Virenque was out of the car, on to the hard shoulder, in a heartbeat. He might not have been quick enough to prevent the crash, but he wasted no time in removing his gun from its shoulder harness, brandishing it directly at Lewis.
“Get away from the car. Move ten paces back and hit the deck.”
For a moment, Virenque was tempted to shoot Lewis in cold blood. Then he hesitated. Professional assassins weren’t normally opportunist killers: Virenque preferred to choose his own time and location to kill his victims. There were too many potential witnesses on the busy motorway. Right now, his priority needed to be to escape, not to get caught. The sound of two police cars fast approaching seemed to decide it. Then he heard the helicopter and knew he was out of time. With the Mercedes’s engine still running and its door wide open, he made a snap decision. Racing to the car and jumping in, he immediately drove away, pulling onto the main carriageway, narrowly avoiding a fast-approaching lorry. It, in turn, blared its horn, the lorry driver forced to brake hard in order to avoid a collision as Virenque sped away.
30
After disembarking the vaporetto, Oleg Panich’s immediate priority had been escaping the island city as quickly as possible. Making his way to the main railway concourse, less than ten minutes away on foot, he had retrieved several items from a left luggage locker, courtesy of the unattributable help that Volkov and his agents had provided: a pre-paid car park ticket; fresh identity papers; and a set of car keys. He had then walked to the public parking garage on the adjacent island of Tronchetto. The car that Volkov had left for him – a Fiat Punto – had been easy to locate. Thus it had been that within fifteen minutes of the vaporetto bomb having exploded, Panich was driving across the causeway that linked Venice’s islands to the Italian mainland. His destination had been Treviso airfield, some forty kilometres away by road. This was a mainly military airport that also shared its runway with a small number of civilian and private charter flights.
Waiting on the tarmac had been a crewed and fuelled Gulfstream G650 jet with a flight plan filed for a direct routing into London’s City Airport. Parking the Fiat at the airport’s VIP parking, Panich, now travelling under a new identity of a West German businessman, Anton Gerber, had easily cleared immigration and was soon boarding the steps of the aircraft. As the wheels lifted from the runway at five-fifteen in the evening Venice time, Panich had allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction of a job well done. More to the point, no more than forty minutes had passed between the time that the bomb had exploded and the time he was leaving Italian airspace bound for London. He reclined his soft, leather, seat, briefly wondering whether Virenque had had an equally successful afternoon. He felt a stabbing pain deep in his chest, causing him to rub his rib cage. The sensation disappeared after a few moments and Panich tried to shrug it off. He’d been conscious of several aches and pains recently: this one felt deep inside of him, as if a knife were piercing his core. Perhaps he really might have that cancer after all? He dismissed the thought. He couldn’t sit and worry about all that now: he had work to do. Reaching instead into his pocket to turn on his mobile phone, the device had buzzed in his hand. He had brought the screen close to his face, reading the string of loosely coded text messages that had been sent by Virenque.
All apparently had not gone well – in fact, it very much looked to Panich as if he was going to have his work cut out as soon as he got to London.
31
They had to speak in code because Panich knew that calls would be monitored – especially given the events of that afternoon. The signal strength on board the Gulfstream had been intermittent but sufficient. They had both kept the conversation short and to the point.
“Staying above any of the detail, tell me what happened,” Panich began with no other introductions or pleasantries.
“The man you were interested in locating was also at the scene,” Virenque had said obliquely. “His intervention was only just-in-time, but it was disruptive.”
“Did both parties get away?”
“Yes and no. When I left them, the police were arriving. They will both be tied up answering questions for hours. The short answer is yes.”
“Any collateral damage at the scene?”
“Very limited.”
“That’s also disappointing.”
“Quite. I am heading to our location near the University and will meet up with our other colleagues as planned.”
“Okay. I will stay in London and re-establish contact with the other two when they are released.”
“Assuming that you can track them down.”
“That usually isn’t something that causes me problems.”
Panich had ended the call abruptly. The whole conversation had lasted less than thirty seconds. It was unlikely that possible listeners, either at GCHQ or the NSA, would have picked up any flagged keywords. Panich closed his eyes, planning what he was going to do next. An idea began forming in his mind almost immediately: over the next few minutes, the more he toyed with it, the more he liked it. He looked at his watch. It was just after five-thirty in the evening London time. They should be landing within the next thirty minutes. There might not be a lot of time. However, there had to be a fair chance that, if luck were on his side, both Lewis and the Nemikov girl would yet be dead before the day was out.
32
“This is becoming something of a habit.”
Saul Zeltinger is once more sitting opposite Ben Lewis in another featureless holding cell at Paddington Green. He is wearing the same suit and the same coloured shirt as the last time. Only the tie is different: it is the same colour but with a different pattern.
“Couldn’t keep away, was that it, Saul?” Lewis asks. “The last time you and I spent any serious time together, we both bit off more than we could chew.”
“I’ve been hearing about what happened this afternoon. You and trouble seem to have this magnetic attraction for each other.”
Lewis simply shrugs, a hint of a smile on his face.
“Where’s Olena? Is she still here or have they sent her home?”
“She’s in the adjacent room. I’ve just got off the phone speaking to Jake Sullivan. Apparently, the team here are about finished with all their questions. You’ll be on your way soon, or so I gather.” He pauses, to see if this piece of news gets any reaction from Lewis. Seeing none, he continues. “If you recall, you were meant to be coming round to play chess this evening? You know: to meet Hattie and the Boys, to have some supper, that sort of thing. I suppose that’s now out of the question?”
“I need to take Olena back to her father. We’ll do it another time, Saul. Thanks, anyway.”
“Who was this bomber? Did you recognise him?”
“Never seen him before. But I recognised the type. He was definitely ex-military – most likely from some elite troop, if not Special Forces. It’s the walk. It’s a dead giveaway.” He spends a few moments telling Zeltinger briefly his version of events on the train that afternoon.
“It doesn’t sound much like an Islamic State sponsored event from what you’ve been describing.”
“I don’t think so. The man wasn’t British, I am sure of that. When he spoke, he had an accent. There was an undertone that sounded French.”
“Doubtless you gave the SO15 team a full description?”
“Several times. And I’ve scanned through numerous mug shots, all to no avail.”
“Who was he trying to kill, do you think? Olena or yourself? Or was he trying just to be as unpleasantly disruptive to everyone?”
Lewis looks surprised by Zeltinger’s line of thinking.
“That’s not a bad question, actually, Saul. My working assumption thus far had been that he had been out to kill Olena, with me just the innocent bystander in all of this. Otherwise, why stop and kidnap her after the failed bombing?”
“Suppose you weren’t just the innocent bystander, as you put it. Is there anyone out there who might also have wanted you dead?”
“Enough to place a large bomb on a train, in the process killing loads of innocent people? No, I don’t think that’s very likely. Not anybody currently alive, at any rate.”
“Did you hear what happened in Venice this afternoon?”
Zeltinger tells him about the bomb on the vaporetto, and the significant loss of life that it caused. Lewis looks visibly shocked.
“That can’t be a coincidence: two bombings on the same afternoon and with Olena’s mother, Valentyna, meant to be in Venice as well. I hope to God that she wasn’t caught up in that.”
“Back to my question, Ben. There are plenty of people who might want to inflict harm on Nemikov and his family. Is there anyone who might be keen to do the same to you? Everywhere you go, you seem able to attract people who end up trying to kill you. Especially after the public beheading you stopped the other day.”
“Thanks,” he says with yet another shrug and a smile. Zeltinger’s question does make him stop and think, though.
“I upset a few Russians and Chinese over that business with the Iranian dossier, as you know,” he says. I doubt that any of them are still minded to come after me for revenge.”
“Well, let’s hope so for your sake, Ben. Ponder it some more. None of it quite gels for me at present. The moment there’s a whiff of a terrorist attack here in the UK, my mysterious friend, Ben Lewis, just happens to find himself smack bang in the middle of it all. It’s too much of a coincidence for my peace of mind.”
“It could just be my bad luck.”
“Or perhaps it might be our good fortune.”
33
It is just after nine in the evening when Lewis and Olena are allowed to leave the Police Station. They walk out on to the busy Edgware Road and find a black London taxi waiting on the curb. Its orange ‘for hire’ light is on. Anxious to get Olena home to her parents’ house in Kensington as quickly as possible, they jump in. Olena tells the driver the address. The taxi performs a quick U-turn and heads off along the Edgware Road in a southerly direction.
“How did you get on?” Lewis asks. Olena is sitting to Lewis’s left, her right arm interlocked with Lewis’s.
“They asked endless questions, especially about the bomber. What about you?”
“More or less the same. I couldn’t find his photo in any mug shot gallery.”
“Me neither.”
The traffic is light as they approach Marble Arch. For a moment, they sit and watch the passing nightscape, lost in their own thoughts.
“Did you speak to your father? To let him know what happened?”
“Briefly. They allowed me five minutes at the beginning, before I had to turn my phone off. I told him that you had saved my life. He wanted to send someone to come and collect us. I said not to bother, that you were with me.”
She looks across at Lewis and smiles. Then, moments later, her face is filled with worry and consternation.
“It was me the bomber was trying to kill, wasn’t it?” she asks, looking directly at Lewis. Her eyes flicker from side to side as she searches his for some glimmer of truth.
“Possibly.”
She seems satisfied by the honesty of the answer and turns to look out of the window once more.
“Or it might have been me.” She turns her head sharply back towards him. “Or, indeed, anyone else on the train. Or nobody. I guess we may never know.”
Lewis is not about to mention anything about the Venice bombing for the moment. He would like to check with her father before rushing to false conclusions.
“Could it have been someone from Islamic State?”
“It’s doubtful. The man didn’t look the part.”
‘What do you mean?” she asks.
“He was a professional soldier, I’m certain of it. He didn’t look or speak like your average terrorist.”
“Well, my father does have many enemies.”
“Who can say?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis notices a small orange light on one of the switches in the rear passenger compartment: the intercom connecting the driver to the passenger compartment. It is switched on. It hadn’t been earlier, when they had got into the taxi. Lewis had checked. This means that the driver can listen – and has been listening – to their every word. Lewis glances directly at the man in the rear view mirror. The driver catches Lewis’ eyes before swiftly looking away.
Lewis feels the hairs move on the back of his neck. An ice-cold feeling is forming in the pit of his stomach.
It is impossible!
This is someone who Lewis knows is meant to be dead.
How can it be?
The eyes are the giveaway: Lewis would remember those eyes anywhere.
If you think before you act, most times you’ll end up dead before you get started.
The last time Lewis had seen these eyes, it was in a mountain chalet above the Swiss ski resort of Champéry. Then, as now, they had belonged to a Russian killer. Someone Lewis had believed then to be unconscious, on the verge of death from injuries caused by two separate gunshot wounds.
Someone, then as now, who had been hell-bent on killing Lewis.
Someone whom, if he were to be back from the dead, would unquestionably be wanting to take up with Lewis exactly where he had left off before.
Could it really be that Oleg Panich was alive and driving this London taxi?
34
Viktor Plushenko shuffled his heavy frame off the rear seat of the stretch limousine. With a certain amount of inelegance, he managed to emerge on to the Moscow pavement with a modicum of dignity still intact. The presence of two very pretty and very blonde girls, both barely out of their teens, standing on the curb and waiting to take an arm, was enough inducement for the overweight Russian to sharpen up his act. In Moscow, whether stray paparazzi or one of the many FSB agents, one never really knew who might be watching.
Two bouncers, dressed in thick, fur-lined, leather jackets, had the task of greeting guests expecting to enter the exclusive Soho Rooms nightclub. They cast Plushenko a cursory glance before recognition kicked in and the large Russian VIP and his two escorts were ushered inside. A senior attendant, dressed in a dark-grey, hand-made suit, a curly-wired security earpiece in one ear, stepped forward to greet him.
“Good evening, Mister Plushenko. It is lovely to have you back here with us. Your guest is already waiting. Shall I lead the way to your private room?”
Plushenko nodded curtly. With a girl still on each arm, he flicked both hands away from his body gently at the wrist. The gesture made it clear to both his escorts that they were dismissed: he, Viktor Plushenko, had more important business to attend to. He followed the flunky through the crowded bar area, past several private booths, and then out through a door to one side of the large dance floor, watched over by two more uniformed guards. Despite the low light levels, both wore aviator sunglasses.
“Mister Plushenko? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Plushenko’s companion was a petite Eurasian. She was wearing a long, slender, black dress with a scooped neckline showing off a modest cleavage. With sequins around her ruched middle, pendant diamonds and pearls in her ears, and several strands of black pears in a choker, she literally shimmered in the overhead lights as Plushenko came forward to kiss her hand.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Tian.”
“Most people call me Kristina.”
“And most call me Viktor,” he said laughing, his whole body shaking as he did so.
A waiter entered the room bearing a silver tray with two tall champagne flutes and a bottle of Roederer Cristal Rosé.
“Ah, drinks. What an excellent idea. I trust you
will join me, Kristina? I thought you could be tempted to try a glass of the finest rosé.”
“Why, certainly, thank you.” They watched as the waiter expertly uncorked the bottle. He poured a little into the tiny silver sommelier’s tasting dish that was hanging around his neck. After sniffing, and then tasting it, he seemed satisfied, and proceeded to fill both champagne flutes expertly to just below the brim. Viktor didn’t wait to be offered. He picked up both glasses and handed one to Kristina.
“Cheers!” he said, and took a sip. “Absolutely delicious, thank you,” he said to the waiter, who took his cue and left them alone.
The room was very ornate and over-done, with onyx and marble everywhere. Three large, burgundy-red sofas piled deep with soft cushions surrounded a rectangular table on which the waiter had left the half empty bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket. There was also an oval platter containing various nuts, olives and an eclectic assortment of canapés. Plushenko indicated that they adjourn to one of the sofas. Without waiting for Kristina, he sank his heavy frame into a corner seat, letting out a big sigh as he did so.
“You come with quite a reputation, you know that?” he asked, looking at her as if sizing up an oil painting. This evening, the world-renowned hacker had shoulder-length, jet-black hair that, on this occasion, was wavy at the edges rather than curly.
The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2) Page 10