The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

“So, Fedorov heads directly northwards as if heading to Luton and I go in a different direction. That way, if there are more than one of them, we half the risk that they will end up following the car that Olena’s in.”

  “Why not take the Lamborghini? You’d be faster than anything else on the road.”

  “Because it’ll stand out a mile. Besides, the Audi will be very fast. Around London, it should be more than adequate. Whilst I am gone, who else is around to look after you?”

  “Just my housekeeper and a driver. Stop worrying, I am more than able to take care of myself for a few hours.”

  “I’ll see if I can organise something.” Lewis locates his mobile phone and starts searching for a number. “Once I’ve made a few calls, I’d like to take a walk around the neighbourhood. After that, Fedorov, Olena and I must be on our way.”

  42

  “Show me your hand.”

  Virenque had brought medical supplies with him. They were both sitting in the back of the taxi. With a small Maglite torch held between his teeth, the former Spetsbureau 13 agent carefully peeled away the makeshift bandage that Panich had applied to his injured wrist. The Russian winced in pain but said nothing. Virenque took the flashlight out of his mouth and shone the beam from different angles.

  “I think it looks worse than it is. Can you bend your fingers?”

  Panich clenched his fist a little, the pain evident in his eyes. He made no sound. He was feeling unusually breathless and it was bothering him: usually he was super-fit. He dismissed the thought and tried instead to block out the pain in his wrist.

  “I don’t think you’ve any serious ligament damage. I’m going to clean the wound, and then apply paper stitches and a bandage. You’ll be good as new.”

  Both knew this wasn’t true, but neither was in a position to say anything different.

  “What happened on the train this afternoon?” Panich asked.

  Virenque told him as he cleaned the wound with some rubbing alcohol.

  “That Lewis is a lucky bastard,” Panich said through clenched teeth as Virenque positioned two paper stiches. “I’ve had goodness knows how many chances to kill him. Every time, somehow he manages to slip away unscathed. No one does that to me and gets away with it.”

  “So, we both have scores to settle with him. Do you know where he’s taken the girl?”

  Panich nodded, smiling for the first time that evening. “Not far from here. A small and exclusive garden mews in Kensington.”

  A knocking on the window caused both men to look up. A police officer in motorcycle leathers was standing on the pavement next to their taxi.

  “Shit,” muttered Virenque under his breath. “That’s poor timing.”

  “Or maybe fortuitous,” said Panich quietly.

  “I need both of you to step outside the vehicle, please.” The policeman was speaking to them in a loud voice through the still-closed passenger window. He had spotted something suspicious: what appeared to be a bullet hole in the roof of the taxi. He was in the process of depressing the button on his lapel microphone, presumably about to report in the details over his radio.

  Virenque’s speed, agility and strength was surprising, even to Panich. No sooner had the Frenchman placed his hand on the door handle than he was out of the taxi. Using power stored in his bent knees, he moved rapidly from a sitting crouch to a standing position, raising himself up to face the policeman in one swift movement. This small amount of upward momentum was sufficient to cause the right-handed punch that Virenque delivered to the tip of the policeman’s jawbone to land with knockout force. The man’s head snapped backwards. He fell to the pavement deeply unconscious.

  “Quick, I’ll help you get him in the back!” Panich shouted at Virenque through the open door. After hauling the body inside, Virenque stripped the man of his fluorescent jacket before putting it on himself.

  “This one’s armed!” Virenque held up a Glock 17 pistol.

  “Special Escort Group. They protect VIPs and diplomats. Another gun could prove handy.”

  “Come on then,” Virenque said by the time he had finished donning the bare essentials of the policeman’s uniform. He had also handcuffed the man, even though he was unconscious. Panich was, by this stage, back in the driver’s seat. “It must be time to pay the Nemikovs, not to mention our friend Lewis, a house call, don’t you think?”

  Panich gave Virenque a smile through the broken glass window partition.

  “My thoughts exactly. You’ve got a powerful police BMW bike to play with and I have a London taxi. What better cover? It’s time to have some fun.” Panich restarted the taxi’s engine.

  “What are you going to do with this one?” Virenque asked, climbing out of the cab, referring to the still unconscious policeman with a nod of his head.

  “For now, just leave him tied up in the back. I’ll drop him down some dark side street en route to the Nemikov place. Are you all set?”

  Virenque nodded.

  “Then I’ll see you in Kensington in a few minutes.

  43

  The time is several minutes after eleven in the evening. Lewis has ventured onto the street in order to familiarise himself with the layout of the neighbourhood. He wants to see whether he can spot Panich lurking in the shadows: perhaps the bomber from the train might be here as well?

  A short while earlier, Lewis had been speaking firstly to Jake Sullivan’s rather surly section head, Laura, and then subsequently to Saul Zeltinger. MI5 were not, it seems, interested in providing any field assistance to Lewis: Nemikov wasn’t currently on their operational radar. Whilst Laura appeared vaguely interested in hearing about Oleg Panich’s return from the grave, she was unable to offer Lewis any help on the ground. Which is why Lewis next calls Saul Zeltinger. The half-German Detective Inspector, to use a degree of exactitude that Zeltinger himself would have been proud of, is at home when Lewis rings. He answers Lewis’s call on the second ring.

  “I have just finished eating a very nice lasagne, as it happens, Ben. It is the same one that Hattie, my darling wife, made for you, Ben. You were meant to be here, playing chess if you recall?”

  “I trust you sent my apologies, Saul?” Lewis says.

  “My long-suffering wife is well used to it. What can I do for you at this hour, Ben?”

  Lewis explains his current predicament, in particular Oleg Panich being alive and once more in London.

  “Very interesting,” Zeltinger says once Lewis has finished. “You think Panich is working freelance?”

  “I can’t see the SVR keeping him on with a prosthetic arm, can you?”

  “It’s unlikely: certainly not as a field agent. Do you think the kidnap threat to Nemikov’s daughter is real?”

  “Totally – and, equally as likely to his son. He’s currently in Cambridge. I’m heading there once the daughter, Olena, is safe.”

  “I’ll make some calls and see if I can organise an escort for you up to Luton. Would that be helpful?”

  Lewis assures him that it would and ends the call.

  Nemikov’s Kensington residence comprises four separate houses. Originally they had been purchased as separate dwellings before being joined together to form one large property. It is located in a private, gated mews at the eastern end of Lexham Gardens. This is a West London residential neighbourhood of smart, terraced houses. The road itself runs parallel with the major London westbound artery known as the Cromwell Road.

  Because of its location, Nemikov and his family are able to leave their property in one of two ways. Either via the front door directly onto the mews: thereafter, once through their own security gate, they are out into Lexham Gardens and from there, indirectly, they have access to the Cromwell Road. Or the secondary way is out of the back of one of the conjoined properties. This lets them out in another, smaller, privat
e mews linked to a completely separate, residential square called Cornwall Gardens. There is no direct road linking the two garden squares, only a pedestrian walkway. Nemikov explained to Lewis earlier that he finds the location of his Kensington house hugely convenient. He is able to leave one car parked on the mews off Lexham Gardens and another in the similar mews off Cornwall Gardens: anyone wanting to keep him under surveillance never knows which car or which exit route he is going to be taking when leaving the property. This evening the Range Rover is parked in front of the house itself, within the gated mews. The Audi is a short distance away in the side mews off Cornwall Gardens.

  Lewis feels his phone vibrating in his pocket once again. He removes it and answers the call.

  “Saul. What news?”

  “Not good. I have been trying to find a police motorbike escort to keep you company on your journey to Luton.”

  “Well?”

  “There’s a flap on. One of the Special Escort Group riders and his bike have gone missing. Just over an hour ago. The rider was waiting outside an embassy near Hyde Park Corner when he saw a taxi parked up with its light off. The last we heard, he was on his way to investigate.”

  “I wonder whether it could have been Panich’s taxi?”

  “That’s a possibility. Look, because of the way that so much appears to be linking to Nemikov and his family, a police car is on its way over to Kensington right now. Finding the missing policeman and his bike are a bigger priority than baby-sitting you all the way to Luton, I’m afraid.”

  “Understood. Keep me in the loop, can you?”

  Lewis walks out of the gated mews and into Lexham Gardens itself. The road at this point encircles a large rectangular-shaped garden that is fenced and locked: for the use of residents only. Cars are parked tightly packed together: every available curb space adjacent to the roadway has been used. Walking briskly in the cold, night air, Lewis heads around the outside perimeter in a clockwise direction. As he passes, he looks briefly at each vehicle and the surrounding buildings. He wants to know if any cars are occupied – or whether anyone is loitering in one of the balustraded entrances to any one of the Victorian terraced houses.

  He is about two-thirds of the way around when he spots two people: a man and a woman, sitting inside a Vauxhall Astra parked up ahead. The car is facing forwards, giving the two occupants a clear view directly towards the Nemikov property ahead. As he gets closer, Lewis hears voices. He can’t see much of the man who is sitting in the driver’s seat. The woman in the passenger seat has short blonde hair and is wearing a thick duffel coat. Her voice is loud and sounds American. He keeps walking, right past their car. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the woman has her mobile phone on her lap: the screen is lit. It tells Lewis that her phone may be on. Lewis notes the registration of the car and commits it to memory.

  A few yards further on, he sees two other things that catch his attention. In the distance, beyond the mews entrance and on the short road heading directly to the Cromwell Road, are two London black cabs. They are parked in front of a small private hotel with their orange ‘for hire’ lights off, both with drivers sitting waiting. Could one of these be Panich?

  The second thing he sees is more concerning. As he walks around the right-hand bend back towards the gated mews, to his left is the pedestrian walkway connecting Lexham and Cornwall Gardens. Bollards have been set in the pavement to prevent cars from using it. Just visible, jutting out from between two houses, are the front forks of a motorbike. Walking past, he catches a glimpse of the blue and fluorescent yellow chequered flashes of a Metropolitan Police motorbike.

  44

  Chess players are typically one of two types: natural born attackers or natural born defenders. Lewis considers himself a natural born attacker. On the front foot, thinking several moves ahead. Deceiving opponents by feigning an attacking move here, before coming on strong in another completely different direction there. It is why he plans to send Fedorov off in the Range Rover. To use him as a decoy. It will draw Panich’s eye in the wrong direction. It might be enough to give Lewis a life-saving advantage.

  Lewis is itching to discover whether one of the two taxi drivers is Panich. If so, his natural disposition would ordinarily be to find a quick and permanent way to remove him from the field of play. Likewise with the person sitting on the hidden police motorbike. If it were, indeed, the Welwyn bomber, then Lewis would like nothing better than to be circling around behind him, in the shadows, and slitting his throat. The man deserved nothing less. There had been children on the train that afternoon. Not to mention Olena. Any man who tries to explode a bomb on a crowded train earns himself the death sentence, in Lewis’s mind. End of discussion.

  Uncharacteristically, Lewis feels compelled to make his moves with more caution. There are too many unknowns making the entire neighbourhood not simply hostile – but potentially deadly. For one, he is on his own and without backup: he doesn’t know who the pair in the Astra are, and what their connection to Panich, if any, might be; and he has no knowledge about whether anyone else might be watching – for example, from an upper storey window, perhaps with a night scope attached to a long-distance sniper rifle?

  So Lewis decides on an alternative gameplay. He will call Saul Zeltinger. Perhaps the mobile police unit that Zeltinger referred to earlier as being on its way could flush both parties out? That would leave it clear for Lewis and Olena to make their way, unseen, out of the side entrance of the Nemikov’s property and into the waiting Audi A3, currently parked in the mews off Cornwall Gardens.

  Lewis reaches the security gate at the entrance to the mews and Fedorov buzzes him through. Once inside, he reaches for his phone to dial Zeltinger’s number. The time is eleven-twenty in the evening.

  45

  “Target three is returning to base.”

  The blonde-haired woman was speaking. All parties – the fellow agent next to her and those listening in on the call – were listening intently.

  “Are you certain no one’s following?” It was a male voice coming through loud and clear over the speakerphone.

  “Affirmative. At any rate, from where we are, his tail looks clean. The geography of the neighbourhood makes it hard to tell. I can head out and try and take a look, if it helps?”

  “Not yet. What’s the view like from up top?”

  Another voice, this time another male, came on the line.

  “There are two black cabs waiting outside a small, private hotel not far from the entrance to the property. Other than that it looks clear.”

  “Okay, people, listen up. The time is fast approaching. Once target three and the girl are gone, target one will be alone in the property. Perhaps not for long. We have to plan on having a very narrow window.”

  The man described the next steps in the plan. “Does anyone have any questions?” he said at the end, a few minutes later.

  “Should we follow target one, when he eventually leaves the property?”

  “Negative. By that stage, everything should all have been taken care of.”

  The blonde woman interrupted the conversation. There was a heightened sense of urgency in her tone.

  “We’ve got trouble. A police car has just arrived. It’s driven right by us, now it’s stopping: a few yards ahead of us, next to the pedestrian cut-through to the neighbouring square.” She checked her watch.

  “This could change things,” came the male voice over the loudspeaker. “Keep the line open. We should reassess in a few minutes.”

  The time was eleven twenty-eight in the evening.

  46

  “Okay. Time to go.” Lewis is checking his watch as he speaks. It is almost exactly eleven-thirty. He, Olena, Fedorov and Nemikov are standing together in the main hallway. On either side is the meandering corridor that connects each of the four interlinked houses. Nemikov has just been h
aving a private conversation with Lewis in his study. It has not been a conversation that included Fedorov. The expression on the Ukrainian security guard’s face shows that he is not happy about Lewis’s newfound intimacy and favouritism with his employer.

  “Sergei, you’re taking the Range Rover. Olena and I will go in the Audi. Remember to keep all phones turned off until we reach Luton.”

  “That’s crazy! How we speak with each other?” Fedorov asks gruffly in his poor English.

  “The last time I was up against this particular Russian, he proved adept at knowing where people were by tracking their mobile phones.”

  Fedorov grunts but says nothing.

  “Everyone ready?”

  Fedorov nods, casually tossing the Range Rover’s keys in the air. It is his attempt to demonstrate how calm he can be under pressure. He then turns towards the door that leads directly onto the Lexham Gardens mews. “See you at Luton. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  He opens the door and is gone. The time is eleven thirty-one.

  Olena turns to give her father a huge hug. Her eyes are moist with tears. A few minutes earlier her father had told her about the bombing in Venice and the possibility that her mother was missing.

  “I’ll track Mum down when I get to Venice. She often goes walkabout. You’ll see. Will you promise me that you won’t do anything stupid whilst you’re left on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s you I am more worried about. I am relying on Ben here to work his magic.” He briefly touches Lewis’s arm. “For the love of God, Ben, please don’t let me down.”

  47

  The driver of the Hyundai i30 incident response vehicle was unarmed, although that in no way diminished his bravery. Wearing a protective bulletproof vest under his fluorescent zip-up jacket, with various handcuffs and restraining devices clipped to his belt, he approached the stationary BMW R1200RT without fear or hesitation. If he had known the deadly situation he was about to walk into, he might perhaps have used more caution.