Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  “Why, yes.”

  “An army of three thousand men doesn’t sound like a lot to take over a country like the Russian Federation.”

  “Mikhail believed the number would be enough. Only the Kremlin had to fall. The rest of Russia would follow. There is a lot of unrest brewing in the provinces, and if anything they would welcome the change. Nobody would fight for Frolov.”

  “And who are the mercenaries? You can’t hire just anybody for this kind of job.”

  “Disgruntled Donetsk veterans. They have plenty of experience in such matters, and the motivation.”

  “I see.”

  It did make sense.

  When the Kremlin aggression against Ukraine had broken out, with the Crimea and large swathes of territory around Donetsk and Luhansk falling under Russian control, Moscow had avoided direct military confrontation. Instead, the conflict had unfolded through hybrid warfare for the sake of deniability, disguising Russian troops as locals and running massive disinformation campaigns. The accompanying propaganda had given rise to extreme Russian nationalism. A lot of the cannon fodder sent to Ukraine had been mercenaries drafted from all over Russia, who’d been sold the dream of escaping their miserable existence and righting wrongs. The Moscow media mouthpieces had banged on about the allegedly oppressed Russian population in Ukraine, voicing demands to liberate them, calling on men across the country to reclaim the unjustly lost Russian territories. Thousands of brainwashed Russians had enlisted as volunteers to fight for a delusional cause. Covertly, they had been transported across the border and sent to the front line. Some of them had radicalized further after violent battles with the Ukrainian patriots who had defended their homeland against invasion.

  They’d been lured by fake promises of seizing Kiev and hoisting the Russian flag over all of Ukraine. Instead of a final offensive push, they had become entrenched in the steppe and decimated by the truckloads as Moscow backtracked in the face of Western sanctions.

  The conflict in East Ukraine had been deadlocked for years.

  Many of them maimed or wounded, covered in the blood and guts of their fallen comrades, the rebel fighters had felt betrayed and abandoned. And they knew who should shoulder the blame.

  The Kremlin.

  The survivors had returned home with a fury burning inside them and a score to settle.

  They presented the perfect fighting force for Dubrovsky’s plan.

  “The target is Frolov?” Eugene asked.

  “Yes, they would receive orders to capture or kill him, or force him into exile. He’d most likely manage to flee the country to one of the secret palaces he’s built around the world. Frolov’s entourage would be arrested. At least some faction from the political elite would have to voice their support of the coup to give it legitimacy in the eyes of the international community, so that’s where Leo Gromov stepped in. He was promised a leading role in the new parliament.”

  “What would happen next?”

  “A state of emergency would be announced, and a Provisional Government would come to power, headed by Governor Zimin. Confidentially, he’d already agreed to become Acting Prime Minister. The Duma would be dismissed. Afterwards, a new constitution would be drawn up, restoring continuity with pre-Bolshevik Russia.”

  “A return to monarchy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But now it’s gone up in smoke after all the key figures have been killed.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.” Hofmann sipped his punsch and set the glass cup on a carved table.

  “What do you mean?” Eugene said. “Everyone from Zimin to Dubrovsky himself is dead.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. The Kremlin may well have assassinated Dubrovsky, or might even succeed in killing you and me, but it won’t stop Project Jutland. There are much more powerful men pulling the strings behind the scenes. Members of an exclusive club in Britain, a very traditional one, whose decisions determine the outcome of global politics. They’ve had enough of Frolov, so he must be swept aside. The die is cast. Dubrovsky was their front man, a project manager for hire. His death means nothing. He’s easily replaceable. Just like the other pawns in the game. Those powerful traditionalists are the ones who conceived Project Jutland in the first place, not Dubrovsky. And they are the ones who handpicked the contender for the Russian throne. The new Russian Czar.”

  Although he was holding the steaming cup, Constantine’s fingers felt suddenly cold.

  “And who might that be?” he wondered.

  Hofmann’s lips cracked into a thin smile.

  “Prince Harry.”

  “Harry?” Constantine echoed. “The Sussex?”

  “The same,” Hofmann confirmed.

  Constantine shook his head in disbelief.

  Distantly, Willy’s barking sounded. The short, sharp noises warned of a threat.

  Then, the deep and harsh woofs turned into a pained yelp, and abruptly the guard dog went silent.

  “There’s something going on outside, and I don’t like it,” Hofmann said.

  Another kind of sound was drawing nearer now—the whine of a car engine.

  LED headlight beams flashed, coming at the living room’s floor-to-ceiling window rapidly.

  A sleek, silver-painted Mercedes sports coupé was charging through the garden, straight toward the chalet, showing no signs of slowing down.

  On the contrary.

  Right in front of the house, it accelerated.

  The wall of double-glazed glass disintegrated, shards flying as the Mercedes drove through it.

  “Watch out!” Eugene shouted.

  But it was too late.

  27

  His shout was lost in the cacophony of the howling Mercedes engine and the shattering glass. Sokolov sprang off the sofa and dived behind it, away from danger, clutching Constantine’s shirt and bringing his brother down with him, the Persian rug on the floor softening their fall.

  Hofmann’s reflexes let him down. He remained frozen in his chair, becoming alert to the danger at the last second. As the car came crashing in, he scrambled to his feet.

  The driver of the sports coupé swung the vehicle sideways, directing it at the Swiss lawyer. The crunching impact sent Hofmann crashing against the hood of the car like a mannequin. The Mercedes carried him forward as it smashed into the opposite wall, totaling the car’s front as it hit the fireplace, the stone masonry collapsing, spewing smoke and embers in all directions.

  Hofmann slid down and hit the floor sideways. He was yelling in agony, half the bones in his body fractured. The driver’s door of the Mercedes swung open, and a dark-haired, black-bearded man pulled himself out from behind the deployed airbags. He held a silenced pistol in his hand. His aim hovered over Hofmann’s prone body, and he squeezed off several shots. Blood spouted as the bullets riddled the Swiss lawyer, cutting off his anguished cries.

  Getting up, Sokolov whipped out his own pistol.

  At that very moment, the maid came hurrying into the living room, reacting to the din.

  Getting in the line of fire.

  Sokolov cursed, unable to get off a clear shot across the cavernous room.

  “Gott im Himmel!” Matilda exclaimed, stopping in her tracks at the sight of the raging havoc, debris strewn around from the destroyed window, furniture, and car, smoke rising to the beamed ceiling. She opened her mouth to scream as she witnessed Hofmann’s corpse, but the assassin unleashed a quick salvo that hit her head and torso, killing her, and she toppled instantly.

  Sokolov tapped the trigger rapidly. The bullets zinged, penetrating the metal of the battered vehicle’s body. One of the slugs found its mark, catching the assassin’s thigh and he grunted in pain, diving for cover through the open car door. Sokolov kept firing but missed.

  The wounded killer crawled across the driver’s seat, and slithered out of the passenger’s side door, making himself a harder target to hit. Shielded behind the vehicle, he crouched, popping off rounds back at Sokolov.

>   Sokolov hid behind the sofa. It offered little protection in the shootout, the 9mm slugs shredding the velvet upholstery. Sokolov wouldn’t be able to hold the assassin off for much longer.

  “You’ll run out of ammo in no time at this rate,” Constantine said. “I wish I’d kept the other pistol.”

  “Hofmann’s shotgun. Where is it?”

  “He locked it in the gun safe.”

  Sokolov swore. “Let’s get out of here. I can smell gasoline. If the fuel tank is leaking, the car will blow up.”

  Sokolov kept the assassin pinned back, shooting at the car while they made a run for it, escaping through the demolished window. The handgun clicked, the magazine empty. Sokolov discarded the weapon as he and Constantine sprinted to the far side of the house.

  No sooner had they reached the other side of the chalet than a fireball boomed behind them, shaking the building, flames erupting from where the living room had been. The fuel tanks of modern cars were made of plastic instead of metal to reduce the total mass, damaging easily. A trickle of fuel had crept up to a burning chunk of wood, igniting and producing the blast.

  They continued toward the area where the indoor pool and garage were located.

  Then they saw specks of blood on the frost-covered ground in front of them, the red trail leading to the big Bullmastiff who lay motionless.

  Willy was dead.

  The dog’s fawn coat shimmered with crimson in the dying rays of the sun.

  “The poor thing,” Constantine muttered.

  Sokolov said nothing. He felt anger tightening in his chest. His fist clenched.

  Chunks of dirt exploded under their feet, kicked up by slugs burying in the ground.

  Sokolov spun around to see the assassin giving chase and shooting at them.

  The killer’s face was twisted in a vicious grimace as he dragged his injured leg behind him, blood streaking down his pants. He’d managed to run clear of the explosion, but the right side of his face had been singed, and together with the limp it had thrown his aim off.

  He pulled the trigger again.

  This time, the bullet hit Constantine.

  Horrified, Sokolov watched as his brother went down, hitting the ground.

  The assassin only had two more bullets left and he missed, emptying his gun into the glass façade of the swimming pool behind Sokolov.

  Bellowing like a madman, the killer closed down on Sokolov in a frenzy and swung the spent handgun as a melee weapon.

  Sokolov parried the blow with a raised arm and pummeled the killer’s ribs with an audible crack, putting all of his rage behind the punch. He followed through with an elbow uppercut that connected cleanly with the man’s jaw, the head snapping back. The assassin collapsed, crashing his skull against a rock. Blood oozed from his scalp.

  Sokolov rushed to his brother.

  There was a bright red splotch growing on the right side of Constantine’s ski jacket where the bullet had entered. He was clutching the wound as he tried to pick himself up, blood seeping through his fingers.

  “I’m fine,” he reported. “Just a scratch. Nothing to it. I’ve been through this before.”

  “Easy,” Sokolov replied as he helped him up. “We need to have a look at it and patch you up.”

  Time was short. Despite the chalet’s remote location, someone might have seen or heard the blast or the billowing smoke. Dealing with the police was something they wanted to avoid. They had to get out as fast as possible, while they still could.

  But first they had to check on Constantine’s condition. He rose unsteadily to his feet and his face was turning pale.

  Sokolov’s mind quickly worked out a solution.

  The garage.

  With luck, they would find a car inside, and it would have a first-aid kit.

  Sokolov approached the full-length glass entrance to the swimming pool. It displayed a pair of spider-web cracks where the bullets had pieced it, missing Sokolov, but the glass had held. Sokolov risked injury trying to smash it in, so he produced the Victorinox knife and attempted to pry it open. He succeeded, wedging the blade against the latch, and pulled the handle. The door slid open.

  The walked through the swimming pool area which led to the sauna and gym. Annexed to the recreational and fitness facilities was the covered garage. It had three parking spots, two of them taken up by a BMW sedan and a Porsche Macan SUV. On the far side, storage units were filled with camping gear, as well as a mountain bike and several pairs of skis.

  There was also a key box. Opening it, Sokolov found a fob with the Porsche logo on it. He pressed the unlock button and the Macan blinked twice. Raising the SUV’s rear hatch, he discovered a red pouch with a white cross stenciled on it, not dissimilar to the Swiss flag.

  Next, he had his brother take off his ski jacket and the shirt he wore underneath.

  Inspecting Constantine’s wound, Sokolov said a silent prayer of thanks.

  Fortunately, it was little more than a nick. The bullet had grazed tissue, exiting cleanly, delivering more damage to the jacket. It was almost symmetrical to the old scar on Constantine’s left side.

  “You were correct, the wound is superficial. You’ll live.”

  “Hurts like hell, though. A bit more sympathy would be nice.”

  “Count your blessings.”

  Next, Sokolov unpacked the first-aid kit, cleaned his hands with alcohol wipes, and proceeded to apply some antiseptic on an adherent pad, bandaging it up with gauze.

  “There. Good as new. You’ll need to take some analgesics and antibiotics as soon as we can find some, and you’ll have to stay bed for a while, but I think everything will be okay. You know the drill.”

  “I’m the elder brother,” Constantine said. “I should be taking take of you.”

  “If that means I’m the one who’s getting shot next time, I think I’ll pass.”

  There were a checkered flannel shirt and a red Canada Goose coat hanging on wall hooks, so Constantine put those on, wincing as he got dressed.

  Sokolov handed him the key fob.

  “Wait in the car until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.”

  He grabbed a coil of nylon rope and headed out of the garage, stopping by the gym. The fitness equipment included a rowing machine, a big, blue exercise ball, and assorted weights. Out of the various pieces, he chose the largest kettlebell and picked it up. At twenty-four kilograms, it had decent heft. Walking past the swimming pool, he dropped the two items onto a chaise lounge, and exited the chalet.

  He found the assassin lying flat on the ground where he’d left him.

  Sokolov reached down to his neck and checked the man’s pulse. He was alive. The carotid artery throbbed under Sokolov’s fingers. Sokolov frisked him, patting him over until he discovered a Russian diplomatic passport, which identified him as Zelimkhan Mahmoudov.

  Sokolov pocketed it.

  Perhaps it was fake, but now Sokolov had a name for the scumbag who’d killed Hofmann, Matilda, and Willy, and wounded Constantine. Sokolov seethed at the thought of nearly losing his brother.

  Zelimkhan was a Chechen-sounding name. So, an abrek working for the Kremlin, with a slew of contract killings across Europe under his belt.

  Sokolov couldn’t let him live. More innocent people would die otherwise. There was no telling how many others he’d murdered already.

  Besides, Sokolov had to protect himself and his brother, but he didn’t put too much faith in handing the assassin over to the authorities. The Swiss justice system was notoriously lax. Sokolov was sure that if they just walked away, it wouldn’t be the last they’d see of the killer.

  The bastard had to be exterminated, Sokolov knew.

  But he’d run out of bullets. And strangling him bare-handed or stabbing him with a pocket knife was no option. Sokolov took no pleasure in carrying out the execution.

  It had to be done in the old-fashioned Cossack way.
>
  And it would send a message to the enemy in Moscow.

  It wasn’t one of mercy and forgiveness.

  He’d make the Kremlin think twice before deploying a fresh batch of killers.

  Sokolov grabbed the assassin from behind by his shoulders, pulled him up, hooked his arms under the abrek’s armpits and dragged him to the indoor pool area, where he lifted him onto the chaise lounge.

  Then he took out the knife, cutting a length of the nylon rope as he unlooped it. It was two centimeters thick, extremely sturdy, great for camping or mountain-climbing use, and perfect for tying someone up. He tightly wrapped several coils around the Chechen’s wrists, then crossed the ends of the rope between the hands as he secured the knot. Using the same method, Sokolov bound the killer’s ankles and knees. The twenty-meter-long rope was enough. Finally, he cinched a piece of cord around Zelimkhan’s neck like a noose and fastened the other end around the handle of the kettlebell.

  The abrek groaned. He was coming round.

  The chaise lounge had wheels, so Sokolov carted it toward the edge of the pool.

  Regaining consciousness, the Chechen opened his eyes and realized that he’d been bound.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing, bro?”

  Suddenly, he figured out what was going on.

  “Stop! Don’t do it! Let me go! Bro, I beg you!”

  “Save your breath,” Sokolov replied.

  Then he pushed the chaise lounge forcefully, tilting it over, and the Chechen tumbled into the water with a splash.

  It was the deepest part of the pool, and the kettlebell tugged the abrek two meters down to the bottom, head down.

  Zelimkhan’s muted scream came out in a stream of bubbles surging to the water’s surface.

  He was writhing helplessly, immobilized, unable to free himself from the deadly weight which anchored him to the bottom of the swimming pool. He gulped for air, his lungs sucking in water instead, causing agony. As he thrashed, the nylon rope tightened over his throat.

  Sokolov had no desire to watch his death throes.

  He turned away and walked back to the garage where his brother was waiting for him.