Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  “Project Jutland. It must be something big if so many corpses are piling up over it. That’s the thing. Somebody is desperately trying to keep us from finding the answers. Which is why we must keep on searching for them. Something is brewing. And we’ve got caught in the middle of it.”

  “We still don’t know what Project Jutland is. None of it is making any sense. Someone killed Dubrovsky, then Kendrick tried to kill us before he himself got killed. This is crazy.”

  “Let’s figure out what this whole mess is all about.”

  “Okay. If it’s not the end, then where do we start again?”

  “We have two options.”

  “Really? That sounds overly optimistic.”

  “Not everyone we met tonight ended up dead.”

  “Ah, but of course,” Sokolov said. “Dubrovsky’s bodyguard. Andy. I’m not sure if he was privy to his principal’s business dealings, though.”

  “But he must’ve been there when Dubrovsky died. We might get something from him.”

  “Fair enough. And the other option?”

  Constantine motioned at the TV.

  “The daughter.”

  15

  Arranging a meet with Andy Stevenson proved easier than expected.

  Sokolov had his phone number, so he messaged him.

  “We need to talk. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be at Misha’s in 15 mins.”

  Sokolov didn’t entirely dismiss the possibility that it might be another trap, but he decided that Andy had too little to gain from it. A familiar rendezvous venue also made the risk worth taking.

  Despite a CLOSED sign, the door of Misha’s Bar & Grill was unlocked. There were chairs stacked upside down on the tables and the place was empty save for the single patron at the bar. He found Andy perched on a stool, a half-empty bottle of Macallan in front of him. Muscles bulged from his gray tee, and his stubbled face was flushed from the alcohol.

  “Drinking so early in the morning won’t do you any good,” Sokolov said, propping his elbows on the bar. “Terribly unprofessional. No wonder your clients are dropping like flies.”

  Andy shot him an angry glance.

  “I’m on my own time. And Mikhail died of a heart attack.”

  “He died on your watch.”

  “Stop talking bollocks. Is that what you came for?”

  “I’m just saying it like it is. You had one job and you couldn’t even handle it properly. You failed and you know it.”

  “Sod off or I’ll smash your face,” the security agent warned.

  “You’re the only one who’s smashed. Who Dares Wins, eh? You’re a bit too daring—but still a loser.”

  The SAS man had his ego rustled.

  As expected, he leaped off the stool and swung a fist at Sokolov’s head. Sokolov raised the left arm to block it, ramming a right punch into his abs. It felt like hitting a rock. Andy was shorter than Sokolov but built like a tank.

  He swiped a jab at Sokolov’s ribs, pushing him back, and then flung the whiskey bottle at him. Sokolov dodged and it landed somewhere behind him, breaking into pieces audibly.

  The encounter escalated. Andy threw himself at Sokolov, but the alcohol let him down, dulling his reflexes. Sokolov met the onrushing bodyguard with a rising knee into the stomach that knocked the wind and took the fight out of him. Sokolov wrenched his arm, grabbed him by his shirt and pushed him against the bartop.

  “Let go!” Andy grunted.

  Sokolov twisted harder.

  “Now listen up. Somebody tried to kill me and my brother last night. And I think you might be the one who sicced the thugs on us.”

  “I swear it wasn’t me.”

  “Who, then?”

  “I don’t know! Kendrick?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he got paranoid after I told him about Mikhail.”

  “And that still didn’t save him. Whatever happened to Mikhail, I have a nagging suspicion that you were involved.”

  “No! I swear, mate.”

  “Prove me wrong, then. If you want me to believe you, then you’d better start answering my questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “For starters, what was Mikhail doing at that suite instead of his Belgravia mansion?”

  After a moment’s hesitation Andy rasped, “He was with somebody else.”

  “With whom?”

  “A woman.”

  That changed everything.

  “A girlfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Her name?”

  “Lana Diamond.”

  “You’re just making stuff up as you go along, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, it’s Shevchenko. She’s Ukrainian. Former prostitute. She’s been with Mikhail for some time. He supported her expensive lifestyle.”

  “Not exactly what I’d call a former prostitute, but never mind.”

  “All right, now let go of me!”

  Sokolov did.

  “I’ve got to find her,” Sokolov said. “And you’re going to help me, Andy.”

  Andy stared. “What? Why the bloody hell would I want to do that?”

  “Because you’re looking for work and I’m paying. Consider yourself hired.”

  16

  The ornate living room boasted classical decor, a seven-meter-high stucco ceiling, and a working fireplace, but it seemed cold and alien and she felt a chill even in her Balenciaga sweatshirt. Marina Dubrovskaya stood at one of the eighteen windows inside the six-bedroom Belgravia house, gazing absently at the garden outside. The five-A.M. sky outside was dark, and she caught her own reflection in the window glass. Her wavy hair fell to her shoulders, framing a face that seemed to have aged a few years overnight, her eyes red from weeping and a lack of sleep. She and her father had never been close, and she’d lived her own life in London as an independent, twenty-nine-year-old woman. But now that he was gone, it was as though a piece of her had been ripped out and replaced by hollowness. It all piled on her all at once—the grief, funeral arrangements, the reporters hounding her. She dreaded the thought of what would come next: a legal battle with her mother over Mikhail Dubrovsky’s estate. She was alone and vulnerable.

  “Ms. Marina?”

  The voice of Monsieur Henri, the house manager, startled her.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s someone outside, asking to see you.”

  “Another journo? Why can’t they just leave me alone? Tell him to go away,” she said, annoyed.

  “No, in fact, he says he’s a historian. The name is Constantine Sokolov. He had a meeting scheduled with your father here today, so I thought I might let you know.”

  “Sokolov? Is he Russian?”

  “Apparently, yes.”

  “Well, what does he want from me?”

  “He says he wants to tell you something about Mr. Dubrovsky that may interest you.”

  “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Let him in.”

  The French majordomo nodded and disappeared.

  A minute later, Constantine Sokolov entered the room. A tall man, dressed in black, with lively gray eyes.

  “Marina, please accept my deepest sympathies,” he said in a soft voice that made her think that he really meant it.

  “Thank you, I appreciate it,” she said sincerely. “But I’m not sure I can help you with whatever matter that you wanted to discuss with my father.”

  “I’m one of the last people who saw your father alive last night. But today, I’ve come here because of you, Marina.”

  “Why?”

  “I really don’t want to be bothering you at a time like this, but it’s extremely important.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’d like to ask you only one question.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Constantine said, “Are you sure that your father died his own death?”

  She stared at him for a few moments.

  “What … What do you mean?”

  He said nothing. />
  They both knew what he meant.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  “No,” she finally said. “He looked after his health, getting regular check-ups. He never had any heart problems. And he was an enemy of President Frolov. But the police …”

  “The police don’t want any more high-profile political assassination cases on their hands. The authorities won’t do anything about it unless you help me prove it.”

  The word assassination jarred her.

  “Help you? Do you know what I’m going through? I’ve just returned from the morgue. Do you know what it’s like to see your father in a body bag?”

  His voice became cold.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. My father died when Russian tanks shelled the Russian parliament. His body was never recovered. He never had a funeral. There’s no grave I can visit. He was effectively murdered by the Kremlin.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to find the truth. And so do you.”

  “How?”

  “Have you heard your father mention something called Project Jutland?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never had any interest in my father’s business dealings. I know nothing about any of his projects.”

  “If you’re hiding something, your life might be in peril.”

  “Who are you? Are you threatening me?”

  “Trevor Kendrick, your father’s associate, is dead, too. More people will die unless I can stop the killers. Don’t you understand? Marina, please tell me, who else could your father trust?”

  She looked at him, stunned.

  “His lawyer handled everything.”

  “Which one?”

  “My father had someone from Switzerland to deal with special matters.”

  “He might help with the investigation.”

  “Investigation?”

  “We’ll bring those responsible for your father’s death to justice, one way or another,” Constantine promised. “Do you know how to get in touch with him?”

  “I’m afraid not. There’s really nothing I can do for you, Constantine. Now please leave. This conversation is going nowhere and I’ve had a very tough night.”

  “Marina, listen. We must find him. The man’s survival might depend on it. Perhaps yours, as well. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s had a tough night. My brother and I almost got killed a couple of hours ago. It’s not a game. The danger is real. Do you at least know the lawyer’s name?”

  Constantine had done enough to convince her. An inner voice told her that she could trust him.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Reto Hofmann.”

  17

  Lana was gone.

  Andy had a spare key to her flat, which Sokolov found modern and stylish but lacking any real personality, cluttered with standard items from a luxury household catalog. As they entered the bedroom, they discovered that it had been abandoned hastily. The dresser’s empty drawers were left open, their contents swept away, and half of the clothes in the wardrobe had been ripped off their hangers. There was a lingering scent of perfume in the air.

  “Looks like we’re too late,” Sokolov noted.

  “I left her here only a couple of hours ago, after the police interviewed her.”

  “This is the place where Mikhail died, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I found him right over there, beside the bed. It must’of been too stressful for her to stay here and she’s run off.”

  “Or she’s been snatched,” Sokolov said.

  “I wouldn’t rule that out.”

  Andy checked his phone.

  “She’s offline,” he said. “And her phone is switched off, as well.”

  Sokolov’s overly acute hearing picked up the sound of the front door opening. A pair of thick-soled shoes thudded heavily against the hardwood floor. It definitely wasn’t her.

  Sokolov gestured to Andy who pressed his back to the nearest wall.

  The intruder—a thuggish-looking man with a stubbled, square jaw, muscular inked arms, and short legs—walked right into the bedroom to face Sokolov.

  “Looking for something?” Sokolov asked.

  The hoodlum’s deep-set eyes widened in surprise as he exclaimed, “Amina koyim.”

  He spun around but Andy’s massive frame had already blocked off the doorway. A knife flashed in the hoodlum’s hand as he swiped the blade at Andy, who evaded the blow, dodging sideways, and the guy slipped past him.

  Sokolov reached for the Ruger but the hoodlum had already escaped, dashing to the fire exit.

  Andy gave chase, with Sokolov close behind him.

  They ran out into the street only to witness the guy jump into a Ferrari which sped away in the early morning traffic, its powerful engine roaring. It disappeared, veering sharply around a corner. Any attempt to pursue the Ferrari was hopeless. Sokolov wished he had his Lambo when he needed it, instead of Andy’s Vauxhall.

  Andy cursed under his breath.

  “Sorry, mate. I let him get away. It’s my fault.”

  “Never mind. Would’ve been worse if you got cut only trying to stop some idiot from running away,” Sokolov said. “But you can make up for your mistake by helping me track him down.”

  “All right. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Really? Is he one of the thugs Kendrick got involved with?”

  “Yes. He’s Albanian.”

  “But of course,” Sokolov said. “I saw a tattoo on his forearm. It was a double-headed eagle, but it’s not the Russian imperial one. Now it figures. Have you seen him before?”

  “Sure, I remember him. The name’s Taulant. He used to be Lana’s pimp. One of Freddie Berisha’s men. What the hell was he doing at Lana’s apartment, though?”

  “There’s no way he could’ve entered unless he had a key—her key. Is he someone Lana might have turned to for protection? Or has he kidnapped her?”

  “Could be either. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Do you know where to locate him or his boss?”

  “Shouldn’t be far from here, in Soho. A word of warning about Berisha, though. He’s a gangster, and an extremely dangerous one. He’s not someone you really want to cross.”

  “We’ll have to if we want to find Lana. You can fill me in on the details while you’re driving me there.”

  They climbed into the Vauxhall, parked nearby. Andy started the engine and pulled away.

  “The war in Kosovo led to thousands of refugees fleeing to London in 1999,” Andy explained. “And there were several hundred bad apples among them—criminal clan members, including battle-hardened veterans who got a taste for killing. Freddie Berisha was a corrupt Albanian cop who gained entry into the U.K. under the guise of a war victim and was granted asylum. He started off small, with theft of parking meters in Westminster, but went on to become a Mafia don. His gang is made up mostly of bandits from his native region he helped bring over here.”

  “What are his main operations?”

  “Drugs, vice, and violence, broadly speaking. Everything from human trafficking to contract killing. First, they pushed out the Maltese mobsters running the brothels in Soho, without much resistance. Once they consolidated their grip on prostitution, they began to extend their activities. Freddie would smuggle young girls from Albanian villages, two or three per week. They’d be lured by false promises of modeling work, or simply abducted and abused. Then he would force them into sex work or sell them to other gangs for ten thousand quid each. The sex slave trade proved to be so lucrative and low-risk that he began trafficking girls from other impoverished parts of Eastern Europe. Romania, Lithuania, Ukraine. A steady supply of fresh flesh, now numbering thousands per year.”

  “That many?”

  “Freddie’s prostitution ring has spanned from Soho and Camden to Leeds, Newcastle, and as far as Scotland. The girls are put to work in saunas, massage parlors, and private flats. But some of the arriving imports are so exceptionally beautiful that Freddie knows he ca
n attract rich clients and command much higher fees. So he’s also set up a rather more sophisticated escort service recently.”

  “I see,” Sokolov said. “That must be how Lana ended up with Dubrovsky.”

  “Exactly. Mikhail bought her out and Kendrick was the one who arranged it. Lana ranked among Freddie’s prized possessions. She cost a six-figure sum.”

  “So Mikhail treated her like an object, and she was okay with it?”

  “Their relationship was far from normal, if you ask me. But Lana seemed to have accepted it with total willingness. Or so she it appeared on the outside. A principal’s private life is none of my concern, I stay out of it. It’s history now, anyway.”

  “What about the drugs? Was Kendrick getting his cocaine from Berisha?”

  “That’s right. Freddie’s gang flourished, raking in over ten million quid per year from the sex trade, so they had plenty of capital for re-investment. Freddie’s network of contacts reached to the top level of organized crime in many countries. The cocaine shipments arrived from Latin America through Russia.”

  Sokolov was all too familiar with that route, mapped across the web of shell companies within the depths of the Pavlova papers. The trail of Moscow Gold had appeared once again. He was impressed with Andy’s knowledge of London crime, but what the ex-SAS grunt perhaps failed to understand was the fact that the Russian Mafia and the Kremlin had grown so intertwined as to become synonymous. The FSB directly controlled the Russian drug traffic. Any of Berisha’s potential links in Russia had to be connected to the security services.

  Whether Kendrick had known about that connection or not, it had cost him his life. As a fixer involved in all sorts of shady affairs for different people, Kendrick had mixed with Berisha’s gang. He’d got too close and got burned.

  “And the violence part of the equation?”

  “That kind of money requires serious muscle to protect. He built up a strong Mafia force, using the well-established shipping channels to smuggle firearms. His thugs are among the best-equipped in the U.K., but they’re not shy about using knives and other weapons. This lot are completely unhinged.”