He looked outside at the gray city beyond and wondered just how he and his brother had ended up like this, stuck between the two warring factions locked in an invisible battle for the throne. The King of Graft, unwittingly set to become the first Woke Czar before he had a chance to abdicate, and the Kremlin Khan, vying to crown himself as Mother Russia’s Murderous Monarch. Where did that leave them? Having to fight for their own lives. But there was no other way, nothing else they could do but keep going, carrying the torch until either Moscow was defeated or they were dead. The latter was always more likely, but they’d die trying.
For now there was little he could do but wait. He wanted to join the action when Sir Gray’s contacts in the police went after Berisha, but it was not in his hands anymore.
Constantine’s phone vibrated on silent. He expected Eugene to be ringing him from the airport.
The name displayed on the screen surprised him.
Marina Dubrovskaya.
He hit the answer button.
“Hello?”
“Constantine?”
“Yes?”
“Hi. Are you free to talk right now?”
“Sure, Marina. I’m listening.”
“I was wondering if you were still in London.”
“Why?” he asked cautiously.
“I was going through my dad’s files. And I think I’ve found something. It’s a document. A signed contract of some sort. I’d really rather not discuss it over the phone.”
“I understand.”
“But it really surprised me. There was mention of Prince Harry. And that word you asked me about—Jutland. I remembered that it was important for you …” her voice trailed off. “I don’t know what to make of it. You really need to see it for yourself.”
“Okay, where do you want to meet? Same as last time?”
“No,” she said. “This place has too many prying eyes—and ears. Monsieur Henry, the majordomo. I don’t trust him.”
“Where, then? You know London far better than I do. Can you suggest a safe spot?”
“Fine,” she said. “How about Hyde Park? Would that work for you?”
He peered out of the window again. He could make out the treetops at the end of the street.
“Yes, that would work very well indeed.”
Marina terminated the call. For some reason, she felt uneasy about it.
“How was it?” she asked, lifting her eyes off the phone screen and looking at the two men seated in front of her.
“I believe you’ve done brilliantly, Ms. Marina,” said Monsieur Henri.
“And you’ve done the right thing,” added the other man.
“Mr. Korolev knows what he’s talking about,” the majordomo noted sycophantically.
The man he’d introduced to her, Phil Korolev, locked his dark eyes on her.
“Constantine Sokolov is an extremely dangerous and violent individual. Back in Russia, he is facing terrorism charges.”
A soft gasp escaped her lips.
“No need to worry,” Korolev continued. “We are not entirely sure what he wanted from you, but you can be certain that he was up to no good. But now you will be safe from him. You are not only helping your Motherland but taking care of your own security. And your future. You made a wise decision by agreeing to work with us. Our legal team will provide you with full support in the courtroom. Later, after you’ve taken control of your father’s companies, we will bring in a team of experts to manage the business side of things on your behalf. Trust me, your assets will be in safe hands. You won’t have to worry about anything and you’ll be set for life. All you’ll have to do is reap the rewards.”
“What about Constantine?”
Phil gave her a disarming smile.
“His fate should be of no concern to you. No harm will befall him. We’ll just give him a talk. Let him know that he should mind his own business and stop sticking his nose in. Trying to con a young woman grieving over her father’s death is really rather despicable, if you ask me. I’m sure he’ll get the message. We need to ward him off for good, so he won’t bother you again.”
“All right,” she said. “Whatever you say. I’m really glad Monsieur Henri introduced you. I feel a lot more surefooted now.”
“Believe me,” said Monsieur Henri, “Mr. Korolev is someone you can always count on.”
Hyde Park, originally the hunting ground for Henry VIII, was the largest Royal Park in central London, which, together with Kensington Gardens neighboring it to the west, formed a continuous green area spanning nearly 600 acres. Incidentally, the Russian Embassy was located on one of the adjacent streets.
In almost five hundred years of its history, Hyde Park had seen its share of events ranging from duels between aristocrats and military executions to Royal jubilees and the Great Exhibition of 1851. The park’s sprawling grounds had been a meeting place for free speech gatherings, protests, and demonstrations. Its Speaker’s Corner had been used by such orators as Marx and Lenin. Rotten Row, a graveled carriage track running along the southern edge of Hyde Park, was London’s first road which had been illuminated to ward off highwaymen.
Unlike Kensington Gardens, which closed earlier, Hyde Park remained open for public access until midnight.
There were several roads and pathways crisscrossing the vast expanse of the park.
Constantine entered from the south entrance, the closest to the lake and followed a walkway. The huge body of water called the Serpentine was a short distance away. They’d arranged to meet at a restaurant positioned directly on the edge of the lake. He would get there in about seven or eight minutes, according to his phone’s navigation software.
The E3 agent shadowed him, his compact crossover rolling quietly along Serpentine Road. As Constantine turned off to a different pathway, joined with a bicycle track, the man stopped the vehicle, jumped out and continued tracking him on foot.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows and blazing hues to the tall trees lining the walkway. A layer of yellowed leaves they had shed was strewn onto the green carpet of grass.
It wasn’t crowded. An elderly couple sat on a bench throwing chunks of stale bread to a group of pigeons. A couple of joggers and a cyclist passed him by. A few people were walking their dogs near the trees. Constantine glanced over his shoulder, spying the E3-assigned minder who trailed him, keeping a distance of around fifty meters. Suddenly, Constantine saw another man, dressed in a hoodie, approach the agent from behind and stick a knife into his ribs. The E3 man’s knees buckled and he went down soundlessly, hitting the ground like a sack of cement.
The knifeman continued toward Constantine without breaking his stride. A flash of skin below the long sleeve of his hoodie showed a twin-headed Albanian eagle tattooed on his wrist.
Tonight Hyde Park was indeed a hunting ground—for a certain kind of two-legged predator. And Constantine was the prey.
A woman pushing a baby stroller screamed at the sight of blood.
Was it an ambush? It certainly was no chance encounter. What about Marina, was she in danger, too? Or had she lured him into a trap? What was he to do, run for his life, fleeing from the park, or head toward the lake and try to warn her? Constantine had no time to think. He had to lose the Albanian killer first and foremost. Then he would decide his next move. He spun around and broke into a sprint.
Another figure appeared before him, aiming what looked like a toy gun. It was no toy, but neither was it a firearm. The weapon shot out a pair wire-attached barbed darts that hit Constantine’s chest, delivering repeated electric shocks that jolted his body with unbelievable pain and disrupted his nerve signals. Tasered, Constantine immediately lost mobility, unable to move his limbs, and crashed down.
The only sensation he remembered next was that of his attackers grabbing him and dragging his incapacitated body toward a waiting car.
Then his vision dimmed and he blacked out.
40
The executive jet landed at the airport locat
ed on Hulhulé, the nearest island to the nation’s capital of Malé. The runway stretched out on a narrow sandy strip, and as the Dassault Falcon touched down, it appeared to glide over the turquoise water surrounding it. The airlifted mercenary team and their luggage were quickly transferred to the seaplane terminal, not warranting even a perfunctory check by customs or immigration officials. Apparently, the influence of the E3 lodge ran far. From there, a DHC-6 Twin Otter amphibious turboprop shuttled them to their ultimate destination, reaching it in another twenty minutes.
A private island for rent.
The dedicated resort would serve as their base camp, which seemed almost like a wasteful use of that piece of paradise.
The detached, ten-bedroom, 2,000-square-meter villa and auxiliary buildings sprawled across the one-hectare-sized island, encircled by fine white sand, swaying green palm trees, and the emerald-blue of the ocean seemingly spanning to infinity.
Outside, a viewing platform with day beds offered direct access to the lagoon. A powerful speedboat was moored at the private berth and jetty, intended for such outdoor activities as fishing and diving. A stunning overwater swimming pool visually merged with the ocean.
Sokolov and the team of mercenaries entered the main house. In the gargantuan reception lounge, the five ex-SAS operators began unpacking their gear, laying an assortment of weapons out on a refectory dining table.
The dive suits and full-face snorkel masks weren’t unlike similar items used by tourists visiting the Maldives.
Presenting a lot less common sight were the pistols, submachine guns, and plenty of ammo to last an hours-long firefight, as well as knives and hand grenades. There was also a host of electronic equipment like radio earpieces and even, Sokolov noticed, a drone. An off-the-shelf consumer model of what looked like a high-end quadcopter.
The light-filled villa itself was ultramodern, featuring several terraces with teak decking, large indoor spaces, and grandiose bathrooms.
It was identical to the one owned by Azizi. Both had been designed and built by an award-winning British architect. The E3 had obtained the floor plans but nothing could beat the real thing for studying the layout. It provided perfect preparation ahead of the raid.
Sokolov completed the walk-around, familiarizing himself with the villa’s design, and saw that no expense had been spared in the furnishing. There was a Jacuzzi next to the king-sized bed in the master suite.
He stepped out on the rooftop sun terrace, joined by Andy.
“Where did Azizi get the money for something like this?” Sokolov asked, peering into the blue beyond. “Even leasing a similar place costs a fortune, let alone buying it outright. A private island complete with a luxury villa must be worth tens of millions.”
“Heroin,” Andy replied. “Azizi is one of the biggest drug kingpins in Afghanistan.”
“I see,” Sokolov mused. “A triumvirate of Azizi, Berisha, and Korolev makes perfect sense.”
The outline of Azizi’s island was visible two kilometers away. Instead of a staff of servants, the separate guest bungalows would be housing a phalanx of armed guards.
Even this divine corner of the world no longer remained unspoiled.
“Something bothering you, mate?”
“Yes,” Sokolov replied. “You’re from SAS. It stands for Special Air Service, right? I’d feel a lot more confident going into this mission if you were with the Special Boat Service.”
“Really funny,” Andy replied. “That’s not what you really have on your mind, though, is it?”
“It’s been more than twenty years, Andy. The war on terror. Your involvement in Afghanistan. Twenty years—and nothing to show for it. What have you achieved? What purpose did the invasion serve? Did your politicians and your generals have a plan when they sent in the troops? What were they thinking when they decided to keep a military force in a landlocked country in Asia? One might think that they would have learned from the Soviets’ mistakes. Or many others who attempted to conquer that country over the centuries—and failed. The British Empire included. But no. It’s still a mess, and you’ve caused more problems than you solved, not knowing how to get out. All at the expense of billions of dollars and thousands of lives. Meanwhile, the likes of Azizi are still around, and you and your lads are chasing them here, half a world away from home. Will the madness ever end?”
“So you’re not the only historian in the Sokolov family,” Andy chuckled. “And on top of that, a philosopher. Me, I’m just a soldier. I don’t ask questions, I shoot bad guys. I’ll leave the reasoning to you, gaffer. But I’d hate to think it was all for naught. You know as well as I do that all the big calls are made across the pond, so your rant should be directed at the Pentagon or your mate from the CIA. As for the U.K., we just chipped in and did our bit like any good ally is supposed to do. You’re right, we’ve been there before, though, so many of us knew that the Afghan War was unwinnable. But tell me, can you win your personal war on terror? The one you’re waging against Frolov?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it really? Not the way I see it. I know that you and your brother are warriors as well. So let’s prepare for war. I can’t offer solutions to the world’s problems, but I do know that unless we stop Korolev and Azizi, things are going to get far worse than they are now and there will be no end in sight.”
“Fair enough.” Sokolov nodded. “Speaking of villas. If I remember correctly, Harry has moved to California. He owns a home in a rich community outside LA, taking up permanent residence there. He bought the house from a Russian billionaire, someone who is likely to be connected to the Kremlin. It wouldn’t surprise me if Russian security services knew all the nooks and crannies around the place. Penetrating it would present no problem to them. Now imagine a terrorist attack on American soil at the hands of Taliban proxies.”
“The bombing would not only solve the Harry problem for Frolov,” Andy said. “It might draw the U.S. and the rest of NATO back into Afghanistan for years to come.”
“Looks like there might be more at stake than the Kremlin throne,” Sokolov said. The sun was setting, projecting a golden tint in the sky and giving a darker shade of blue to the ocean water. “It’s almost time. Let’s get moving. This war is the one we’ve got to win, perhaps to avoid a much bigger one.”
41
The island’s security team numbered a few of Azizi’s men. Eight to ten at most, judging by the floor layouts and the number of beds. Only so many could be quartered in the bungalows, and no bigger force was required, anyway. The vast expanse of the ocean provided natural protection. Their job came down to fighting boredom instead of any real threats. Some doubled as the villa’s service and maintenance staff. Others accompanied Azizi on his trips when he departed from the island.
A pair of Taliban sentries patrolled the beach, strolling around with their AKs slung over their shoulders. At night-time, the humidity still hung in the damp air but the oppressive heat had toned down a few notches. The serene tropical surroundings hardly aided their vigilance. Yet one of the Afghans spotted something moving through the still air, against the dark backdrop of the starry sky. He called to his comrade pointing upward, tracing the flying object’s path with his finger.
It was a drone, they realized as they started shouting in alarm.
Equipped with an ultra-high-definition camera, it was capable of aerial reconnaissance.
Azizi’s men snatched their AKs, aiming the rifles at the drone. Too late.
Wraith-like, two wetsuit-clad figures emerged from the darkness, seawater dripping off their bodies, and attacked the guards silently from behind, clamping down the Afghans’ mouths and slitting the throats in well-practiced motions. A pair of fresh corpses crashed onto the sand at the frogmen’s feet.
But if the dead Taliban members had thought the quadcopter was spying on the villa, they had guessed wrong.
The drone carried a payload.
Four olive-colored blocks taped to its underside, totalin
g two kilos of C4 explosives.
The drone swooped above the shore, over the jetty, and headed toward the bungalows.
Then the remote-controlled demolition charge detonated.
The dark stillness of the night was shattered by a monumental blast that shook the island.
Instead of the Taliban’s sleeping quarters, the kamikaze drone hit the outbuilding which housed the electric generators. In a secondary explosion, thousands of liters of diesel fuel blew up, delivering maximum damage and destroying the building.
A column of fire engulfed everything around it. Palm trees ignited like matchsticks. Flaming debris rained down on the thatched roofs of the bungalows, setting them ablaze. Calamity ensued. Screams sounded.
Andy Stevenson and his partner, a battle-scarred, tenacious wee Scotsman named McGill, moved on to the next target.
They had to secure the jetty.
As they approached it, they encountered a befuddled guard who stood watching the distant blaze, unable to decide what to do. A twitch of Andy’s finger on the trigger cut him down.
“Bluefish Three, this is Bluefish One,” Andy said into his radio mic. “All clear. Over.”
Seconds later, the powerboat pulled up, its shape drawing nearer as it raced to the jetty, water spraying in its wake, to unload the rest of the assault team, including Sokolov. All were clad in black and toted submachine guns.
They headed toward the houses, to neutralize the Taliban guards and capture the villa.
Gunfire erupted, chattering in the distance as McGill and the four other operators engaged with the Taliban members while Sokolov and Andy went after Azizi.
Sokolov gripped his submachine gun as he followed Andy inside the villa. Like the rest of the team, Sokolov wore a black running top, cargo pants, and lightweight, durable boots. The maximum performance sportswear substituted for military gear and helped him blend into the night.
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 16