincts told him that something was definitely amiss.

  “Kevin, are you sure this is th
e right place?” Constantine inquired from the rear seat, sharing his brother’s concern. “Doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

  Kevin nodded. A man in his forties with a mean gaze, he wasn’t the talkative type.

  “If Kendrick wants to meet us, it makes no sense to travel all the way up here,” Constantine continued.

  “I’m just following Mr. Kendrick’s orders,” he insisted. “This is where I’m supposed to drop you off.”

  “I think there was a mistake. Would you mind if I checked with Trevor?” Sokolov asked, holding up his phone.

  Kevin shrugged.

  Sokolov dialed Kendrick’s number. After a few rings there was no answer and the connection dropped.

  “He might not actually be here. Maybe you should take us back to the hotel.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the driver said. “Get out of the car.”

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. It looked like a Ruger LC9s, a subcompact 9mm handgun, lightweight and discrete. Private security guards in the U.K. weren’t permitted to carry firearms.

  He pointed it at Sokolov.

  Suddenly, the high-pitched screech of a scooter engine sounded. Two thugs on a moped materialized in the glare of the headlights, braking in front of the Range Rover.

  Dressed in black from sneakers to motorbike helmets to appear more intimidating, they were brandishing hammers.

  Moped gangs ran rampant in London, raiding the city in a wave of robberies, snatching wallets, watches, and jewelry.

  It would certainly look like a robbery to the police.

  But it was an ambush.

  “I said, get out of the car! Now!”

  The chauffeur motioned with the gun. Clearly, the moped gangsters were supposed to do the dirty work for him, but Sokolov knew that he would shoot if necessary.

  Constantine reached from behind and pressed a weapon against the chauffeur’s neck.

  “Not so fast.”

  It was a shank fashioned from a safety razor and a toothbrush which acted as a handle. Constantine had made it back at the hotel using the bathroom amenities, having learned the trick from an inmate in Moscow’s notorious Butyrka prison. Ugly yet chillingly effective, the makeshift knife could slash the carotid artery in the blink of an eye.

  The chauffeur swallowed, overcome with fear, feeling the edge of the blade on his throbbing jugular.

  Things hadn’t gone according to plan. He hesitated to pull the trigger.

  A moment of indecision was all that Sokolov needed. His hands shot out, deflecting the gun away and wrenching it free from the chauffeur’s grip as he twisted the man’s wrist, following up with a backfist across the bridge of the nose, breaking it with a crunch.

  Sokolov tossed the gun to Constantine. Now suddenly it was Kendrick’s man who’d found himself at gunpoint. He was still groggy from the blow, blood streaking from the deformed nose, when Sokolov pushed the driver’s door open and shoved him out of the car, sending him to the ground.

  The key fob remained in the center console.

  Sokolov climbed across, into the driver’s seat.

  “Hit it!” Constantine urged.

  Sokolov was already hitting it. He threw the car into reverse and pressed down the accelerator, yanking the steering wheel. As the car spun around, he switched to D and sped away. He raced from the industrial area toward the housing blocks.

  The thugs gave chase. Seconds later, their moped caught up with the SUV, heading along a residential street. There was no room to maneuver in the narrow lane, no chance to accelerate and break away as another motorist appeared in front of the Range Rover.

  Cursing, blaring the horn, Sokolov overtook the car slowing him down with a burst of speed, veering into oncoming traffic and cutting in front sharply.

  The zippy moped kept up, zooming from the right side, and was level with the driver’s door.

  The thugs swung their hammers, hitting the glass.

  It held. But not for long.

  A mesh of cracks erupted in the side window and windshield, hindering Sokolov’s view.

  Sokolov swung the Range Rover sideways, but couldn’t shake them off.

  An open stretch of the road ahead allowed him to pull away from the raiders.

  In the rearview mirror, Sokolov saw that the gangsters dropped off, but only for a second. Pushing the moped to its top speed, the engine straining at its limits, they managed to stay abreast of the passenger door.

  The hammer banged repeatedly against the rear glass, smashing it, shards flying.

  The attacker cleared away the jagged edges with a sweep of the hammer and struck out at Constantine.

  Constantine fired.

  Once, twice.

  The bullets hit the thug in the shoulder and he crashed off the pillion. His partner lost control of the moped, skidding, and slammed into a vehicle parked on the curb.

  13

  Trevor Kendrick was pacing around the living room restlessly. Still no word from Kev, and he was growing desperate for news.

  Yet when he got the call, the ringtone startled him.

  He grabbed the phone.

  Berisha.

  He swiped to answer.

  “Yeah? All done?”

  “Not quite.”

  It wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve escaped. But they won’t get far. My lads have gone after them. No worries,” the Albanian said. “Now check the door, my guy is waiting outside.”

  “Okay, mate.” Kendrick sighed as he ended the call. He just wanted to get over with it quickly, but the whole thing could drag on a bit.

  He switched over to the home security app which showed a video feed from the front door camera.

  Sure enough, a black-bearded man stood waiting there. He didn’t look British, and there was something savage in his sharp features. Kendrick assumed he was one of the Albanians brought into the country by Berisha from his home village.

  Kendrick disarmed the alarm and let the guy in.

  The door slammed shut.

  The visitor encountered him with menace in his electrified eyes and a brutal blow across Kendrick’s face.

  The sudden attack sent Kendrick to the floor.

  Stunned, he looked up at the man.

  Standing over Kendrick, he reached inside his coat and drew a long object.

  A zombie-style knife.

  Zelimkhan pinned Kendrick with a knee, holding him down like a butcher slaughtering a sheep during the Muslim Feast of Sacrifice.

  But instead of slitting the throat, Zelimkhan drove the knife deep into his flesh, again and again.

  Kendrick screamed and squirmed, to no avail.

  After ten or fifteen stabs, it was all over.

  As he got off the bloodied corpse, Zelimkhan picked up the phone Kendrick had dropped.

  He didn’t need to unlock the phone with biometrics or passcode. From the lock screen, he pressed the Emergency call button.

  Then he dialed 999 for the police.

  14

  They had to ditch the battered Range Rover and there was no way back to the Hilton. After the failed attempt to kill them, there might be another. They needed to find a safe place to stay and a way to get there. Constantine solved both problems using fake Uber and Airbnb accounts he’d bought on the Dark Web.

  They returned to Kensington, the only borough they were the least bit familiar with. Getting out of their Uber, a Toyota hybrid, they found themselves standing in the middle of the night at a quiet street of terraced houses, where a biting gust of wind and cold rain greeted them.

  Their Airbnb was a large three-bedroom flat. The location was secluded yet only a few minutes’ walk from the Tube and popular shops and restaurants. The owner operated his pad remotely. Self-check-in was done by the means of a smart door lock, with a passcode sent to the guests in a welcome email. The interior was spacious, nicely decorated, well-equipped, and although not quite as ‘
sparkling clean’ as advertised, it was reasonably tidy.

  The living room featured a giant TV. In lieu of Netflix, they switched over to Sky News to check for reports of the moped attack in East London.

  They got more than they bargained for.

  A headline screamed in the lower third of the screen.

  BREAKING: DISGRACED RUSSIAN OLIGARCH DEAD IN LONDON

  Constantine sank in the sofa, letting out a sigh.

  “Dubrovsky? It’s got to be him. I just know it.”

  There were no other details beyond the brief message. The news report was in the middle of the sports section.

  “Come on, dammit.”

  Sokolov took out his phone and checked the trending topics on Twitter. TV always lagged behind the web, although the downside of social media was having to wade through a flood of fake news.

  “Uh huh,” Sokolov said. “Looks like our meeting tomorrow is canceled. But let’s wait until it’s official.”

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  A recap of the main stories came on, confirming that “former billionaire Russian oligarch Mikhail Dubrovsky has dropped dead of an apparent heart attack in his London apartment. A Met Police spokesman has stated that they are not treating Dubrovsky’s death as suspicious. Mr. Dubrovsky’s daughter, Marina, has declined to comment.”

  There was more to it.

  “And this is just in …” the anchor continued. “We’re also hearing reports that millionaire property tycoon Trevor Kendrick has been found stabbed to death in his home. According to Sky sources, the suspect has been detained and the police have launched a murder inquiry. Mr. Kendrick was known to be a close business associate of Mikhail Dubrovsky, but it is believed that the two incidents are not connected.”

  “The hell they’re not,” Sokolov muttered. “Well then, our little game is over before it started, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Constantine replied. “Far from it.”

  “What do you mean? As soon as we show up and start asking questions, Dubrovsky’s suddenly dead. Kendrick’s been murdered. And we almost joined them. It’s all finished.”