The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)
Page 1
Table of Contents
About the Author
The Gambit
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
Acknowledgements
David N Robinson
About the Author
David N Robinson has flown the equivalent of eight round trips to the moon during his travels with a large international professional firm, a private equity business and latterly one of the world’s largest law firms.
A graduate metallurgist from Cambridge, he has lived and worked both in London and Cambridge for most of his life, two locations that have, in particular, been a source of inspiration for The Gambit, his latest Ben Lewis thriller. David’s fascination with, and professional interest in, cyber crime and identity theft led him to write his first thriller, The Morpheus Network. His detailed knowledge of many overseas locations, both in Europe, the Middle East and Russia, provided an important backdrop to his second thriller, The Dossier – the first book featuring Ben Lewis.
David currently lives with his wife of 30 years and divides his time between his home, near Cambridge and the Alps, where he both skis in winter and walks in the summer. He is currently trustee and Chairman of Addenbrooke’s Hospital’s Charitable Trust.
The Gambit
Anger against the West is building amongst Russia’s elite. The Oligarchs are furious: they see sanctions and frozen bank accounts as an affront against them personally.
London-based Ukrainian, Arkady Nemikov, is earning billions from deals denied to fellow Russians – in particular a new gas pipeline contract that will give Europe alternative supply sources other than Russia. Nemikov’s life-long Russian adversary, Viktor Plushenko, is outraged – he had coveted that deal for himself. Taking matters into his own hands, Plushenko decides to commission some private enterprise instead. He hires legendary killer, Oleg Panich, a former Russian agent keen to settle old scores.
Former Royal Marine Commando, Ben Lewis, is still sorting his life out but when MI5 presents a short-term assignment, he agrees to babysit Nemikov and his family who has become a high profile target for the Russians. As attempts are made to kill and kidnap Nemikov’s family in London, Lewis learns that his former enemy, Panich, is behind the attacks. Panich has recruited a small army, quietly supported by Moscow, to make the Nemikov killings appear as acts of terrorism against the West.
Suddenly there is more at stake than just protecting the Nemikov family. Working hand in hand with Saul Zeltinger, a police Detective Inspector, time rapidly closes in as they race to find the kidnapped children and thwart a major terror threat about to be unleashed beneath London.
The Gambit is a high-octane thriller set in both Cambridge and London, with an uncomfortable authenticity that makes this a hurtling page-turner, with twists and turns without ever missing a beat.
THE GAMBIT
A Ben Lewis Thriller
David N Robinson
Copyright © David N Robinson 2015
The right of David N Robinson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be copied, lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in print or electronic means without the publisher’s prior consent in any form.
ISBN 978-1-78036-281-6
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described, all situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Published by
Peach Publishing
gambit
noun
1. an opening move (in chess) in which a player risks one or more minor pieces in order to gain a favorable position
Dedicated to everyone working so hard to make London a safe and great city
Prologue
The space was dark, the atmosphere heavy and laden with cigar smoke. It was difficult to see across the room. Discarded beer and vodka bottles littered the table. Space was at a premium: several ashtrays were full to bursting with the detritus of a lengthy session.
“Let’s kill this bastard Ukrainian once and for all,” the man with the thick round spectacles was saying. There was considered nodding from around the table. “He’s made complete fools out of all of us. So far, no one’s been able to lay a finger on him. Even our Kremlin politicians are baying for his blood.”
Viktor Plushenko sat back and thought about this for a moment. He had the most to gain from the Ukrainian’s demise, both on a personal and professional business level. The man in question had cost him dearly over the years, none more so than over the recent deal that Plushenko had thought had been in the bag – until W
estern sanctions had kicked in and rendered the Russian oligarch’s position impotent.
“This is the fucker from Donetsk who has just stolen five billion dollars of my future profits,” Plushenko said. “Before anyone else drags him into the Siberian wastelands and murders him, I want the opportunity to squeeze every last dollar and cent out of him first.”
There were murmurs of assent from around the table.
“I’d like to see the man spliced open, his entrails left for the wolves to pick at.” This time, it was another grossly overweight man speaking. His rasping voice was barely audible above his heavy breathing. “Arkady Nemikov’s crime syndicates have been fleecing good honest Russian citizens for too long. No one will be sad to see the back of him.”
“What do you propose, Viktor?” It was a statement of support, albeit delivered with an air of menace by a different Russian: someone who had, until then, been sitting in silence, gauging the mood in the room.
“I propose we commission a little private enterprise,” Plushenko said. “The Kremlin doesn’t want this to be an official Russian operation. They’d prefer it to be kept ‘off balance sheet’.”
“Do you have anyone in particular in mind?” the same man probed him.
“As a matter of fact, I do: a retired professional, restless to get back into the field. He’s a patriot, back from the dead, discharged from active service on ‘medical grounds’ as the Kremlin bullshitters have recently informed him. Someone eager to settle old scores.”
“Anyone we know?” It was now the man with the thick, round, spectacles speaking, his words beginning to slur from the effects of several drinks too many.
“Perhaps. In his day, he was something of a legend. His name,” he said, taking a large swig of vodka and pausing for dramatic effect, “is Oleg Panich.”
1
It is the third weekend in November. Clear skies and an overnight frost have brought an autumnal chill to the capital. A few solitary pedestrians are up and about at this hour. All are wrapped up against the cold. The early sun is casting orange shadows on buildings. Those leaves that stubbornly remain on the trees around Parliament Square reflect wonderfully in the weak morning sunlight. What is there not to like about London at this time of the year, Ben Lewis muses? He is tailing a young Asian male who has been walking from the Houses of Parliament towards Victoria.
Lewis is on an errand for a man he has only recently met by the name of Jake Sullivan. Sullivan is a senior case officer in Britain’s security service, MI5. Lewis doesn’t work for MI5 in an official capacity – rather, he is on trial: so that Sullivan and his crew can work out if Lewis has what it takes. Sullivan had been passed Lewis’s name on a strong recommendation from a Metropolitan Police Detective Inspector, Saul Zeltinger. Lewis and MI5 are in the ‘getting to know each other’ phase. It is a mutually convenient arrangement.
The man Lewis is following is in his early twenties. He goes by the name of Jaleel Ashraf. Ashraf is a British-born Pakistani who has travelled to London in the early hours from the flat he rents just outside Luton, to the north of the capital. Sullivan wants Lewis to find out where Ashraf is going: in particular, the names and photographs of anyone he meets. MI5 are interested because Ashraf recently returned to the UK from a visit to the Middle East. The Pakistani had been ticketed to travel to Dubai, and back, on Emirates. Once in the UAE, intelligence sources discovered that he had paid cash for onward flight connections, firstly to Cairo, and then ultimately Damascus. Whilst in Syria, he was observed meeting with several thought to be closely connected with Islamic State.
Today’s is not the most taxing errand that Lewis has had to perform. On the one hand, Lewis knows that Sullivan is simply testing him: on the other, Lewis isn’t actually convinced that he wants to be part of MI5. For the time being, he is happy to play the role of occasional contractor. Besides, Sullivan is paying him a useful daily rate.
Ashraf is not a difficult person to follow. The Pakistani has been oblivious to most things going on around him since emerging from Westminster underground station. A mobile phone remains glued to his ear, as it has for the whole time since leaving the station. The two of them have circled around the western side of Parliament Square, past St Margaret’s church and Westminster Abbey, now heading in the direction of Victoria Station several minutes’ walk away. The area is deserted at this hour on a Saturday morning: Westminster politicians have gone home to their constituencies for the weekend; traffic on the roads is light.
Lewis’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out and looks at the caller ID. Removing a thin earpiece from his brown leather jacket, he places it in his ear, pressing the button on the side to take the call.
“Hello,” is all he says.
“Your man is speaking to someone called Khan. They are making arrangements to meet. Keep your eyes open. We’re increasingly troubled by Khan. I’ll send you his picture by text.” With that the line goes dead.
Overshadowed by Westminster Abbey, its much older near neighbour, Westminster Cathedral is the leading Roman Catholic place of worship in London. It is a grand edifice, set back about a hundred metres from Victoria Street; often mistaken for a mosque due to the large campanile bell tower and its unusual coloured brickwork. The large, square-shaped, area in front is paved and open. Normally, pedestrians mix and mingle freely in this piazza without being bothered by traffic; early on a Saturday morning, it is deserted. Apart from Ashraf and Kahn, there are no pedestrians. Nearest the road, the piazza is flanked on two sides by office buildings with shops at ground floor level. Lewis positions himself in the shadows of one of these, leaning against a grey, granite-clad, supporting pillar.
Khan, from a distance, looks agitated and impatient. He and Ashraf are stomping around the area immediately in front of the Cathedral. They are nervously shuffling their feet and looking at their watches. Lewis is out of their line of sight. The two Asians appear to be waiting for something or someone. They look anxious, glancing repeatedly towards the small side streets that flank the Cathedral. There is tension in the air. Lewis can feel it from where he is standing: something is about to go down. Lewis takes photographs with his camera phone; surveillance is, after all, part of the Sullivan mission brief.
A white van arrives at speed into the turning loop to one side of the Cathedral’s main entrance. Khan and Ashraf spring into action. The former is quickly around the back of the van and opening its double doors. Seconds later, they are both dragging a white male in his twenties from the back. The new arrival is in handcuffs and wears a black cape over his upper body. Khan and Ashraf grab the man by each arm and march him a short distance to the middle of the piazza, immediately in front of the Cathedral’s main entrance. The driver of the van is not one to hang around. He closes the van doors, jumps back in the driver’s seat and accelerates away.
According to the MI5 rulebook, Lewis should probably be calling for help and backup. He considers this, briefly, but rejects it: the cavalry are never going to arrive in time. Something bad is definitely about to happen: the only person with a chance to stop it is Lewis.
The two Asians force their frightened prisoner to kneel. Khan then removes the captive’s black cape and puts it on himself. At the same time he dons a thin black balaclava so that only Khan’s eyes, nose and mouth are visible. As soon as the cape is removed, Lewis gets what is about to happen. They have dressed the young man in a loose-fitting orange jumpsuit. Khan is going to be this man’s Islamic State executioner. Ashraf, now holding a small video camera, will be the person filming it for social media posterity. With the front entrance to the Cathedral so clearly visible in the background, a public execution such as this in the heart of central London has the potential to send chilling shockwaves across the world.
Khan removes a silver-bladed knife from under his cape. He holds it against the throat of his kneeling prisoner, posing for the camera and s
miling like a man possessed. The young man on his knees pleads for mercy. Khan orders him to be silent, pressing the edge of the steel blade against the young man’s neck and drawing blood. Khan begins a well-prepared speech. He talks directly to the camera, all the while the knife blade is held close to the terrified young man’s face.
Lewis listens with growing contempt and disgust to the frenzied outpouring of anti-British, pro-Islamic State, propaganda. The time for him to act has come.
The distance to where Ashraf, the cameraman, is standing with his back to him is fifteen metres: Khan and his kneeling prisoner are another three metres beyond. Fifteen metres will require eighteen of Lewis’s paces: at a fast walk. Nine seconds in total. Lewis steps around the pillar and starts walking.
Walking, and not running, is an unexpected decision; however, Lewis knows there is advantage in doing the unexpected. He knows that attackers usually run when they plan a violent assault. Fast movement stands out. Someone walking, albeit rapidly, isn’t nearly such an obvious threat. Lewis is banking on this earning him a valuable second – perhaps two – of time advantage. For the first five seconds, Lewis hopes that neither Ashraf nor Khan will react at all. Ordinarily, they should both be too preoccupied by their own theatre of the absurd to comprehend what may be about to unfold.
It will be Khan who will see Lewis first. Ashraf, although nearer, has his back to Lewis: he is holding the video camera. Because everything is being recorded, it will take another second, probably two, before Khan decides to stop speaking. At that stage, the surprise should begin to show on his face sufficient to cause Ashraf to turn around and notice Lewis for the first time. Which, by then, will give Ashraf probably no more than a second to react: one, single, crucial second before the express train, that will be Lewis advancing at full tilt, hits him. If the plan works, Khan, let alone Ashraf, is not going to stand a chance.