The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  Almost immediately Hildebrandt had begun searching for his mobile phone in an inner jacket pocket. Finally located, he had spent the next minute or so checking for messages. Tian had been excited. It was, as she had thought, an iPhone 6 model, the version with the TouchID fingerprint recognition system: it meant that Rudi hadn’t needed to enter a security code when unlocking his phone: placing his thumbprint on the bottom button had been all that had been required. She had watched as he had used the phone, noting with satisfaction that he used his right thumb to unlock the device.

  With barely a passing glance at Tian, five minutes later Hildebrandt had been ready to go. Bidding her a polite gute nacht, he had swivelled off his bar stool, picked up his gym bag and made his way silently out of the building. Tian would soon be following – but first she had one final thing to do. Picking an ultra-thin latex glove from out of the bottom of her capacious handbag, she had carefully pulled it over her right hand and fingers. Next, ensuring that no one was watching, she picked up Hildebrandt’s glass, placing it inside a small cardboard container also in her bag especially for this purpose. She had taken special care not to smudge any finger – and, most importantly, any thumb – prints. She needed a perfect print for what she had in mind, pleased that she had been able to apply the odourless and colourless spray to each glass before Hildebrandt had emerged from the locker room.

  38

  Back in her hotel room, the equipment Tian had needed had been set up earlier. The bulkiest item had been the laser printer, currently connected to her laptop by means of a simple USB connection.

  Donning another pair of thin latex gloves, this time one on each hand just to make sure, Tian had lifted the glass tumbler containing Hildebrandt’s fingerprints and set it on the desktop in front of her. There had been two un-smudged thumbprints that she had found, both towards the lower half of the glass. One of the prints, in particular, had looked perfect.

  From a small zipped bag she had taken out a clear plastic jar of dusting powder together with her favourite dusting brush, a Zephyr, made up of microscopically thin fibreglass strands. She always preferred to make her own powder: it never ceased to amaze her how easy it was. Over a burning candle the previous evening, she had held a smooth bottomed saucer until the bottom had become blackened with soot from the flame. The soot had then been carefully scraped off with a sharp knife into a plastic container. Repeating this a few times until she had sufficient, the resultant soot had been mixed with corn flour in a jam jar in the proportion: one part soot: three parts corn flour. The lid had then been screwed on and the jar shaken. That was it: homemade dusting powder, ready and waiting to be used.

  The trick with dusting was not to use too much powder. For that reason, her preferred method was to shake the jar before unscrewing the lid and then swirling the Zephyr brush very gently around the inside of the lid in order to lightly coat the fine fibres. Next, very gingerly, she would dust fibres all over the area of the print. The essence of a good print was achieving good contrast. One trick she had learned over the years, therefore, was to fill the glass with milk once she had completed the dusting process. Conveniently, there had been a small carton in her hotel minibar. Once this had been completed, it was time to take some crystal sharp photographs.

  The camera she had used was a Canon EOS 700 D, well able to produce a digital image at the required resolution of at least two thousand, four hundred pixels per inch: any less than this and the resultant thumbprint would not have been useable. She had placed the half-filled glass containing the dusted thumbprint on the desktop and angled the table lamb in order to create the right lighting contrast. Several digital photographs had been taken of the print from various angles. With her camera connected to the laptop, the digital images had swiftly uploaded onto her computer screen.

  The next part was always the most tedious – but also the most essential. Choosing her best image, she had used Photoshop painstakingly to clean up the digital image. The reason for this was all down to the dusting powder. On the one hand it was an excellent medium for capturing the various ridges and contours of a thumbprint: the traces of human oil retained by Hildebrandt’s thumbprint trapping the microscopically fine powder perfectly. On the other hand, when enlarged, the image quality was understandably grainy, the lines and contours of the image much more uneven than in real life. After several minutes of adding or deleting individual pixels, dot by dot across the whole thumbprint, she finally had what she thought – and hoped – was a clean image. Scaling this back to actual size, the software had, on her command, then inverted the entire image: the black dots became white and vice versa. Now she needed to print it. The print medium she had used was not paper but a transparent acetate slide. With the toner settings adjusted on the laser printer so that the contrast was set to maximum, this resulted in the thickest deposit of toner being baked onto the acetate as the thumbprints were printed.

  Just to be safe, Tian had made four copies, letting the acetate slides cool before the final and most important part of the whole process: making a serviceable duplicate thumbprint. From her zipped bag, she had taken a bottle of ordinary latex wood glue. She squeezed a generous measure of the white liquid directly over the image on each transparency. As the latex began to dry, the ridges formed by the toner on each acetate slide would be captured within the crude latex mould that had been created. In effect, once dried and peeled away, each should, in theory, be a perfect replica of Hildebrandt’s thumbprint.

  39

  Arkady Nemikov sits listening to Olena’s account of that afternoon’s events. He doesn’t interrupt, his torso bolt upright. Nemikov’s thin face exhibits fatigue and worry in equal measure. His dark brown eyes hold his daughter’s without any waver in concentration.

  “Weren’t you hurt? When you fell from the taxi?”

  “Not really. We weren’t going that fast. I think Ben took the worst of it.” She looks at Lewis and smiles. He in turn looks at Nemikov and shrugs silently. The meaning of the gesture is clear: ‘I’m alive; we got away; it wasn’t a problem.’

  “I’d be happier if you went away for a few days, my darling. Until all this dies down. Let me talk to Ben. I’ll ask Sergei to escort you to the yacht. In Venice. No one will find you there.”

  “Isn’t that where Mama is at the moment?”

  “Yes. Sergei can organise the jet first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “This can’t wait until tomorrow morning,” Lewis interrupts. Nemikov looks at him, surprised.

  “The taxi driver,” Lewis continues. “He knows exactly where this house is.”

  “So does half of London,” Nemikov replies. “Certainly anyone who might be interested.”

  “Trust me. This is not someone about to head home to lick his wounds before coming back at daylight after a nice restorative sleep. He was trying to kill us both earlier. He’ll be on his way here to complete the job any time soon. Olena isn’t safe here. Neither, really, are you. We have to be out of here immediately – there’s no time to lose.”

  “I’m meant to be in an important paediatric training session all-day tomorrow,” Olena protested.

  “Forget it,” Nemikov says firmly. “There’ll be opportunities to do all that later. Ben’s right. You need to get away. I’m staying. I can more than handle myself, trust me. Let me have a quick conversation with Ben whilst you go and pack a bag. On your way out, tell Sergei that you’ll be leaving very shortly.”

  She gets up from the sofa and kisses her father on the forehead. Turning to look at Lewis, she hesitates, her cheeks colouring.

  “Thanks for everything, Ben,” she says eventually, not moving from her position beside her father. “I owe you for today.”

  “Don’t mention it. Just keep safe and out of trouble. I’ll see you soon enough, once this has all died down.”

  “Have you heard from Valentyna this evening?” Lewis asks Nem
ikov once the door to the living room is closed. They can both hear the sound of Olena’s footsteps as she makes her way upstairs.

  Nemikov stares expressionless at Lewis and shakes his head.

  “Sergei implied earlier that she is prone to break loose from her bodyguards when she is on these overseas trips. Is that true?”

  The Ukrainian lets out a loud sigh before answering.

  “Valentyna is a free spirit. I cannot, and do not, try to control where she goes all the time. It would be a pointless, if not futile, exercise.”

  “How long is it usually before you hear from her?”

  “Typically?” He sighs again, thinking about the question. “Usually she calls me once a day.”

  An antique clock in the middle of a marble mantelpiece softly chimes eleven o’clock.

  “When? Morning or evening?”

  “Usually before she goes to bed. Most often not later than midnight.”

  ‘Which would be about now in Venice?”

  “Correct.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that your wife was on the vaporetto that was destroyed this afternoon?”

  There is silence in the room whilst Nemikov considers this. His eyes stare at the gas fireplace in one corner, before he looks up, shaking his head.

  “What do you think?” the Ukrainian asks in return.

  Lewis doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he asks a seemingly unrelated question.

  “What do you know about a very unpleasant former-SVR killer named Oleg Panich?”

  Nemikov considers the name for a moment.

  “I have never heard of him. Why?”

  “What if I told you that the man driving the taxi this evening – the man who was waiting outside Paddington Green police station specifically for Olena and me, so that he could lure us both into his taxi and kill us – was none other than this man, Panich? He’s the reason why Olena needs to get way from here in a hurry. Do you believe in coincidences?”

  “Not especially, no.”

  “Good. Neither do I. When I saw the man on the train this afternoon, I knew that this wasn’t another Islamic State suicide bomber. He was an ex-soldier, one of a small elite: someone with specialist training. It isn’t hard to spot. A few hours later, a Russian agent who I had left for dead half way up a mountain several months ago, suddenly appears out of thin air trying to kill us both. Coincidence?” He shakes his head. “It’s very unlikely.”

  “Added to that, at precisely the same time as the Welwyn bomb was intended to wreak its havoc, another bomb explodes, this time in the middle of Venice. Another coincidence? Was Islamic State really responsible? When taken together, it all sounds improbable - especially with the sudden appearance of Oleg Panich on the scene. I think Venice happened precisely because Valentyna Nemikov was there. I suspect that she probably was on board that fatal vaporetto this afternoon. I’m sorry for being so blunt. Perhaps we’ll never know.”

  Nemikov remains impassive throughout this. Lewis can see moisture in the Ukrainian’s eyes as he thinks things through.

  “If I was determined to coerce several billions from you, what would I do? I would go after your wife and children. You said it before. They are your Achilles heel. I think you have to accept the very possibility that your wife was killed this afternoon. And if we don’t act swiftly, both your son and daughter are in very real danger of ending up dead as well.”

  40

  Alexei Polunin was huddled in the shadows of a sports retail outlet, just off St. Andrew’s Street, close to the centre of Cambridge. He was smoking a cigarette to calm his nerves, trying his best to be patient. He always became anxious when on a mission. The time was eleven-fifteen in the evening. Some while earlier, Vince, the two hundred and twenty pound hired muscle that Panich had taken on for this project, had parked the get-away vehicle. It was a battered old red transit, suitably nondescript: ideal for ferrying hidden cargo. Vince had found a parking space a few hundred metres away, just off the green parkland known as Christ’s Pieces. The two of them were waiting for any one of the residents of the apartments above the sports shop to return home. Entry to this exclusive block of flats required an electronic key. Vince had wanted to break the lock. Polunin had been insistent on there being as little evidence of their breaking and entering as possible. That had meant waiting for someone else to open the door for them. Polunin’s reasoning had been that the entrance was exposed, located as it was in a public thoroughfare: there had also been a security camera above the door. So instead they had waited – on balance, the better option.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  Within minutes, a lone male started approaching the apartments’ entrance. He was in his mid-twenties, a mature student on his way home after a night out. The man was drunk, lurching unsteadily along the pedestrian precinct as he approached the security door. After two failed attempts, he succeeded in making his key fob work. The man then staggered inside the lobby, weaving unsteadily toward the elevator directly ahead of him. Whilst the outside door was closing, Polunin and Vince slipped into the building unseen.

  They took the stairs to the first floor, making their way along the corridor that wound its way around the building. The corridor was open to the elements on one side, providing a clear view over various college rooftops and church spires. They reached the Nemikov apartment without meeting anybody. It was number twenty-five. Checking that there were no further security cameras, Polunin removed a Walther P22 pistol from his shoulder harness. He had fitted a Gemtech adaptor to the barrel before leaving the parked transit. Now he took an AAC Element Suppressor from another pocket and screwed this on to the adaptor. He had always liked the suppressed P22 for close quarters work. It was virtually silent when used indoors. At close range, it was also deadly accurate: especially if, like now, it was fitted with a Veridian laser sight.

  They stopped outside the apartment and listened for sounds. They could hear nothing untoward. There were two locks on the door: a deadbolt and a cylinder. It took Vince less than a minute, using a specialist tool, before he had unlocked the deadbolt. The cylinder took less time. He eased the door open a fraction and then waited, listening carefully.

  The light in the hallway was on. From the apartment’s upper floor there came the sound of late-night television on low volume. The two men went inside and silently closed the door. Turning on the Veridian sight on the P22 pistol, Polunin bade Vince to remain downstairs, by the door, whilst the Russian inched his way up the stairs. Cast in concrete and covered by thick carpet, Polunin never made a sound as he made his way up. A concrete balustrade provided additional protection as he neared the top. He was entering a large open plan living area that, on this level, comprised the entire floor of the apartment.

  Pavel, the security guard that Fedorov had referred to, was standing across the other side of the room, next to a kitchen worktop. His back was to Polunin, busy helping himself to an espresso from a machine installed on the counter. Visible from across the room was a shoulder harness: in it, tucked under his left armpit, was a Makarov 9mm pistol.

  The man never stood a chance.

  One noise-less shot from the P22 was all that was required before Pavel began sliding, gracefully, to the floor. He took the bullet cleanly in the back and it followed through into his chest cavity. The gun was so silent that it was barely audible above the noise coming from the television. Polunin fired one more round, just to make certain. He then retraced his steps to the lower level. Vince was waiting, a pair of knuckle-dusters on his right hand.

  It was time to take care of Borys.

  41

  Nemikov and Lewis are sitting in silence. The Ukrainian appears deep in thought.

  “You think this man Panich is SVR?” Nemikov asks eventually. “Can you be sure?”

  “He certainly was. I’d be surprised if he sti
ll is, though, given his field injuries.”

  “In which case someone has hired him. Someone like Victor Plushenko, for example.”

  “It certainly seems plausible.”

  “While Sergei takes Olena to the yacht, will you go and find Borys and escort him there as well? If I lose my family, I will have lost everything.”

  “Let me help get Olena safely on to your plane first. I know Panich. He will stop at nothing to try and get at her – or me for that matter. I wouldn’t want Fedorov to let his testosterone get in the way of underestimating the peril your family might be in.”

  “Don’t you trust Sergei?”

  “Put it this way. If I were Panich, right this moment I would be on my way to this very house, plotting a way to kill or kidnap your daughter. Goodness knows what he has in mind for me. Fedorov may be good. However, I don’t think he’s that good.”

  “Maybe Panich is here already. Perhaps he’s waiting outside as we speak?”

  “Quite likely. Tell me, how many cars do you have?”

  “Three. An Audi S3 and a Range Rover that are both parked on the street outside, and a yellow Lamborghini in a lock-up garage adjoining the house here in the mews.”

  Lewis raises his eyebrows in silent admiration.

  “So here’s a plan. I drive Olena to the airport in the Audi. Initially she can hide in the front passenger foot well. At the same time, Fedorov departs in the Range Rover. Fedorov goes one way and I head another. If we’re lucky, we might be able to organise a police escort. I should make a call before we leave in any event. Where is your jet at the moment?”

  “Luton. Unlike most other UK airports, it’s open twenty-four seven if you pay enough money.”