The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  For over fifteen years, whilst both Russia and Ukraine had been part of the former Soviet Union, the two young Soviet entrepreneurs had been business partners. Their organised crime, prostitution and gambling interests had stretched in a complex triangular web: from Moscow in the east; through to Donetsk in the eastern Ukraine; and as far North as Minsk in Belarus. It had paid both men significant cash dividends over many years. Then in 1994, not long after the break up of the Soviet Union when Ukraine had made its historic deal with Russia to hand back its nuclear missiles in exchange for a peaceful co-existence with its neighbour, the partnership with Nemikov had turned sour overnight. Out of what had been friendship, there grew bitterness and mutual animosity. Each had accused the other of stealing networks and money. Nemikov withdrew to Donetsk, Plushenko to Moscow, the shutters between once-friends permanently lowered. All dialogue and friendship had ceased. Now on his own, Plushenko began to make new investments in gas, mineral extraction and transportation businesses. Arguably just to spite him, so did Nemikov. The two often bid head to head for large contracts and mining concessions, stretching from Moscow, the Baltic States, and finally into Europe as well.

  Nemikov moved to London to take his business empire public; in the process raising many billions of dollars in cash. In retaliation, Plushenko had paid several billions more to buy up a London-listed mining conglomerate and take it private. His friends thought it was a tactical coup. In Plushenko’s mind, he was just making a point: whatever Nemikov could do, he could do better. Although they had once been partners, as rivals Plushenko was determined to prove that he was more successful and more ruthless than Nemikov.

  They had played games with each other, of course. Nemikov frequently sent spies to try and infiltrate Plushenko’s business interests. Usually posing as new employees, often women, their goal was to steal the Russian’s secrets and get the inside scoop on deals that were in the pipeline. In return, Plushenko had a small but dedicated team of cyber-criminals who had made it their life’s work to hack Nemikov’s firewalls: their goal – to learn about, and often sabotage, what the Ukrainian was up to.

  They had even tried to kill each other. A car bomb in Kiev had nearly taken Nemikov’s life about three years ago. It had been in direct retaliation for a drive-by machine gun attack on Plushenko as he was about to enter a Moscow restaurant. Shortly afterwards, the two of them had met and declared a truce – of sorts. On a private terrace at the Dolder Grand hotel in Zurich, overlooking the lake and sipping chilled Bollinger, they had shaken hands stiffly and declared a cessation of hostilities. Neither party really believed it would last: it had, however, saved them both from a degree of unnecessary unpleasantness. Temporarily at least, it had also extended their life expectancy.

  Somehow this unstable truce had lasted. All that was in the process of changing as a direct result of the recent political madness: Western sanctions against certain Russians and their financial interests. Plushenko had watched, initially in horror, then in a blinding rage, as several of his bank accounts had been frozen and his ability to conduct deals in the West had been withdrawn. He, Viktor Plushenko, together with much of his business empire outside Russia, had been blacklisted by both the US and the EU states. What had been worse had been seeing Nemikov sitting in London unaffected by it all. Why had Nemikov become the blue-eyed boy all of a sudden, seemingly able to go about his life as normal? Then, the bastard Ukrainian had announced that he had signed the contract worth billions of dollars to build a new gas pipeline. This was the much-coveted deal that would provide an alternate, non-Russian, gas supply route from the Baltics into parts of Western Europe. It was terrible for Russia strategically, and disastrous for Plushenko personally. The Russian’s business empire was likely to lose several billion dollars of future profits as a consequence of Europe having an alternative supply source. What was worse was that Plushenko had coveted that deal for himself. He had been working behind the scenes to secure it for months, knowing that winning would secure his monopoly over access to gas for many millions of people across Europe. He had invested heavily in sweeteners and extravagant gifts for the key decision makers: luxurious holidays; expensive watches; top of the range high-performance cars; and even much sought after caviar and Cuban cigars. All liberally sprinkled with copious amounts of free alcohol, pretty women and spending money for use in his casinos. Overnight, before anyone – let alone Plushenko – had had any time to react, the sanctions had been suddenly announced. This had been the trigger enabling the ‘Shit from Donetsk’, as he now liked to call Nemikov, to sneak in and steal the contract from under his nose. Plushenko had been unable to do a thing about it.

  It had been the final straw. All of Plushenko’s friends, those fellow oligarchs and businessmen who themselves had been subjected to similar sanctions, had been in agreement. The time had come to deal with the issue once and for all. Nemikov needed to pay: both with his money and with his life.

  From the window of his penthouse, Plushenko had a clear view of the multi-coloured onion-domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral: beyond these, to the Kremlin itself, the place where the bastards really responsible for his current plight were located. He blew smoke from his expensive cigar into the air, letting his stubby left hand caress the breast of the pretty blonde nestled next to him on the sofa. Quiet knocking on the office door interrupted their thoughts. Plushenko looked up with anticipation, his left hand already shooing the girl away from the sofa, beckoning her to be gone. Straightening her skirt as she stood, she blew Plushenko a silent air kiss before hurrying out of the office through a secret side door.

  “Da,” the overweight Russian said, rising unsteadily to his feet, getting ready to meet his visitor. It wasn’t every day that one came face to face with such a legendary killer as former SVR agent, Oleg Panich.

  5

  The meeting with Plushenko had been short and to the point. The money Oleg Panich had been offered was more than he would have officially earned at the SVR if he had stayed working there for the rest of his life – ignoring any reduction in life expectancy due to his cancer: a two hundred thousand US dollar fee, half in advance; all reasonable and necessary expenses paid; and a completion bonus of one million dollars. All paid offshore, to a place – and in a manner – where no one from the tax authorities would be able to find it.

  What had been more extraordinary had been the subsequent summons he’d had, to meet with his former SVR controller, Mikhail Volkov. That meeting had taken place not at Volkov’s office, but at his small family dacha. This was located at Peredelkino, a short distance from Yasenevo but another world away deep in the forest, some twenty kilometres to the southwest of Moscow. Panich had taken the suburban train from Kiyevskaya Metro station. The snow had already begun to fall when he had arrived thirty minutes later. Volkov had sent a driver in a very old and battered Lada Niva to collect him. The Russian-made off-road vehicle had slid and lumbered uncomfortably along snowy forest trails, eventually reaching the modest old building set in its small woodland clearing.

  Volkov had been waiting on the steps to meet his former colleague. Inside the datcha, the open fire had been lit; plates of food had been laid out on a circular wooden table in the centre of the room; and most importantly, there had been copious supplies of vodka on ice. Volkov, a diminutive man with a neatly trimmed beard that some had thought had been modelled after Lenin himself, had been as Panich had never seen him before: warm, welcoming and attentive to Panich’s every need. If he’d been suffering from any guilt at having recently dismissed Panich from the SVR on medical grounds, then such feelings appeared long-since forgotten. That day Volkov had been the perfect host.

  “Oleg, come in, how are you? You look so well! Let me look at your hand.”

  So it had begun, small talk at first, the atmosphere full of pleasantries, the first few glasses of vodka readily poured and drunk. The mood had been entirely convivial. They had discussed Panich�
��s health, his former operations, and toasted his successes in particular. Neither party had made any mention of Panich’s cancer: as such, it had been elevated to the rank of a State secret, strictly off limits to both comrades for the duration. As true Muscovites, they had turned instead to putting the world to rights. As the light had faded and their speech had become slurred, Panich had sensed that the time was approaching when he would learn what this summons had been all about.

  “Oleg Dmitriyevich,” Volkov had said finally, pouring yet another glass of ice-cold vodka into their glass. He had used the patronymic out of respect and to be polite. It was the signal that they had been about to turn to a more serious subject.

  “You are something of a national hero, you know that?”

  Panich had shaken his head in denial. He, like Volkov, had become slumped in his chair. The stuffing had long-since been displaced, the chair’s leather-clad cushion moulded into a permanent body shape that made movement difficult.

  “No, it is true. Even our illustrious President,” his voice had turned to a whisper, as if the man in the Kremlin had hidden microphones out here in the forest, “sings your praises.” He had laughed at the disbelief on Panich’s face. “I tell you it is true, my friend. Only this week our President spoke with great pride when he heard that Plushenko had chosen to work with you on this project against Nemikov. ‘Only a true patriot like Oleg Dmitriyevich could be entrusted with such an important assignment.’ Those were his exact words, I promise.”

  Again Panich had said nothing, simply shaking his head and watching the room spin as the effects of the vodka began taking their toll.

  “We live in strange times. The Russian people are suffering because of Western sanctions; the price of oil has fallen through the floor; and now the rouble is being slaughtered on the foreign exchange markets. These are dark days. Personally, I would prefer to see Russia come out fighting: let Crimea be the start of a new, stronger and enlarged Mother Russia! But our President is in enough trouble with the West. At the moment, he needs to be steering a careful line between strong rhetoric and cautious actions. The downfall and demise of Arkady Nemikov must not be a Russian state sponsored operation. These are orders coming from the absolute highest level, do you hear what I am saying, Oleg? Yasenevo can help with equipment and logistics. But none of our fingerprints must be in evidence.” He had reached across and thrown a new log on the fire, sending sparks flying in all directions as the heavy log landed on top of the ash pile in the grate.

  “Fortunately, we Russians have always been the masters of subterfuge. We practically invented the word. So, to plant a seed: how about this, Oleg? What if certain fanatics, planning hideous acts of revenge against the West, were to do our job for us? Certain religious fanatics, for example. Perhaps even the nutcases who call themselves Islamic State? It would be unfortunate, wouldn’t you agree, if one or two Nemikov family members happened to become innocent victims of such terrible crimes?” Volkov had begun slurring his words badly in places, but his meaning had been crystal clear.

  “Similar to the games we played with the West during the Cold War, don’t you mean?” Panich had said.

  “Don’t be under any misconception, my friend. The same game is being played all over again.” He had sighed, the vodka finally catching up with him. “If some well-chosen acts of terrorism helped spread fear and panic in parts of the West right now, a lot of Russians might feel that the damage caused was timely and welcome.” They had sat in silence, listening to the sap from the pine logs spit and crackle in the fire.

  “I can see that,” was all that Panich had said finally.

  “Good!” He had reached across to refill Panich’s glass.

  “One final piece of advice, Oleg, if you’ll permit me?” He had placed his left hand deliberately on top of Panich’s new prosthesis. “Plushenko will doubtless be paying you handsomely. Much more than we would ever have done, for sure. Don’t be tempted to go off-piste whilst you are in London. Forget about trying to seek retribution against the man who did this to you.” He had patted Panich’s arm as he had been speaking, the message abundantly clear.

  Panich had nodded in silence. Volkov would have been hoping that it had been a sign of agreement on Panich’s part. On the matter of Ben Lewis, however, Panich already had ideas of his own.

  Volkov’s cautionary words of warning were not about to change that, regardless of how well-intentioned they might have been.

  6

  Unlike MI6, its close relation that occupies a glamorous building on the south bank of the river Thames at Vauxhall Cross, the UK’s domestic Security Service, MI5, has its headquarters in a more anonymous building. Thames House was formerly the headquarters of one of the UK’s, then largest, manufacturing businesses, ICI. It is a grand edifice, situated on the north side of the river on Millbank.

  Ben Lewis is shown to a private meeting room on the second floor by a male security officer. The door automatically locks behind him as soon as the guard leaves. It is a cold, functional room with no windows. Lewis helps himself to a bottle of mineral water while he waits for Jake Sullivan to arrive.

  Ten minutes later, the door flings wide open and Sullivan rushes in, full of apologies. Following close behind are a man and a woman, neither of whom Lewis recognises.

  “Ben.” He shakes Lewis’s hand. Sullivan is about ten years older than Lewis. Unlike Lewis’s jeans and brown leather jacket look, his host arrives wearing a shirt and tie. Sullivan waves a hand at his female colleague.

  “This is Laura. I don’t think you’ve met before?”

  It is a question, but Sullivan delivers it as a statement of fact.

  Laura gives Lewis a cold smile and a perfunctory handshake before sitting herself down. In no time at all, she is busying herself sorting out various papers on the desk in front of her. There is no warmth in her greeting. Lewis’s first impressions are coloured by this. She has short, black hair, naturally curly and wears oval-shaped tortoiseshell glasses. Lewis guesses she is slightly older than him.

  “And this is Bret,” he says, pointing to the other man. Bret says nothing, simply nodding a silent greeting at Lewis before helping himself to a diet cola from a fridge in the corner. He pops the ring pull, takes a swig direct from the can and then sits down. He is older than the other two: most likely in his fifties, as far as Lewis can tell. He has mainly dark hair with a splash of silver to one side and wears a navy jacket over an open necked pink shirt.

  “Sorry to keep you hanging around, Ben.”

  Sullivan pours himself a cup of coffee from a flask and sits down in the seat adjacent to Laura.

  “Doubtless everyone’s had a lot on their plates since yesterday’s events near Victoria.”

  “How long did the boys and girls at Paddington Green detain you?”

  Lewis shakes his head: “Too long! I had thought someone from here might have expedited my release. They finally let me go about an hour ago. I picked up your text and came straight over. I’ve had officers from SO15 all over me like a rash this last twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Ben. We were simply following due process. There has been a lot going on behind the scenes, as I am sure you can imagine. We work together often, SO15 and ourselves.”

  Lewis smiles thinly but says nothing. Sullivan has called this meeting, not him. He is looking forward to heading home and a change of clothing.

  “It caught us all by surprise, to tell you the truth. No one had seen Khan coming. We owe you, Ben, in case you hadn’t guessed. It was above and beyond what you were asked to do. It was impressive.”

  Lewis shrugs his shoulders and looks blankly at Sullivan. He is still trying to fathom what the meeting is really about. He gets no reaction from either Laura or Bret, but that is of no concern to him.

  “The Home Secretary wants me to convey her personal thanks a
nd gratitude. She’s authorised a small bonus payment to be made. It’s not a lot, but there is hardly any money in the system these days.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Lewis says. “Most would have done the same thing in my shoes.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “If the Home Secretary really wants to help, she can keep my picture out of the newspapers.”

  “It might be a bit late for that, I’m afraid, Ben. A passer-by recorded most of what you did on her camera phone. It’s already up on YouTube. You’ve become quite the media sensation. How many views has it had, Laura?”

  “Over forty thousand.”

  Laura doesn’t look up when she says this, busily reading a document from the pile in front of her, reciting the number from memory.

  “That’s all I need,” Lewis says. “‘Ex-Marine Ben Lewis thwarts Islamic State executioner.’ It’s hardly likely to improve my life expectancy.”

  “Everyone loves a hero.”

  “Not me.”

  “So far your name’s been kept out of the press. Not many seem to know yet who you are, or so it would seem.”

  “I’d very much like to keep it that way.”

  “We have, however, been picking up certain chatter amongst the Asian Muslim community. Not surprisingly, there’s officially a price on your head.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, but a very small minority are fanatical.”

  “Do you know who these people are? Perhaps I should pay them a visit?”