Shaw stared at his CTC counterpart incredulously.
“You knew. You bloody well knew, didn’t you?”
Gilmour shrugged. “I thought you’d take the news easier if Darren broke it.”
Shaw let out a sigh. Ultimately, he had to concede he was out of his depth.
“All right. If the order came directly from the PM, I’m not one to argue.”
“Good,” Darren James said. “It’s vital that we’re all on the same wavelength. Handling this matter as delicately as possible is crucial to national security.”
“What’s so delicate about sweeping the whole mess under the rug?” Shaw jibed, still a tad bitter. “How do you suggest we go about it?”
“Deport him. Send him back where he came from without making any noise.”
“To Russia? Diplomacy isn’t my strong suit, but if recent history is any indication, the Russians are a pain in the arse to deal with. They will deny everything and might not actually want him. What’s Number Ten going to do about it when it all blows in their faces?”
“That shouldn’t be a concern. The bastard has a ticket to Switzerland, doesn’t he? Today’s flight to Zurich out of Heathrow.”
“Yes, but it’s less than an hour from now.”
“I’ve already made a call to have it delayed. We’ll put him on that plane, see the back of him, and hopefully never hear from him again.”
The Det Super nodded.
“Well, that settles it, then.”
21
They brought her to the Airbnb safe house.
“How did it happen, Lana? Did they hurt you?” Sokolov probed.
“I don’t know …”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Andy asked.
“I can’t remember … I felt like I was in a haze until you showed up and rescued me.”
She was still too shaken to talk.
Sokolov showed into one of the bedrooms and dropped off her Vuitton carry-on which she’d had with her. Once she was accommodated, he left her to unpack, take a shower, and pull herself together.
Sokolov and Andy retreated to the open-plan kitchen/dining area for some drinks. The fridge was well-stocked, a welcome gift courtesy of the Airbnb host. Andy grabbed a beer while Sokolov found bags of green tea and put the kettle on.
“So how do we get something coherent out of her?” Andy asked.
“Give her time. If she suffered a traumatic experience, her mind needs to adjust.”
“And what if she’s faking it?”
“We’ll figure it out soon enough. Keep a keen eye on her every move, Andy.”
“Okay, gaffer.”
The doorbell rang. Andy reached for his gun abruptly but Sokolov gestured to him with the okay signal as he checked the intercom screen. It was Constantine. Sokolov unlocked the door and let his brother in.
“You’re just in time for a cup of tea.”
“I need one. Nice to see you again, Andy,” Constantine said, entering the kitchen, “but I’d rather you didn’t wave that gun around. This is something of a home, and you’re a guest here, so it isn’t polite. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Eugene has hired me. Sorry, I was being extra cautious after a recent shootout.”
“A shootout? What else did I miss? We seem to have another visitor as well. I can hear water running in a bathroom.”
“Lana Shevchenko, Dubrovsky’s girlfriend,” Sokolov explained and filled Constantine in on the details of their clash with the Albanians. “She might shed some light on what’s going on, but I’m not holding my breath. What about you? Did you get anything from Marina?”
Constantine nodded.
“We must hurry. I couldn’t tell you about it over the phone. Marina gave me the details of her father’s lawyer.”
“Did you manage to contact him?”
“No, he’s out of reach. But we must get him talking before it’s too late.”
“You think this lawyer knows something important?”
“His name is Hofmann. He’s the last surviving member of Project Jutland. And I’m sure we’re not the only ones desperate to find him. He knows that the Kremlin would want him dead, so he’s fled to safety.”
“No place is safe from Russian government assassins,” Sokolov said.
“This is exactly why we must head to the airport as soon as possible.”
“Are we flying outside the U.K.? Where is Hofmann hiding?”
“He owns a chalet in the Swiss Alps.”
22
As the Sokolovs were leaving for the airport, Eugene instructed Andy, “Keep her under constant watch, make sure she doesn’t leave the flat under any pretense, and don’t let her talk to anyone until we get back.”
“Understood.”
Sokolov himself wasn’t sure if they would be coming back. Danger awaited them in Switzerland, but with it came opportunity. If the Kremlin would stop at nothing to crush Project Jutland, it had to be of critical importance, and they had to jump at the chance to make Frolov vulnerable. Risking their lives had become normal, but Sokolov also hoped to save another life in the process, that of Reto Hofmann, Dubrovsky’s confidant.
As a security precaution, he requested an Uber ride a couple of blocks away from the safe house. When they arrived at the airport, the Cessna was already waiting to pick them up. They nestled in the luxurious seats while the Citation Mustang sped down the runway and soared skyward, its twin turbofan engines whining.
The light jet finished its climb, leaving London behind. They would reach their destination in about one and a half hours.
“What else did Marina say?”
“Nothing. She said she had no clue about her father’s business.”
“You believe her.”
“I see no reason not to. She’s a rich girl raised and educated in the U.K. The future of Russia is probably the last thing on her mind. She belongs to a new generation of the Russian nouveau riche, feeling no connection to her home country apart from it being some dark, miserable place where their wealth came from and magically fell into their lap. She wouldn’t want to return there from the social circuit of Ascot and Wimbledon.”
“So it means we won’t know what Project Jutland stands for until we talk to Hofmann. If we get to talk to him.”
“Not beyond what Dubrovsky told us.”
“Do you really think it has to do with the restoration of the monarchy and not something else entirely? And that’s why dead bodies are dropping all over the place? It seems extremely far-fetched.”
“The clue is in the name,” Constantine said.
“Jutland. What’s the meaning behind it?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long flight.”
“All right. But we’ll have to go back in history.”
“How far back?”
“All the way,” Constantine replied, “to the very origins of Russia.”
Sokolov leaned back in the seat. “I was too busy fighting school bullies to pay too much attention to it in the classroom, so if you could give me a quick rundown and fill in some gaps, I’m all ears.”
“I’m sure you remember enough of it, but okay,” Constantine said. “It was known in Latin as Ruthenia, a land in the East, populated by various Slavic tribes. Ruthenia–or Russia–was loosely controlled by Norsemen called Varangians, and the Slavs paid tribute to them. Eventually, in the ninth century, the local Slavs got fed up with the Norse oppression and drove them away. Now the Slavs suddenly became free to govern themselves, but instead, incessant fighting broke out as the tribes challenged each other for power.”
“Sounds eerily familiar. It’s as though every time the Slavs get a chance at reclaiming liberty, they squander it going for each other’s throats.”
“True, history has a habit of repeating itself. You’d be surprised to know how little things really change over the course of centuries, or even millennia. Anyway, the Slavs were so mired in the chaos of internal conflict and bloods
hed that they saw only one way out of it.”
“Call the Norsemen back.”
“Correct. The warring factions compromised that only a foreigner, an outsider could restore order and rule over them fairly. But they had to find a suitable candidate first. They settled on a Norseman named Rurik, and reached out to him, inviting him to become their ruler. He accepted. And thus, the first Russian royal dynasty was founded. The year was 862.”
“Why him, though? Who was he?”
“Not much is known about him, so it’s up for debate. The problem with much of old history is lack of reliable sources, leading to multiple theories, speculation, or educated guesswork. Since the nineteenth century, historians have identified the legendary Rurik of Slavic lore with another historical figure—Rorik of Dorestad. Or, alternatively, Rorik of Jutland.”
“Ah ha. Jutland. So that’s where Dubrovsky got the idea from.”
“Indeed. The real Rurik–or Rorik–was a Danish Viking chieftain, ousted by his uncle Harald and his cousins as they battled for the throne. So he went to Frisia, conquering Dorestad and Utrecht. It was a tiny territory compared to what he’d hoped to gain in Denmark, but he had to be content with hanging onto it. He would have gone down in history as a minor koning—until the Slavs offered him a fantastic opportunity. He grabbed it with both hands and it changed everything.”
“I can imagine how happy he was. He went from languishing in virtual obscurity to establishing what would become one of the world’s most powerful countries. But his dynasty’s reign was cut short when Ivan the Terrible killed his only son and Russia plunged into the abyss again.”
Constantine nodded. “From that sixteenth-century Time of Troubles, a new dynasty rose. The Romanovs.”
“But the Romanovs weren’t foreigners. So history didn’t repeat itself that time.”
“In a way, it did.”
“Really? How?”
“As you know, Czar Peter the Great launched a wholesale Westernization of Russia, building shipyards and a modern navy, importing new culture and traditions, bringing in a legion of foreigners to his court.”
“But of course.”
“He undertook that task after his European tour, most impressed and enamored by one country in particular.”
“Holland, if I’m not mistaken.”
“A specific region of Holland, to be precise. Friesland, otherwise called Frisia, the historical coastal region bordering Denmark. The place where Rorik had hailed from.”
“Now it’s starting to make sense. But how is it relevant to Dubrovsky’s project? I’m struggling to grasp the underlying meaning. Dubrovsky entertained thoughts about restoring the monarchy in Russia, I get it. But he didn’t explicitly say if he had earmarked an actual throne contender. He refused to give any names.”
“I don’t believe we’d be in the current mess if it was merely his fantasy. If I was a betting man, I’d wager that he definitely had someone in mind,” Constantine said.
“Agreed. The Jutland reference implies continuity, so who could he turn to? A surviving Romanov?”
“No,” Constantine said firmly. “Forget about the Romanovs. They’re finished. Hideously murdered by the Bolsheviks, including Princess Anastasia. Life isn’t a Disney cartoon, whether we like it or not. The House of Romanov in its present form is a joke, rife with KGB agents to boot. Any descendant of a distant Romanov male line claiming succession rights is a fraud who has no moral or legal grounds for it. Nicholas II is dead—and sadly he only had himself to blame for his own demise and the death of his family. The dynasty died with them. Their time ended long ago, and there’s no way back now, no turning back the clock.”
“So we must look elsewhere. The Dutch or Danish royals, then?”
“Perhaps. But I have a hunch that the Jutland link is rather more symbolic. Dubrovsky spoke about putting Russian history back on track, that was the most important thing for him. I think it’s no coincidence that he was plotting Project Jutland out of London.”
“Why?”
“The secret must be hidden there somewhere. You see, during his Grand Embassy to Europe, one of the longest parts of Czar Peter’s trip happened to be a three-month stay in England.”
23
Crans-Montana. A world-class resort in the heart of the Pennine Alps. Situated in the canton of Valais, western Switzerland, it had been formed by two villages—Crans and Montana—spread along the slopes of Mount Bonvin. The altitude of the ski area ranged from 1,500 to 3,000 meters, the south-facing mountaintops towering above the Plaine Morte Glacier. In addition to the skiing, it was also Switzerland’s best golf resort annually hosting the European Masters tournament. Nestled in the sun-filled plateau below, surrounded by the panoramic alpine scenery, were four top-quality golf courses, making Crans-Montana a desirable destination for those seeking year-round activities to go together with a luxury lifestyle.
The prestigious area, dotted with expensive hotels, fashion boutiques, upscale restaurants, glitzy nightclubs, and après-ski bars, attracted a wealthy clientele, including Sir Roger Moore, who had been a resident until his death.
The rich and famous valued discretion, and the tranquility of Crans-Montana, uncrowded by tourists, offered just that.
Reto Hofmann’s chalet, located on the edge of the Crans-sur-Sierre Golf Club, would be worth around ten million Swiss francs.
The Sokolovs were still a long way from getting there.
The Cessna Citation Mustang touched down in Geneva. The nearest airport to Crans-Montana was Bern. However, Swiss Railways operated a train directly from Geneva Airport that departed for Sierre/Siders station every hour. Although it was an ordinary IR90 inter-region train instead of a high-speed bullet, the trip took only two hours, taking them along the picturesque banks of Lake Geneva to the Rhone Valley, via Lausanne where it made a brief stop after fifty minutes.
The occupancy was low, especially in the priciest 1. Klasse Businesszone car offering extra-spacious seats and larger windows, but they were careful not to discuss any details relating to the task at hand.
Sokolov had last boarded a train in Spain, which had been just as comfortable, but the breathtaking views outside certainly beat the semi-arid Iberian terrain. The magnificent sights reminded Constantine of another alpine setting he’d visited via Switzerland, a valley in Liechtenstein.
When they reached Gare de Sierre, exiting the terminal, a sign in three languages said that only a five-minute walk separated them to the funicular station.
Three hundred meters away.
They followed a red line on the pavement marking the path.
The air felt so crisp and fresh that they could drink lungfuls of it, but it was also noticeably chilly. The temperature would drop to freezing at nightfall and Sokolov knew that getting caught unprepared for adverse weather conditions was the last thing they wanted. The jagged mountainside was covered in snow and it would get even colder at a higher altitude. The mountains were fickle, becoming treacherous at a moment’s notice, and the Alps were no exception.
The Sokolovs were still dressed in their casual business attire, so they made a quick detour to a nearby store, a small pro shop selling sportswear and outdoor gear.
Two men followed them inside. Both were heavily built, one blond, the other bald.
Eugene and Constantine picked up Colmar ski jackets and pants, as well as warm socks and boots, changing into new clothes immediately.
As Sokolov emerged from the fitting room, he saw that the two men were still there, more interested in him and his brother than the snowboards and mountain bikes on display that they pretended to be examining.
Sokolov knew he couldn’t leave the store without buying a genuine Swiss Army knife. The model he chose wasn’t a multi-tool like the kind used by MacGyver, but rather a Victorinox Hunter pocket knife which had only one function—cutting through flesh. It had a large folding blade that closed into a walnut-wood handle, providing excellent grip and one-handed operation. Sokolov paid the
cashier and he and Constantine hurried out of the store, continuing toward the funi.
The two hoods were right behind them, making no attempt at subtlety.
“You’ve seen those thugs?” Sokolov asked his brother.
Constantine glanced over his shoulder. “The ones tracing our footsteps? I bet they’re Russians.”
“The only question is whether they’re coming after us or Hofmann,” he agreed quietly.
The hoods didn’t look like Western Europeans. Russian security operators stuck out like a sore thumb in any environment, no matter how hard they tried to blend in. Sokolov had learned to pick them out in any crowd with great anthropological accuracy. They were a different breed even compared to other round-headed, high-cheekboned, chisel-jawed Slavs. It was something about their grim faces and savage stares that was unmistakable. Even the way they walked, with aggressively exaggerated upper body motion, was a telltale sign that gave them away.
As ethnic Cossacks, with mixed Scythian and Ostrogothic DNA in their ancestry, the Sokolovs had always been subconsciously aware of the distinct differences between themselves and descendants of Russian serfs. Constantine had been right that some things never changed.
They reached the station entrance marked Funiculaire Sierre — Crans-Montana and headed to the platform.
The red-painted funicular was sleek and ultramodern, with a 120-passenger capacity, but the car was less than half-empty as it was too early for the ski season and too late for golf. The sun shone brightly through its panoramic glass roof. The Sokolovs went to the rear of the car, occupying the last row. The position gave them a strategic view and made sure nobody could sit farther behind to attack them.
The wide bench seats accommodated four people, however.
Spotting them as they entered the car, the two Russian thugs proceeded to the back and took the vacant seats to Sokolov’s left. They didn’t glance at him or Constantine or engage in any small talk even between themselves. They just sat there wordlessly, waiting, their savage eyes seemingly focused on the view outside, but their peripheral vision watching the brothers.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 8