“Yes and no. Yes, we know who they are and no, you don’t need to go calling.”
“Because?”
“Because, let’s just say that we have something going down ourselves, currently. Something that should take care of the problem.”
“I usually prefer to do my own clearing up. It helps to ensure that there are no loose ends.”
“I hear you, Ben, but for now the answer is no. We’ll let you know if that changes. In point of fact, we’d be much happier if you were to join our team permanently. What would you say to that?”
“Is that a job offer?”
“About as near as it gets.”
“So that you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t go doing any private enterprise of my own?”
“Something like that. You’d be a great addition to our ranks. I’d love you to say yes. It’s actually why I’ve asked Laura to join this meeting today. Laura is a section head in my department. She’s actively recruiting at present.”
Across the table, Laura looks up from where she has been adding items to a ‘to do’ list on a pad of paper in front of her. She stares at Lewis without blinking. They hold each other’s gaze for a few moments.
“If you have any questions, now would be the time to ask them,” she says eventually. It is a dusky, gravelly voice spoken without warmth or intonation. Like a game of chess, she is playing her opening moves carefully, not wanting to give away anything about herself that she might later regret. Her whole demeanour is purely business. It’s too bad for her that Lewis is such a good chess player.
He looks at her and smiles thinly. If this was about to become a quasi-job interview, then he is going to disappoint. It’s time to play a different opening gambit. Still looking at Laura, his facial expression suitably blank and non-committal, he too waits a few seconds.
“I appreciate the offer, thanks,” he says eventually. “Let me sleep on it a bit and I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure, take your time,” Sullivan says, almost too quickly. “Don’t make any hasty decisions. In the meantime, best be watching your back, okay?”
“I appreciate the warning, thanks.”
“Anticipating that might have been your answer, there is one other thing that you might be interested in; pro tem, that is, and because of what happened in Victoria yesterday. There’s someone who’s anxious to meet you all of a sudden.”
Lewis looks up from fiddling with the plastic top from the mineral water bottle, his head to one side and with one eyebrow raised.
“A Ukrainian multi-billionaire, name of Arkady Nemikov. He finds himself something of a high profile target for the Russians at the moment, given who he is and how he appears to have made his money. He’s concerned about the kidnap threat to himself and his family. Needs a professional to help with the babysitting. Ordinarily, we’d offer to help. The UK government, however, are a bit touchy currently about how overtly it shows the hand of friendship to certain Ukrainians. It doesn’t want to piss off the Russians any more than we already appear to have been doing. Having a third party like you stepping in to lend a hand could be helpful. When Nemikov learned about what happened at Westminster Cathedral yesterday over a private dinner with the Home Secretary, he asked to meet you.”
“Surely he must have security of his own. Why does he need me as well?”
“He’s been seriously upsetting a lot of powerful people recently, so it would seem. And he has a lot of money.”
“How big is the family?”
“There’s a wife and two grown up children: one daughter and a son.”
“How old are they?”
“The daughter is twenty-four, and about to finish a post graduate medical degree at Cambridge.”
“And the son?”
“Twenty-one. Also at Cambridge, studying law.”
“When can I get to meet them all?”
“One step at a time. First off, Arkady Nemikov has asked to meet you in person. His private helicopter is waiting for you at Battersea heliport as we speak.”
7
Lewis is directed into one of four luxurious leather armchairs. Each is able to swivel so as to allow unrestricted views out of the windows on either side of the helicopter. He sits down and buckles up as the engines begin their muted start up.
He has the sensation of having an out of body experience. The Sikorsky S-92 is most definitely a helicopter, but not as he remembers them. For a start, there is no crewman hustling him on board, shouting at him above the noise to strap in and keep his helmet on. The inside is strangely luxurious: there is carpet everywhere and the fittings are sleek and plush. Lewis can find no evidence that he might actually be dreaming. However, he finds it strange that he is not sitting in a bare metal cabin on hard seats with hooks on the floor and places on the walls to clip onto. There aren’t thirty other soldiers in full battle gear all jostling to sit at the same time. No one is struggling with their equipment and fumbling to get earplugs inserted before the noise from the engines rises to levels that can cause permanent deafness. The hard deck is not littered with various items of equipment, both strapped and loose, preventing feet or legs from stretching. Most surprising of all is that once the rotors are cranked and the aircraft rises, this particular luxury helicopter is quiet. It feels surreal. Relatively speaking, there is hardly a sound: certainly no deafening vibration that rattles the body so intensely that every bone and sinew feels shaken and battered. On board the CH-47 Chinook, Lewis always expected the fillings in his teeth to shake loose. Today’s experience is such a contrast to what flying in a military helicopter is all about. As the aircraft performs a banked turn away from the Battersea heliport, heading towards the Oxfordshire countryside to the north and west, Lewis feels a rush of exhilaration. It is as if he is flying for the very first time. Because of it, he stares in schoolboy-like fascination at the views from both windows.
As the London suburbs flash by beneath him in a blur, he is momentarily lost in thought. He has never heard of Arkady Nemikov. A short-term contract working for a Ukrainian oligarch could be an interesting and welcome project. It might certainly keep Jake Sullivan and now this new woman, Laura, off his back. Lewis reflects that he is in a good space with his life once more. A recent, brief, romance with his sister-in-law, Holly, did help him lay some old ghosts to rest. Now that that is over, the two of them just friends, Lewis feels ready for a new challenge.
The last five years have been strange. Once, not that long ago, Lewis had been a rising star in the Marines. A King’s badge winner no less. Then, after his wife’s death, Lewis found that he could blame no one but himself. He, a well-trained Marine, unable to save his young bride from drowning – in the sea of all places: why continue? So, after much wrangling, he decides not to. To the sadness of many, including his Commanding Officer at the time, Lewis simply hands back his hard-won Green Beret and goes walkabout. To distract himself, he skies each winter, occasionally providing the wealthy with private tuition to earn money. In the summers he relocates to the beaches of the Côte d’Azur. He keeps fit and stays out of trouble. All the while he is aware that he should be doing more with his life than just drift – but he can’t yet work out what.
Time heals. Five years eventually provides him with answers: who he really is, what makes him tick, and what he wants to do with his life.
He knows that he’s been well trained. He wouldn’t be a past King’s badge winner without above-average toughness, fitness, and tenacity. But time and space allow him to realise that he might be more than just an above-average ex-Marine. He might be good. Perhaps even very good.
In unarmed combat, he might even be exceptional.
Above all, he is a high achiever, excellent at getting things done – especially when it requires thinking outside the box: Lewis’s MO usually being to break a problem down, step-by-step; a
nd then creating solutions along the way where others often fail or give up. In the field, this makes him cunning and unpredictable. As in chess – a game at which he excels – this makes him a tough, if not ruthless, adversary.
His one weakness – it is almost an obsession – is fear of failure to deliver on his promises. This is what he has learnt the hard way. Six years ago, he gave his former father-in-law, dying of cancer, a promise: to protect his daughter, to keep her safe and out of harm. Then, weeks later, he fails to deliver: on his honeymoon, on that beach in Mawgan Porth in Cornwall. Ever since, he’s been trying to comprehend why it had hurt so much. It has taken five years of going walkabout to get to the answer: to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t his fault, to stop blaming himself – that he hasn’t failed. He gets this, now that he’s a bit older and wiser. The realisation rejuvenates him: it puts him in the mood for making new promises to worthy causes that might come his way: exactly as he did with the Iranian journalist in Hanover Square a few months ago.
Lewis definitely misses the Military; several times in the last five years he has toyed with returning to active service. However, he enjoys too much being a sole operator: a man with no ties, no responsibilities, and no commitments. Assuming that he finds ways to get the best of both worlds – finding worthy-enough causes where his talents and skills can be put to good use whilst still operating on his own – then he will be in his element.
Indeed, a short-term contract working for a Ukrainian oligarch could most definitely be just the kind of opportunity that Lewis is looking for.
Surprisingly quickly, the engine noise changes. Lewis looks out of the window and sees a large expanse of green parkland rising gently towards them: the two pilots are slowing the helicopter for a controlled landing. On this ride, there is no flaring to decelerate the aircraft such that the nose is raised and the rear ramp lowered to allow a quick ejection of the payload. On one memorable mission with US Special Forces in Iraq, Lewis had been inside one of two HMMWV ‘Humvees’ that had been squeezed so tightly inside the specially converted MH-47 Night Stalker that everyone had to remain inside the Hummers for the duration of the flight. When they had arrived at the drop zone, the driver of each vehicle had started their engines even before the aircraft had slowed to a halt, the Sikorsky’s nose not even, at that stage, yet raised in preparation for landing. As the tailgate descended towards the ground, they had simply driven out the back. Today’s landing is more sedate. The helicopter settles smoothly on to a perfectly mown circle of green grass, a short distance from a large Jacobean-style country house.
There is a welcoming committee of one, a large muscular man who introduces himself as Sergei Fedorov. He is of indeterminate age but in all probability about five years older than Lewis. Fedorov greets the new arrival with an iron-fisted handshake. He beckons silently for Lewis to follow. Despite being overweight, the man has a lightness of touch about the way he walks. It is a boxer’s walk, the weight forward on the balls of the feet. The movement is fluid and without effort. This is someone who uses the skipping rope as part of his routine in the gym. Lewis is escorted in silence from the landing pad. They pass along a short path leading to a gravel drive, towards the front entrance of the main house itself.
Out of habit, Lewis keeps two paces behind Fedorov, on the man’s right hand side. It is possibly a needless precaution. However, Lewis is in unfamiliar territory. Well over seventy per cent of people in the world are right-handed. Lewis knows that the odds are thus also stacked in favour of Fedorov also being a right-hander. The best place to position oneself when following such a person is behind them and to their right. That way, when they try and swing an unexpected punch to their rear they either have to swivel around on their heel clockwise and use their left hand; or else they swivel in the other direction through at least two-hundred and forty degrees before their punch can connect. Lewis is not expecting any trouble from Fedorov. However, when a seriously powerful Ukrainian oligarch sends his private helicopter to offer a job protecting his family, Lewis feels he needs to be prepared for any eventuality.
They are about forty metres in front of the main entrance to the house when Fedorov comes to an abrupt halt and swivels quickly around on his heel in the middle of the gravel drive. He spins to his left, through two hundred and forty degrees. The man has to be a right-hander. Lewis files this away for future reference. For the moment, Fedorov’s hands are by his side. He is not about to swing any punches.
“Now we search, please.”
Fedorov’s accent is Slavic, the English words poorly pronounced. Lewis moves his legs apart and bends his knees, his weight distributed forward. He keeps his hands and arms hanging by his side, all the time staring expressionlessly into Fedorov’s eyes. The man comes forward and pats Lewis down. Rough hands search around and under the shoulders, down the arms and lower legs. There is an odour of garlic and bad breath but no alcohol that Lewis can discern. It is a perfunctory search, not nearly as thorough as Lewis is expecting. The man then steps back and jerks his head for Lewis to continue to follow him. Lewis decides it is time to play an unexpected move.
“You missed something.”
Fedorov looks momentarily confused. He scowls at Lewis, fixing him with a cold stare. Then, saying nothing, he simply shrugs his shoulders and turns to begin walking in the direction of the front door once again. Lewis counts to five, then follows.
Too bad: he won’t be able to say later that he wasn’t warned.
8
The rectangular-shaped drawing room is large, the space filled with numerous sofas and tables. Rich fabrics and curtains are much in evidence, as are copious books, neatly stacked in floor to ceiling bookcases on three sides. On prominent display, adorned with various silver photo frames, is a grand piano. A conservatory at one end floods the interior with sunlight. Ceiling-mounted security cameras, their tiny lenses hidden behind small, semi-circular, smoked glass covers are positioned at each corner of the room.
Fedorov indicates for Lewis to approach the only other person in the room, a man who is sitting alone at a square-shaped table close to a window. Fedorov then withdraws. As if only becoming aware of Lewis when he hears the door being closed, the other man looks up and springs to his feet energetically.
“You must be Ben Lewis,” he says smiling, advancing with his hand extended in greeting. “Arkady Nemikov. I am delighted you were able to join me here this morning.”
Strikingly, the Ukrainian is tall, slender and almost completely bald. The face is suntanned and clean-shaven, the handshake firm and confident. Lewis feels strength in the man’s forearm. It suggests that he, like his security man, Fedorov, frequents the gym. The Ukrainian’s dark-brown eyes never once leave Lewis’s gaze.
“Not everyone offers their private helicopter to collect invited guests.”
“The Sikorsky is probably a step up from what you might have been used to in the Military.”
“Certainly in terms of luxury.”
“I am hosting a small, private, shoot later today otherwise we could have met in London. I hope you’ll forgive me dragging you all the way out here.”
In the middle of the square table where Nemikov had been sitting is a large chessboard. Nemikov sees Lewis looking at the game he has in progress.
“You play, don’t you?” the Ukrainian asks him.
“Not a great deal. At one time I used to be reasonably good.”
“Perhaps even a junior champion? Or maybe that was just a false rumour?”
Lewis smiles. Nemikov has done his homework.
“Let’s talk over a game.” Nemikov indicates for Lewis to take a seat. He busies himself resetting the pieces to their starting positions.
“I was impressed when I heard what happened outside Westminster Cathedral.”
Nemikov holds out two closed fists in front of Lewis to allow him to pick one:
Lewis choses the empty hand. Nemikov swivels the chessboard around so that the black pieces are in front of Lewis.
“They were both amateur.”
“It would have shocked the entire nation if they had succeeded – amateur or not.” Nemikov is quick to make his first move. It is a classic opener: pawn to e4.
“Quite.” Lewis plays a less conventional black pawn to c5.
Nemikov looks at Lewis and smiles.
“Do I sense a touch of Kasparov in your opening moves here, Ben?”
Lewis shrugs. “Bobby Fischer was also a fan of the Najdorf variation.”
“Impressive. You do know your chess. A man after my own heart. Kasparov was the better player, though. Surely you have to concede that?”
“Even given that he is a Russian and not a Ukrainian?”
“Well, no one can be completely perfect, Ben, and Kasparov has spent the last ten years publically denouncing the ruling Kremlin political elite at almost every opportunity. He has been particularly vocal about Russia’s illegal annexation of the Crimea. I think of him as almost Ukrainian.”
“Another man after your own heart?”
Nemikov smiles. “I think I’m going to like you, Ben Lewis.”
He moves another pawn and Lewis quickly takes the white piece with one of his own.
“Kasparov did arguably play one of the best chess moves of all time, though, I will concede you that. Somewhere unpronounceable in the Netherlands in 1999 against the Bulgarian Topalov.” Ben moves another piece as he talks.
“Ah, yes! The twenty-fourth move. Rook takes d4. A master class in forward thinking. I am actually inclined to agree with you, Ben. Shirov or Spassky might be close contenders for that second place. But for me Kasparov has the edge.”
Lewis doesn’t respond. They continue in silence for a few moves until Lewis makes a surprise play and captures Nemikov’s rook with a bishop. “Check.”
The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2) Page 4