Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  The SVR had discovered a Monaco bank account jointly opened by the Sokolovs.

  Shortly, a hawala payment would be sent there, the transfer linking them with Azizi.

  Details of Eugene Sokolov’s flight to the Maldives to meet the Taliban warlord would also emerge.

  For the cherry on top, following the assassination, traces of Novichok-7 would be found in Constantine’s body, indicating that the unfortunate killer had also poisoned himself inadvertently.

  The Kremlin would forge sufficient proof suggesting that Sokolov had obtained the Novichok sample during his service in EMERCOM by stealing it from a Russian chemical research facility years earlier.

  With Constantine dead, Eugene would be hunted across Europe, from France to the U.K. The Western law enforcement agencies would finish the Kremlin’s job. The Sokolovs would be eliminated and the blame for the terrorist plot would be deflected onto them.

  The plan was panning out perfectly.

  Rolling the trolley toward the service lift, Phil smiled to himself.

  All his suffering and humiliation would finally pay off now, even the French classes he’d had to endure at the dreaded boarding school.

  After all those years, he would prove his worth to his father. His real father.

  He was on the cusp of achieving it.

  And for him to succeed, Prince Harry had to die—tonight.

  54

  Transitioning between consciousness and a black void, Constantine lay on the cold, hard floor, not knowing how much time had elapsed. He’d been drugged for sure, but it had done little to ease the pain he was floating in as it washed over his whole body.

  The swelling bruise in his chest where he’d been tasered was sore.

  A skull-splitting migraine pulsated in his temples. The gunshot wound in his side throbbed.

  His limbs felt as if they’d been ripped apart.

  But he couldn’t give in to the pain. He had to fight, move, get out of there. He would not survive another session of reverse hanging.

  He forced his eyes open as door hinges creaked.

  A thin, frail figure appeared, silhouetted in the light spilling through the door frame, and shoved forcefully inside the room as the door snapped shut.

  It was Henri, the French majordomo.

  Staggering from the push in the back, he almost tripped and fell.

  His left eye was bruised and swollen shut. Blood from a split lip had caked in the corner of his mouth.

  The Frenchman spun around, banging his fists against the locked door.

  “Animals! Brutes! Let me out of here at once!”

  His indignation was futile.

  “It’s no use, save your energy,” Constantine said.

  Pushing himself off the tiles, he managing to sit upright, propping against a wall.

  The Frenchman pivoted, startled, as if noticing him for the first time.

  “Monsieur Constantine! Mon Dieu! What have they done to you?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. And you? You look like you’ve taken quite a beating? What happened?”

  “Those bastards! They tricked me, they’ve used me, and now they want to get rid of me! I can’t believe I was so stupid. Oh la la. I’m so, so sorry. All of this is my fault! I should have told Mademoiselle Marina everything right from the very beginning.”

  “Call down and tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I need to get a grip.”

  Henri looked around cautiously to check if anyone else might be watching and produced a silver-plated hip flask from his pocket.

  He unscrewed the cap and as he was about to take a swig, he stopped suddenly and offered it to Constantine.

  “Pardon my poor manners,” the Frenchman said. “How long have you been here? You must be terribly thirsty. Here, please drink it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Perrier mixed with passion fruit sirop.”

  Constantine stared at it. His throat felt parched, his tongue dry. He gratefully took the flask from Henri’s hands, and brought it to his cracked lips that longed to quench his thirst with the sweet, syrupy liquid.

  He stopped, his mind clearing abruptly, a sense of danger spiking.

  Mustering all of his strength and resolve, he bolted to his feet, grabbed Henri by the shirt lapel and slammed the Frenchman against the wall, pinning him as he held the flask to his face.

  “Very kind of you to share, Monsieur Henri, but I insist that you taste it first.”

  Constantine himself was surprised at his sudden burst of energy, kicked into action by some primeval survival instinct.

  Henri, who had least expected it, looked terrified.

  “Non, non, stop!” he muttered.

  “Drink it!” Constantine growled. “Or I’ll bite your head off.”

  “I won’t!”

  He tried to force the spout of the flask into the Frenchman’s mouth, who clamped his teeth, squealing in protest.

  “Why not? Is it because it’s laced with poison?”

  Desperation flashed in Henri’s ratlike eyes.

  Sharply, he swatted Constantine’s hand away, knocking the flask free, and it dropped to the floor, its contents tricking out and pooling on the tiles.

  He started yelling in panic.

  “Help! We’re all gonna die! He’s trying to kill me! Get me out!”

  The door burst open and a beefy guard rushed into the room, Taser raised.

  As the twin barbs shot out at Constantine, he yanked Henri sideways, hurtling him at the guard, and the wire-attached darts hit the Frenchman, zapping him. His body jerked and he crumpled to the floor.

  Constantine was on to the guard immediately, leaping across the room in a couple of quick strides, prey becoming predator as the hired thug found himself weaponless. Constantine slugged him, smashing a fist into the side of his head, and the guy passed out.

  Who was he? SVR or Mafia? How many more thugs were around? None of it mattered. Constantine just had to make a run for it and get the hell out.

  He patted the man’s pants pockets and discovered a phone.

  His phone.

  He grabbed it and dashed through the door.

  They’d been keeping him in an empty, windowless room of an apartment. Nobody else was there. Constantine hurried through the exit door, and scrambled down the stairs and out into the street.

  Dazed, he spun his head around, taking in his surroundings, the store signs in French lining the narrow street and a blue strip of the Med visible in the distance giving clues to where he was.

  He whipped the phone out and brought up the maps app, which centered on his location, dispelling all doubt.

  He couldn’t afford to stand still, he had to move. The kidnappers could be chasing him.

  Marching down the sidewalk, he swiped over to the dialer and hit Eugene’s number.

  Blood rushed in his veins as beeps sounded and he waited for his brother to pick up the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” Constantine said. “I think I’m fine.”

  “Thank God. Where are you?”

  “It sounds crazy, but I’m in Monaco.”

  “Not too crazy—because so am I. I’m here to get you out. Send me your location.”

  Constantine did, hitting the share button from the maps. He was somewhere in La Rousse, a residential district dotted with luxury apartment blocks at the northeastern edge of the Principality. The 170-meter-high Tour Odéon, the highest building in Monaco overlooking the area, towering above the more traditional Mediterranean housing, was the telltale sign, visible from afar. Constantine headed toward it.

  Five minutes later, Eugene’s Lamborghini Urus SUV swung off the Boulevard d’Italie at a blistering speed and braked next to Constantine. He jumped into the passenger seat of the vehicle and it raced off.

  “Welcome back,” his brother grinned. “You had me worried: don’t do it again.”

  “So we’re back in Monaco. How did you know whe
re to find me?”

  “I didn’t. I knew where to find Phil Korolev. Tracking him down, I was going to follow him to you—but fortunately, you made it easier for both of us. Phil is plotting an attack against Prince Harry and Prince Albert the Second as his secondary target.”

  “Yeah, I know that Phil is also here. I saw him at that place where they kept me, but he left a few hours ago.”

  “What’s his plan, though? Blowing up a cargo ship full of ammonium nitrate at the Port d’Hercule and wiping Monaco off the face of the earth? It would guarantee killing both princes.”

  “Monaco is the Kremlin’s favorite playground, the oligarchs would hate to see it destroyed. No, I think he’s going for something a bit more subtle. His henchman, Henri, tried to poison me with what I believe was Novichok. It was part of a setup. I’m sure that’s what he’ll try to use. And he’ll be doing it now. The Gala makes for a perfect opportunity. Prince Harry should be arriving to the hotel at any minute now. If I were Phil, this is where I would strike.”

  “I’ll check it out but I need to drop you off at a hospital first.”

  “The hospital can wait. I’m your elder brother, listen to me for once. There’s no time! Step on it!”

  On his way to the Diamond Suite, Phil encountered an obstacle.

  A guard stood at the entrance. The private security operator had a formidable, no-nonsense look about him—muscles bulging under his black suit, earpiece wire running into the jacket.

  Phil flashed a smile at him.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” he said. “If you may … A surprise for the Duke and Duchess and Sussex before their arrival. Compliments of the management.”

  The security man sized him up suspiciously. He motioned for Phil to open the hotbox in the lower part of the trolley. Phil complied. Peering inside, the guard ascertained that it was empty.

  Then he turned to the ice bucket. He pulled the champagne bottle out and dug his fingers in to make sure there was nothing else but the ice cubes inside.

  Satisfied with the check, he slotted a keycard into the electronic lock.

  The mechanism clicked.

  The guard turned the handle, pulling the door open, and let Phil in.

  “Merci, monsieur.”

  The straightforward route took under four minutes as Sokolov blazed through the mile-long stretch of the typically narrow Mediterranean road, attacking the curves.

  “After one hundred meters, turn left, then immediately turn right,” the navigator prompted between bleeps signaling that he was exceeding the speed limit.

  The Urus charged down the boulevard leading to the Hermitage Hotel until finally it came into view.

  There was no way to access the hotel building. The area was sealed off by the Monegasque police. Security was a serious matter in the Principality, with one policeman per one hundred residents.

  Swinging curbside, Sokolov squeezed the SUV into a vacant spot next to a row of mopeds in front of a Zara retail store which faced the hotel.

  Sokolov scanned the surroundings until finally he spotted the vehicle he was looking for.

  The charcoal-black Aventador with U.K. plates.

  “He’s inside the hotel.”

  “Are you sure?” Constantine asked.

  “Yeah, that’s Phil’s car over there.”

  “Just great. Okay, so how do we stop him? No chance the police will let us in. I don’t think they’ll listen to us.”

  “They might, depending on what we tell them. I’ve got an idea. If we can’t get Phil, or convince the police to go after him, we’ll derail Phil’s plan by flushing him out and preventing Prince Harry from entering the hotel.”

  “A diversion?”

  “Right,” Sokolov said. “How is your French?”

  “Should still be good enough.”

  The Diamond Suite—also known as the Princely Suite—more than lived up to its name.

  With an total area of just under 300 square meters, stretching across three bedrooms and a separate sitting area, the tastefully furnished palatial suite also featured three terraces which offered panoramic views of the Med and the yacht-lined marina. It accommodated up to nine guests, and the nightly rate started at 25,000 Euros, coming with a full package of extra perks that the five-star luxury hotel had to offer.

  Phil’s imagination ran rampant, exploring the ample options to utilize the Novichok.

  The door handle wouldn’t do—someone else would probably be holding the door open for the royals, anyway.

  But with objects that necessitated direct skin contact, the possibilities were endless. In the master bathroom, he could smear the poison all over the water tap handles, shower heads, toilet seats, vanity kits and the fashion-designer-branded bath amenities, towels, as well as inside the fluffy, monogrammed robes. Moving on to the bedroom, the pillows and bedsheets were the most enticing choices.

  He had more than enough Novichok for each item he wanted to mark.

  Even a few droplets of the nerve agent would suffice for a lethal exposure through prolonged physical touch.

  He started off with the champagne, however.

  First, he spaced the pair of flutes evenly apart and aimed the atomizer carefully to spray some Novichok. As he pumped the button on the spray bottle, puffs of colorless, odorless mist discharged. He made sure that the slick, emulsified substance covered the slender, tapered glass surface, the stem, and especially the rim of each flute.

  A roaring siren blared from a ceiling-mounted speaker directly above him, startling him, and Phil jumped up, pulse banging in his throat, blood rushing in his ears, the tiny bottle slipping out of his fingers.

  He watched in horror as the Novichok container dropped to the hard floor, landing at his feet, his heart skipping a beat as it bounced and rolled.

  He started breathing again, realizing that it remained intact.

  Sweat rolled down his forehead and he wiped the beads of perspiration with a sleeve.

  Then he knelt to pick up the container.

  The siren kept blaring.

  A recorded female voice announced monotonously in both French and English,

  “Attention! Dear guests, please leave the building immediately via your nearest fire exit as quickly as possible. Attention! …”

  What the hell was going on?

  The doors to the suite flew open and the security guard rushed in.

  “What are you still doing here? There’s a bomb threat. Get out!”

  Phil scrambled to his feet, pocketing the Novichok bottle.

  No, no, no!

  For a moment he just stood there in astonishment before following the guard out into the hallway and to the stairs.

  It was impossible. Phil struggled to believe it. His feet carried him to the fire escape, but his mind protested. He had been so close to his target, but now the entire building was being evacuated over a threatening phone call? Instead of the hotel, the Sussexes would be diverted to a safe location because of a suspected terrorist attack. He almost laughed at the irony.

  Something wasn’t right, he thought. It couldn’t have been some random pranksters who’d ruined everything.

  Heading downstairs and reaching the ground floor, he walked through the elegant, stuccoed lobby, moving past white columns and potted plants. Groups of harried guests and staff were herded through the exit by several police officers.

  In a daze, Phil went out into the courtyard, making his way through a crowd milling about as he marched across the street to his Lamborghini Aventador. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he opened the trunk on the forward part of the vehicle and checked its contents.

  The 700-horsepower beast of an engine was mid-mounted, with only about a hundred liters of cargo space placed in the front of the car instead of the rear.

  Phil blew a sigh of relief. Sure enough, or was still there. A plastic oil canister. Instead of an engine lubricant, the can contained five liters of Novichok solution.

  He would have to kill everyone at the
Gala. The collateral damage of a few hundred people inside the opera house didn’t bother him as long as he finished the job and both Harry and Albert were dead, together with their families.

  The Casino de Monte-Carlo entertainment complex was equipped with a sophisticated air conditioning system. Adding the nerve agent mixture to the system controlling the relative humidity level, he would fill the air with the toxin.

  The tried and true method had been employed by Russian security forces during the Moscow theater siege years ago, when during an FSB-led false flag operation, alleged Chechen terrorists had taken hostage 850 people packed inside an auditorium, and Russian special forces had unleashed an unspecified toxic substance through the ventilation system, killing hundreds of innocent civilians in the chemical attack instead of rescuing them.

  Only two hundred meters separated him from the ornate façade of the opera building.

  The Aventador’s scissor-style door rotated vertically as Phil climbed behind the wheel. The monstrous engine started with a growl.

  Phil’s phone rang. Unknown number.

  He tapped the answer button on the controls console.

  “It’s the end of the road for you, Phil,” he heard Eugene Sokolov say. “The opera house is cordoned off and surrounded by the Carabiniers. The French RAID counterterrorism unit is on its way from Nice to apprehend you. But they won’t get here in time—I’m going to kill you first.”

  “Bullshit!” Phil spat. “You’re bluffing. You won’t dare do anything against me or your brother’s finished.”

  “Sorry. You’ve lost.”

  Phil swore at the bastard and killed the connection.

  He gripped the Alcantara-wrapped steering wheel and floored the gas pedal.

  The Aventador thundered away, swerving around the corner, out of the narrow street and down the snaking road which joined the boulevard.

  The operation had been blown. He was forced to admit as much.

  But he refused to accept defeat.

  He hit Avenue d’Ostende, feeling like a Formula 1 pilot on the Monaco Grand Prix race circuit, adrenaline pumping. The harbor flashed by on his left.