2016 - Takedown

by Stephen Leather

  They drove in silence for half an hour while Lukin downed half of the vodka in the bottle.

  ‘Where’s the body now?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Still in the hospital,’ said Mirov. ‘They were waiting to see if you wanted to take him back to Moscow or cremate him here.’

  ‘Here? Why the fuck would we leave him here? He is a Russian and will be buried in Russia. But first, I want them to do a proper autopsy. I don’t think for one moment he had a fucking heart attack. He had the heart of a lion, my son. That fucker Harper killed him and I want to know how. And I want Harper found. I want him found and brought to me so that I can kill him myself.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ mumbled Mirov.

  Lukin stared out of the window. ‘Where are you fucking taking me?’

  ‘Valentin’s villa. We’ve upgraded the security and there is CCTV covering all the walls, cameras inside, too. We hired three more guards.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that was locking the fucking stable door after the horses had fucking bolted, wasn’t it?’ He poured himself more vodka. ‘It’s not about the number of men, it’s about the quality. You can hire all the fuckwits you want but if they sit on their arses counting crows you’re throwing your money away. Fuck that, you’re throwing my money away. My fucking money.’

  ‘They’re good men, boss. I brought them in from Moscow.’

  ‘And what about Harper? Do we know where he is?’

  ‘We’ve been watching the airports and he hasn’t turned up. And we have a couple of guys staking out his apartment.’ Blood was dripping down his chin and soaking into his shirt.

  ‘Whatever it takes to track him down, you do it? Do you hear? Money’s no fucking object.’ Lukin swallowed a shot of vodka and refilled the glass. ‘I told Grigory not to fucking waste his time here. If he wanted to fuck Asian hookers we’ve got all we need in Moscow. Thai restaurants, too, if it’s the food he likes. He should never have come here. I told him, Moscow is where the money is.’ He knocked back another shot of vodka. ‘How quickly can we get the body flown back to Moscow?’

  ‘You want the autopsy done first, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He downed another vodka. ‘Actually, no, fuck it. We can do that in Moscow. I don’t trust them to do it right here. They fuck everything up. Fly the body to Moscow and we’ll have the tests done there.’

  ‘I should be able to get the paperwork done this afternoon. It’ll need some money to make it go smoothly…’

  ‘Don’t bother me with the fucking details,’ snapped Lukin. ‘Just get it done.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Mirov. Blood was still dripping from his face and he knew the wound needed to be stitched. But he also knew that if he were to say anything to Lukin he’d likely smash a second glass into his face.

  The car slowed. Ahead, a pick-up truck was loaded with cardboard boxes tied together with rope. The stack was three times as high as the vehicle and the driver was having trouble controlling it.

  The SUV ahead of the limousine had already overtaken the truck.

  ‘Look at this fucking idiot,’ said Lukin. ‘How is that not going to end badly? And what the fuck are our so-called bodyguards doing?’ He sneered at Mirov. ‘This is supposed to be a fucking convoy, right? The pricks in that car are supposed to be watching over us. So why the fuck did they overtake the truck and leave us here? Who trains these fucking morons?’

  ‘I’ll talk to them,’ said Mirov. He fished in his pocket for his mobile phone as he pressed more napkins to his bleeding cheek.

  Lukin leaned forward and waved the vodka bottle at the driver. ‘Get by this moron, will you, before that load falls all over the fucking car?’

  The driver pulled out and stamped on the accelerator, passing the pick-up truck but narrowly missing a bus that was headed their way. They caught up with the first SUV.

  ‘These roads are fucking death traps,’ said Lukin, settling back in his seat.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ said Mirov. He pressed the number for one of the bodyguards in the leading SUV.

  Lukin poured himself another shot of vodka and sat back in his seat. ‘If that bastard Harper’s in the UK, we’ll have to send people after him,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, boss.’ The phone rang out, unanswered.

  ‘But he might still be in fucking France. Bastard, bastard, bastard. I’ll rip his fucking eyes out with my own hands.’

  The limousine turned off the main road and headed up the hill to Valentin’s villa. The SUV was about fifty yards ahead, indicating a left turn. ‘Here we are,’ said Mirov. He put his phone away. He glanced over his shoulder. The second SUV was where it was supposed to be, about fifty metres behind them.

  ‘About time. We’re out of fucking vodka,’ growled Lukin, tossing the empty bottle into the drinks cabinet. He looked to his right, past Mirov. A man was sitting astride a motorcycle at the side of the road. It was the bike Lukin noticed first. A Triumph Bonneville. A classic British motorcycle. Lukin was a fan of big bikes: he had two Harleys in Moscow and a Honda Goldwing, but he had never been a fan of British models. The driver was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and a full-face helmet with a tinted visor. As Lukin watched, he took off his helmet and grinned towards the car. Lukin frowned. The man’s face was familiar. ‘What the fuck?’ he muttered to himself.

  Mirov twisted in his seat, trying to see what Lukin was staring at.

  ‘It’s fucking Harper!’ shouted Lukin, pointing at the man on the bike. ‘That is fucking Harper!’

  Harper put his helmet onto one of the bike’s mirrors as the limousine drove by.

  Lukin and Mirov turned to stare out of the rear window. ‘That is the fucker, isn’t it?’ Lukin shouted.

  ‘I ‒ I don’t know,’ stammered Mirov.

  ‘It is! It fucking is! Stop the fucking car!’ Lukin screamed at the driver at the top of his voice. ‘Stop the fucking car now or I swear I’ll rip your fucking head off!’

  The driver stamped on the brake and Lukin grabbed at the seat to steady himself. He looked out of the back window as he reached for the door handle. They were about a hundred yards from the motorbike now but he could see that Harper was still grinning. In his hand he was holding a mobile phone. Then the SUV behind them blocked his view. Lukin instinctively knew what was coming and he took a breath, preparing to bellow. There was a flash, a deafening noise, and his whole body felt as if it was on fire. Then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER 79

  ‘Keep looking out of the window,’ Valentin said, to the man sitting next to him. ‘If you see anything, anything at all, you tell me.’

  ‘I will,’ said the man. His name was Dubov and he had flown in from Moscow two days earlier. He was a big man, barely out of his twenties, and as hard as nails. He was one of three heavies who had been recruited as extra protection and all came highly recommended.

  ‘That bastard Harper killed Lukin and Mirov, and I’m damn sure he killed Grigory, too.’

  ‘They can’t get you in here, sir,’ said Dubov.

  ‘You say that, but he blew up a fucking limo,’ said Valentin. He was lying on a trolley in the back of a private ambulance. His head was bandaged, his jaw hurt like hell and he was still damaged internally, but he knew he had to get out of the hospital. At least in the villa he could be guarded by men with guns. Getting a tame doctor out to treat him in his own home would be a matter of money, and he could buy in round-the-clock nursing care. There was another bodyguard riding up front with the driver and he was carrying a gun under his jacket, as was Dubov. There were SUVs front and back of the ambulance but that hadn’t inspired Valentin with confidence as they were the same vehicles that had supposedly been guarding the limousine. He had insisted that they check underneath the ambulance, twice, before he got in.

  Dubov had a transceiver and called ahead to the villa to talk to one of the four bodyguards there. ‘We’re five minutes away,’ he said.

  ‘The house is secure,’ said the man. His name was Yerkhov and, li
ke Dubov, had served in the Russian special forces for five years before realising there was more money to be made in the private sector. Russian businessmen and crime lords had spread across the world and disputes, business and criminal, were often settled with violence, so overseas protection had become as necessary as passports. Dubov and Yerkhov commanded six-figure dollar salaries, plus all expenses, and were never short of work.

  ‘Check again,’ shouted Valentin. ‘Check everywhere. Under the beds, in the cupboards, check every fucking inch of the place.’

  ‘The boss wants you to check again,’ said Dubov. ‘Then be at the gate to meet us.’

  ‘With guns,’ shouted Valentin. ‘Make sure they have guns.’

  ‘They will,’ said Dubov.

  ‘Tell them!’ shouted Valentin, and grunted in pain as the ambulance went over a pothole.

  ‘Mr Rostov says you should have your guns with you,’ said Dubov, into his transceiver.

  The ambulance engine was laboring as they went uphill. Valentin’s heart was racing, partly through the pain he was suffering but mainly because they were now on the stretch of road where Lukin and Mirov had died. The bomb had destroyed most of the rear of the limousine but the blast had gone upwards so the driver had emerged relatively unscathed, albeit with burst eardrums. The police had managed to find Mirov’s head pretty much intact but all they had found of Lukin was a foot and a hand. Valentin closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, gasping as the ambulance hit another pothole.

  Dubov smiled down at him reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, sir. We’re arriving at the villa now.’ He opened his jacket to show him the pistol that was nestled in a brown leather underarm holster. ‘If there’s any trouble at all we’re locked, loaded and ready to go.’

  CHAPTER 80

  Mickey Moore came out of the main house, holding a bottle of Heineken in one hand and a KFC bucket in the other. He walked towards where Harper was sitting by the pool, which was Olympic size, with two diving boards at the deep end, but built in the style of a tropical lagoon. There were two curved artificial beaches, complete with sand, palm trees, and rocks that were large enough to sunbathe on. At the shallow end there was a Jacuzzi big enough to hold a dozen people, which it often did on party nights. Half a dozen teak cabanas, their roofs fringed with palms, stood around the edge of the pool, and at one side there was a brick-built barbecue that was the size of a regular kitchen.

  The pool tended to be the focal point of the estate during the day, though Baz, Davie and Terry were still in their villas nursing hangovers. Harper was in one of the cabanas, holding the Russian 9mm PB silenced pistol that had come from Cambodia as Mark watched and drank a beer. The gun had been specially designed for Spetsnaz units when it was introduced in 1967. Harper planned to leave it at the scene, hoping that a Russian gun would muddy the waters in any investigation by the Thais and by Valentin’s associates.

  The gun was still in production in what had originally been known as the Izhevsk Mechanical Plant, which had been founded in 1807, the time of Tsar Alexander I, and had gone on to become one of the largest arms manufacturers in the world, producing cannons, missiles, and the famous Kalashnikov assault rifle. PB stood for pistolet beschumnyi, or ‘noiseless pistol’. It was based on the standard Makarov pistol and fired standard Makarov ammunition, but it had been designed so that rounds were always fired subsonically. To achieve that, the barrel had two small holes that allowed some of the propellant gas to escape into the silencer. Even without the silencer screwed in, the gun was still quieter than a standard Makarov.

  ‘We’ve just had a KFC delivery,’ said Mickey, as he reached the cabana.

  ‘Clearly,’ said Mark, helping himself to a chicken leg from the bucket.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want us along for the ride?’ Mickey asked Harper.

  ‘It’s my fight,’ said Harper, his eyes on the gun.

  ‘Yeah, but we’re the musketeers,’ said Mark, waving his chicken leg like a sword. ‘All for one and one for all.’

  The weapon was well oiled and appeared to have been cared for, but Harper was taking no chances. As the Moore brothers watched he stripped it down, checked the component parts, then reassembled it.

  ‘He’s showing off,’ said Mark.

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ said Mickey. ‘But I still think you’d be better going in mob-handed.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘Then it’ll be a war, and if they find out you’re involved, they’ll come after you.’

  ‘I ain’t scared of no steenking Russians,’ said Mark, in a fake Mexican accent.

  Harper laughed. ‘Mate, I’ll be in and out like a fucking Ninja. I’ll do what has to be done, toss the gun and Robert’s your father’s brother.’

  ‘They’ll know it was you,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Not necessarily. And with Valentin, Grigory and Lukin dead, someone else will take over and I doubt that revenge will be high on his list of priorities. But I’ll cross that chicken when I get to it.’ He stood up. ‘I wouldn’t mind a test firing.’

  ‘Be our guest,’ said Mickey.

  The three men walked away from the pool. ‘I’ll go and warn security,’ said Mark. ‘Suppressors are good, but they’re not perfect.’ He jogged towards the front gate.

  Mickey and Harper walked to the far end of the estate where there was a clump of palm trees. ‘Do you want me to stand with an apple on my head?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Would you?’

  Mickey laughed. ‘Actually, I would, mate. I’ve seen you shoot. I know how good you are.’ He picked up a loose coconut, about the size of a man’s head. ‘But this’ll do.’ He tossed the coconut about ten feet away. Harper chambered a round, aimed and pulled the trigger. There wasn’t much in the way of recoil and the sound was equivalent to that of a balloon popping, not the soft hiss that silenced weapons made in movies. No suppressor was perfect, which was why the professionals called them suppressors rather than silencers. The bullet thwacked into the middle of the coconut.

  ‘Happy?’ asked Mickey, waving his bottle of Heineken.

  ‘I will be when it’s Valentin’s head I’m shooting at,’ said Harper.

  ‘Go for the chest,’ said Mickey. ‘It’s a bigger target.’

  Harper opened his mouth to reply until he saw from the look on the man’s face that he was joking. ‘Fuck you,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck you too. Just be careful.’

  CHAPTER 81

  Harper was insistent that he would take care of Valentin himself, but he allowed Mickey and Mark to drive him to the villa. They took one of the estate’s nondescript pick-up trucks with a folding ladder in the back.

  Harper sat in the front passenger seat with the PB in his lap as Mickey drove. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt and black jeans, with black trainers and skin-tight black gloves. He had borrowed a black nylon shoulder holster from Mickey that allowed him to carry the pistol, and silencer, under his left arm. It was a fair enough fit, though he would have to be careful not to snag the silencer when he pulled it out. Mark sat behind him with two pump-action sawn-off shotguns next to him. ‘Just in case,’ he’d said.

  They parked a couple of hundred yards from the villa and Mickey switched off the engine and lights so their night vision would kick in. ‘You’ve got your phone, right?’ said Mickey.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Fuck off, you soft twat. If anything goes wrong, you call us and we’ll be in like Finn.’

  ‘It’s Flynn, mate. In like Flynn.’

  ‘Flynn, Finn, whoever the fuck he is, we’ll be in like him if there’s any sign of trouble,’ said Mickey.

  ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, you say that, but there’s CCTV covering all the walls and by all accounts a shedload of former Spetsnaz thugs inside.’

  ‘It’s late. They’ll be asleep. And Valentin’s gonna be dosed up on painkillers.’

  ‘There’ll be someone watching the CCTV monitors,’ said Mark.

  ‘You say that, but
you know most of the time that’s not true. No one sits and watches a screen all night.’

  ‘You need a diversion,’ said Mickey. ‘That’s what you need.’

  ‘Oh, fuck! You’re not going to wear the clown suit again?’ sneered Mark.

  ‘That was twenty years ago,’ said Mickey. ‘And it worked, didn’t it? We got clean away with the takings.’

  ‘No thanks to those fucking clown shoes you had on.’

  ‘He’s taking the piss,’ Mickey said to Harper. ‘I was wearing trainers. Seriously, you need some sort of distraction at the gate. Get security focused on that and you can slip in unnoticed.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A couple of drunken motorcycle taxis at the gate. I can fix that up, no bother. Let me give a mate a call.’

  Harper nodded. ‘Okay. It can’t hurt.’

  Mickey spent a couple of minutes on the phone, then grinned as he put it away. ‘Ten minutes, Lex. It’ll give you time to get set up.’ He patted Harper’s shoulder. ‘And I’m serious. You get in trouble, call.’

  Harper climbed out of the truck. He picked up the lightweight ladder and two old rice sacks and jogged towards the rear wall. The security wire had been replaced and there was now a weatherproof CCTV camera trained along the top of the wall. It hadn’t been done by experts as it could clearly be approached from behind. There was another camera at the far corner but that seemed to be pointing at the ground. Harper figured there was a blind spot of twenty feet or so, but he couldn’t be sure. He pulled on a ski mask and crouched near the base of the wall.

  After about ten minutes he heard several motorcycles coming up the hill. Three, maybe four. Then the engines cut out and he heard laughing and Thai shouting. Then smashing glass. Soon afterwards he heard angry Russian voices. Then ‘Fuck off, you drunken bastards!’ shouted in accented English.

  There were Thai yells, and Harper recognised several choice Thai swearwords. He placed the ladder against the wall, climbed up, snipped out a section of the security wire and threw the sacks over the broken glass. He slipped over, pulled the ladder after him and used it to climb down into the compound. The shouts were louder now and it sounded as if the motorcycle taxi drivers were up for more than shouting.