Gray Salvation

by Alan McDermott

  ‘Could I leave that in the boot of my car and come back for it after the meeting?’

  ‘Yes, but the battery life is something like five hours, so don’t leave it too long.’

  Harvey thanked Small and asked him to make sure the receiver was fully charged, then headed back to his desk and checked Bessonov’s file to see when Polushin usually visited the restaurant. According to the surveillance logs, they met every Tuesday and Friday, always around two in the afternoon.

  That gave him twenty-four hours to come up with a way to plant the bug and learn what secret was big enough to kill for.

  Chapter 4

  19 January 2016

  Hamad Farsi pulled over opposite the Petrushkin restaurant at three in the morning and killed the engine. Lights still shone through the windows of the eatery, and a couple of burly men stood chatting outside, one of them smoking a cigarette.

  He’d driven past the restaurant four times in the previous two hours, looking for a parking space within range of the front door, and finally he was able to drop the car off in a spot that was marked as residents’ parking from eight in the morning until six in the evening. He knew some officious traffic warden would be issuing him with a parking ticket just after breakfast, but it wasn’t his problem. The company would pick up the tab on that one. His only concern was that the car might be towed before Harvey could get there to switch cars at lunchtime.

  He locked the Ford and walked east, never glancing in the direction of the two men guarding the front of the Petrushkin. When he reached the end of the road, he turned north and found Harvey waiting in his own car.

  ‘Finally found somewhere, then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Farsi said. ‘It’s a nightmare parking in this area.’

  Twenty minutes later, Harvey dropped Farsi off at his flat. ‘Sleep fast, my friend,’ he called out the car window as Farsi walked up the steps. ‘I’ll see you bright and early.’

  ‘I wish someone would invent a microwave bed,’ Farsi retorted. ‘Then I could get eight hours’ sleep in thirty minutes.’

  Andrew Harvey was looking through the preliminary coroner’s report when Farsi rolled in ten minutes late.

  ‘You look like crap.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Farsi said, giving in to a yawn. ‘I managed about two hours last night. It’d better be worth it.’

  ‘Consider yourself lucky you aren’t the one going in,’ Harvey said. ‘These aren’t the kind of people you want to meet alone in a dark alley.’

  He told Farsi to take a look at his screen, where the details of Sereyev’s death were laid bare.

  ‘They cut off his ears and tongue and gouged out his eyes?’ he noted. ‘Nice people.’

  ‘I think it’s a reference to the three wise monkeys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’

  ‘Or one mad Russian,’ Farsi said. ‘“Cross me and I’ll righteously fuck you up.”’

  ‘Either way, let’s be on our toes today.’

  Veronica Ellis appeared at the door to her office and gestured for the pair to join her, and when they entered the room she told them to close the door.

  ‘You’ve seen the report Gayle sent to me,’ she said to Harvey.

  ‘Yeah.’ Cooper had done as he’d asked and copied him in.

  ‘I just got off the phone with the commander of SO1, and I get the feeling he isn’t taking this seriously.’

  SO1, the Specialist Protection Branch from the Specialist Operations directorate of London’s Metropolitan Police Service, was tasked with protecting the prime minister as well as foreign dignitaries. They were in charge of the security operation for Viktor Milenko’s upcoming visit, and they received dozens of VIP-related threat alerts every day. The fact that this warning had come from MI5 should have moved it to the top of the list, but apparently that wasn’t the case.

  ‘What did he say?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘He wants definitive proof before he assigns any resources to it.’

  ‘An MI5 agent and his Russian snitch in the morgue so close to Milenko’s visit isn’t good enough for him?’

  ‘Not even close. I passed him Cooper’s report, and he said it was too thin. He said that if we can come back with dates, names and locations, he’ll look into it further.’

  It was frustrating, Harvey knew, but understandable. If the PM had been under threat, SO1 would have hopped to it. But every whack job and his brother made threats against the PM each day, straining even the large security force’s resources. It simply wasn’t feasible to assign already scarce personnel to the coming visit of the president of a petty principality like Tagrilistan. Not without hard proof of a threat.

  ‘I’ll get the team to work up possible attack scenarios. In the meantime, let’s hope we can plant the device and get Polushin and Bessonov to give us something to work with.’

  ‘You look like your grandfather,’ Farsi said as Harvey climbed into the car.

  ‘As long as it fools Bessonov’s thugs, that’s fine with me.’ Harvey was wearing a tweed jacket and fedora hat; a pair of horn-rimmed glasses completed the disguise. It wouldn’t stand up to close inspection, but he only needed it to walk to the car Farsi had parked earlier that morning and drive it away.

  Farsi drove to the street adjacent to the Petrushkin and dropped Harvey off at the side of the road.

  ‘Give me three minutes, then bring the car round,’ Harvey said as he climbed out. He opened the boot and switched on the receiver, then slammed it shut and banged once on the roof of the car.

  He walked round the corner and saw the restaurant on the opposite side of the road. A lone man stood outside, trying to look casual as he studied his mobile phone, but the telltale signs were clear. The Russian glanced up every few seconds, taking in the passing traffic and footfall that trudged past the door. Harvey hoped that nothing about his disguise or behaviour would give the lookout cause to take an interest in him.

  Harvey walked to the car and, as expected, found a parking ticket stuck underneath the windscreen wiper. He snatched it up with an angry gesture and stuffed it into his pocket, then opened the car, climbing in gingerly as if his joints were protesting each movement. He put on his seatbelt and checked the side mirror, waiting for Farsi’s approach. Thankfully, traffic was light at eleven in the morning, and he saw the car pull out of the side road and approach him. He let it get closer, then indicated to pull out. As planned, Farsi flashed his headlights to let Harvey make the manoeuvre, then pulled into the slot that had just been vacated.

  Harvey drove around the corner and parked on double yellow lines, then discarded his disguise and donned a raincoat just as his colleague joined him.

  ‘You ready for this?’ Farsi asked.

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ Harvey replied, though the tension in his voice betrayed his true feelings. He was about to venture into the lion’s den, and after many hours looking at Bessonov’s file – not to mention the images of the recently deceased – he was under no illusions as to what to expect if things turned nasty.

  Harvey took a miniature bottle of whiskey from his pocket and rinsed his mouth with it, then rubbed a few drops on his neck and coat until he was satisfied that he smelled like he’d spent some time in a pub.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, and climbed out of the car and into the rain shower that had started minutes earlier.

  He strolled clumsily round the corner and crossed the road, looking in the shop windows he passed. When he reached the Petrushkin, he stopped and looked at the menu in the window. He quickly realised why few real diners ever ventured inside. The cheapest starter cost more than fifteen pounds, and main meals began at forty-five. He guessed that was how Bessonov managed to account for such a high turnover for the company. He would ring up fake orders each day and put his own money in the till, enabling him to launder his ill-gotten gains through the business. It meant he paid only twenty per cent corporation tax, a small hit to take under the circumstances.

  Harvey had the transmitter cupped in his
hand, the backing already removed to make it easier to attach it. His peripheral vision told him that the doorman had lost interest in him, probably assuming he was going to be put off by the prices, and he took the opportunity to dart inside. There were two dozen tables arranged along both walls, enough to seat more than fifty diners, though none was occupied. A solid silver samovar housed in a glass case dominated one wall, and reproduction Fabergé eggs dotted the room. Cooper’s notes told him that Bessonov always sat at the round table near the kitchen, so Harvey made his way to it before anyone could stop him.

  He sat down heavily at the empty table and managed to get the sticker attached to its underside before the waiter had time to come round from behind the counter and confront him.

  ‘Not there!’ the man shouted.

  Harvey raised his hands in the air, as if surrendering. ‘Whoa, chief! Calm down, will ya?’

  ‘You cannot sit there,’ the waiter repeated, urging him to get to his feet.

  ‘Why the fuck not?’ Harvey slurred. ‘It’s a free country, ain’t it?’

  The commotion had brought other staff into the dining room, and a giant of a man grabbed Harvey by the collar and pulled him effortlessly out of the booth and thrust him towards the door.

  Harvey stumbled a few paces, then turned, planning to launch a final tirade before leaving, but the sight of the huge aggressor marching towards him gave him a change of heart. He scampered to the door and ran outside, then dashed across the road and disappeared around the corner.

  His pulse was still pounding in his ears when he reached Farsi’s car and climbed in.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  Chapter 5

  19 January 2016

  Alexi Bessonov arrived at the Petrushkin just after midday and went straight to his table, not needing to inform the waiter of his order. He knew the espresso would be brought to him within a minute, and he took off his coat and hung it on the hook on the wall.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, and three members of staff immediately went to see what he was referring to. A few drops of water were clearly visible on the leather seat, and a waiter quickly whipped out a cloth to dry it off.

  ‘How did they get there?’ Bessonov asked, his voice calm as always, masking his true emotional state.

  ‘Some drunk came in and sat in your chair before we could stop him.’

  Bessonov waited until the waiter had dried the seat, then sat and felt under the table for anything out of the ordinary. When he found nothing, he got down on his knees and gave the underside a visual inspection.

  All he could see was a sticker proclaiming the table fire resistant; he rubbed his hand over it before standing again.

  ‘Tell Aslan to sweep the entire room,’ he ordered as he got to his feet.

  The Chechen arrived minutes later with his electronic wand and scanned the booth thoroughly, but no telltale beeps were emitted from his device. He moved to the door and in the next twenty minutes covered the entire room before declaring it clear of listening devices.

  Satisfied, Bessonov relaxed and ordered the chef to whip up some caviar and blini, followed by kalduny, dumplings of unleavened dough filled with lobster. Polushin never ate during his visits, preferring a liquid lunch. But Bessonov didn’t like to drink on an empty stomach.

  The waiter was clearing away his plates when Polushin walked in the door, his bodyguard shaking hands with Bessonov’s men before taking a seat near the front of the restaurant.

  ‘Grigory, welcome.’

  Polushin took a seat and placed his attaché case on the table. Bessonov opened it and placed two bulging envelopes inside before locking it. With that part of the meeting out of the way, Bessonov snapped his fingers and the waiter appeared with a bottle of Stolichnaya Elit and a couple of shot glasses. He carefully poured two measures of the £2,000-a-bottle spirit.

  ‘Za vas!’ Polushin said as he raised his glass.

  ‘To you,’ Bessonov echoed.

  They drained the liquid, and Bessonov poured two more generous shots.

  ‘I understand you had a bit of a problem over the weekend,’ Polushin said.

  Bessonov shrugged. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’

  ‘So I heard. But I don’t like the idea of the British security services sniffing around. I need assurances that nothing is going to get in the way of our plans.’

  ‘It was nothing, really. MI5 have been trying to infiltrate my organisation for some time, and they thought Nikki would be a good way in. The poor soul liked his vices too much.’ Another shrug. ‘Evidently, he couldn’t afford to indulge them on the salary I paid. They saw the opportunity and offered him the money he wanted, and I dealt with the problem.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have dealt with it in a different way?’ Polushin asked.

  ‘You have nothing to fear,’ Bessonov assured him. ‘The team tasked with carrying out the operation is ready. Everything is in place, so there is no need for further communication between us until it is all over.’

  ‘And where is this team?’

  ‘I am housing them in a furniture factory,’ Bessonov said. ‘It is just one subsidiary of one of many holding companies I control. It would take them a year just to discover that I have an interest in it, by which time it will all be over and they’ll be back in Moscow.’

  Spetsnaz veterans had been flown in a month earlier on staggered flights from Sheremetyevo International Airport, each man a hardened warrior with plenty of combat experience. Polushin had arranged travel documents and work permits, allowing them to pose as workers should anyone from the immigration service decide to pay a surprise visit. The only tricky part had been securing the weapons they would need to carry out their assignment, but when price wasn’t a concern, anything became possible.

  ‘Very well,’ Polushin conceded, as he downed his third glass of vodka. ‘I will pass that on to Moscow. Thank you, as always, for the warm hospitality.’

  Both men rose and embraced, then Polushin headed for the door.

  Bessonov watched him leave, with a hundred grand in cash – minus Polushin’s cut – heading for his Swiss account after a brief stopover in Russia.

  ‘Polushin just left,’ Harvey said over the comms unit.

  He was sitting in a café a hundred yards from the Petrushkin, nursing a latte and once again wearing the tweed jacket and hat.

  ‘I’ll be there in five,’ Farsi replied.

  Harvey watched his colleague saunter into view and make for the parked car; once Farsi had driven away, Harvey walked out of the café and to his own vehicle.

  Hopefully, the conversation they recorded would not only contain incriminating evidence that could lead to Willard’s killers being caught but also give them the proof they needed to get SO1 to take them seriously. They wouldn’t know until Gayle Cooper translated it into English.

  When he arrived at the underground parking lot, he saw that Farsi had beaten him to Thames House. He took the elevator up to his floor and found a cup of hot decaf waiting for him.

  ‘Where’s the receiver?’ he asked.

  ‘Gerald already extracted the recording and put it in the database,’ Farsi said. ‘I called Gayle and said we’d be down in a few minutes.’

  Harvey grabbed his mug and the pair took the stairs down to the Russia desk, where Cooper sat with headphones over her ears as she typed up the conversation. She noticed them entering the room and held up a finger, then continued with the translation.

  Harvey stood behind her and watched the words appear on the screen. It took another four minutes before Cooper was done, and she printed out three copies.

  ‘Bessonov specifically mentions us and Sereyev,’ Cooper pointed out. ‘I think that’s enough to bring him in.’

  Harvey continued reading, and once he reached the end he took a seat and started over.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he eventually said. ‘Sure, he mentions a Nikki, but that could be one of a million people, not necessarily Nikolai Sereyev. It al
so says he dealt with the MI5 issue, but doesn’t elaborate.’

  ‘What about this?’ Cooper asked, pointing to a line on Harvey’s printout.

  GP: So I heard, but I don’t like the idea of the British security services sniffing around. I need assurances that nothing is going to get in the way of our plans.

  ‘Those plans could be anything,’ Harvey said. ‘They could claim to be organising a birthday party or a weekend in Paris. All we have is Bessonov saying MI5 were investigating him, which is true. He said he dealt with the matter, which could mean he gave Sereyev a warning or sacked him.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Here’s how it would play out,’ Harvey said, holding up his hand. ‘Bessonov calls his lawyer, who says that yes, his client admits to knowing that MI5 were trying to infiltrate his organisation, which, by the way, is totally legitimate and pays its taxes every year. When he said he’d dealt with the problem, he meant he’d given Sereyev a pay rise and bonus, but he disappeared shortly afterwards. The plans he was referring to related to a birthday surprise they were organising, and it wouldn’t have been good if Bessonov had been pulled in for questioning and had to miss it.’

  ‘But what about the team they mentioned?’ Cooper persisted.

  ‘It could be a team of strippers for the birthday bash they’re organising,’ Harvey said, ‘and they don’t want MI5 pulling them in and thinking they were prostitutes being trafficked into the country, which is an accusation that has been levelled at Bessonov more than once.’

  Cooper sat heavily in her chair, deflated.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gayle,’ Harvey said, as he stood and headed for the door. ‘I want to bring Bessonov in just as much as you do, but we’re going to need more proof than this. It might be enough to get SO1 off their backsides, though, so email Veronica a copy and she can have a word with them. Hamad and I will try to find Bessonov’s furniture factory, and if we do, we’ll be able to see what he’s hiding.’