The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  Leaving the body where it lay, Panich walked calmly to the driver’s door. Without saying anything to Olena in the rear, he climbed in and began driving away. Only once they were underway did he turn around to face the frightened-looking passenger in the back seat.

  “Hello again, Olena,” he said calmly. The look on her face was one of pure terror. “I’m sure you’re pleased to see me again,” he said, a broad grin on his face. He pointed his gun at her through the gap in the window glass.

  “Please hand me your mobile phone.”

  Too frightened to argue, she placed the device in the small tray beneath the dividing glass screen designed for coins and money. Panich in turn picked up the phone with his prosthetic right hand, his left hand remaining on the wheel. He then, slowly, squeezed his prosthetic fingers closed around the device. The immense strength in the motorised digits crushed the phone into a mangled, useless, wreck of twisted metal and shattered glass.

  “Now, it’s time to go for a little ride. Just the two of us. Can we agree that this time there is to be no jumping out of windows, please?”

  He laughed as he said this, depressing both the rear door and window locking mechanisms as the car began picking up speed.

  “Sit back and relax, enjoy the journey. I am certain your friend Ben Lewis will be coming to save you. In which case, I will be so looking forward to meeting him again. You see, I owe Mister Lewis quite a lot, actually,” he said, holding up his right hand for Olena to see.

  “I want his death to be very laboured and so extremely painful. It will be deliciously exciting for us both to watch him suffer before I kill him, don’t you agree?”

  61

  “I’m presuming that it’s a bit late for this to be a social call?”

  “Correct, Ben. But then, it’s not every day that finds the Ben Lewis name linked to, amongst other matters: a bomb going off on a London-bound train; an incident with a stolen moped and a stolen car somewhere near Welwyn; another incident in a stolen taxi near Hyde Park where a gunshot was, apparently, fired; and a major car chase through the streets of Central London. Any of that ring any bells?”

  “I spent several hours earlier answering police questions over at Paddington Green, as you well know. Did they forget to ask me something, is that the reason you’re calling?”

  Saul Zeltinger exhales loudly before speaking again.

  “Have you, by any chance, been out and about driving Nemikov’s black Audi, Ben? It’s just that there’s been a lot of radio traffic in the last few minutes. Someone, fitting your description, was seen driving such a car at high speed around Trafalgar Square. Being pursued by three police motorcyclists. Sound familiar?”

  “Black Audis are a popular make of car, Saul.”

  “Much more seriously, a police officer has just been found dead, his neck broken, in a pedestrian alleyway next to Nemikov’s Kensington property.”

  “Not guilty. But you should know: one of the police motorcyclists chasing me was bogus, Saul. You mentioned earlier that a police bike had gone missing. I have a hunch that it was the bomber from the train. At the moment, though, I have no way of proving that.”

  “So it was you in the Audi, you don’t deny it?”

  Lewis describes what happened that evening since leaving the Nemikov property in Kensington.

  “If you were a cat, Ben Lewis, you’d have lost about eight of your nine lives this last twenty-four hours. What’s happened to the Nemikov girl that you were meant to be escorting?”

  “She bailed out by the Ritz. I told her to wait but I’ve just received a text saying that she’s already in a cab heading to the airport.”

  “Okay. So listen up. Many of my colleagues in the Met suddenly want to ask a whole load more questions all of a sudden. The death of this policeman changes everything. We’ve been on the highest state of alert since that ISIS video surfaced threatening London and its transport network. You were involved, like it or not, with all that happened on the train this afternoon. With one policeman murdered and another one still missing, everyone’s looking for a common link. Surprise, surprise, your name is connected with all of the above. Guess who’s gone straight to the top of the ‘wanted urgently for questioning’ pile?”

  “They’ll have to wait, Saul. Once I know Olena is safe, I’ve got to head to Cambridge. I must try and prevent the Russians from getting to Nemikov’s son, Borys.”

  “Your name and photograph are all over the police wires, Ben. You’re going to have to turn yourself in. Either that or you’ll be stopped and arrested. This time, you’ll be detained for a whole lot longer, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s not going to happen, Saul. Not yet, at least.”

  “I had a feeling you might say something like that.”

  “So why the phone call?”

  “I thought you might appreciate a private heads up before the crap hits the fan, so to speak. One friend to another.”

  Lewis looks through the front windscreen towards the Aldwych up ahead. Three police cars, sirens blaring, have just shot past the entrance to the road he is parked on.

  “I do. Thanks, Saul. I owe you. What happens next?”

  “On the assumption that you are not prepared to come in voluntarily? I think you need to watch your back; very, very, carefully.”

  “It’s bad enough having several Russians out to get me. Let alone the home team. Can’t you have a quiet word, Saul?”

  “It doesn’t work like that and you know it, Ben. All I can advise is that you keep the channels open between you and me. If I can help, I will. Unofficially, of course.”

  One more police car has just raced past along the Aldwych and is now reversing to a halt at the entrance to this road: the police car is about fifty metres in front of the Audi.

  “I’m going to have to bail now, Saul.”

  “Okay. One final piece of advice.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Simply ditch the Audi. Anything to do with Nemikov is hot property.” With that he rings off.

  Lewis needs no further prompting. He closes the driver’s door and walks back towards Temple tube station. As he does so, the police car starts reversing down the road in the direction of the now abandoned Nemikov vehicle.

  62

  The farmhouse Polunin had found was set back from a quiet, minor road linking the Cambridgeshire villages of Newton and Harston. Surrounded by fields on all sides and with no immediate neighbours, it was completely isolated – and yet, only about a fifteen minute drive away from the centre of Cambridge. Polunin had visited a local estate agent and been shown around six properties. Feigning interest in, and a preference for, a different house, he had nonetheless memorised the burglar alarm code for this particular farmhouse: all he had had to do had been to stand behind the agent and look over her shoulder as she had keyed it in. It had been that simple.

  The house had been empty for some time. By the agent’s own admission, it was an expensive rental. Because of this, and also due to its relatively poor condition, no one had, apparently, been shown around the property for a while; which had been another indicator that this location could be perfect. Panich had wanted somewhere that could be used for three or four days at most. The risks of being discovered by anyone in such a rural location seemed minimal. Given who was going to be in occupation, Polunin was confident that any risks of being discovered – such as they were – could, in any event, be easily taken care of.

  There was a large farmhouse kitchen and downstairs living area on the ground floor, and several bedrooms on the first floor: however, it had been the cellar below ground that had convinced the Russian that he had found the right place. The cellar was only accessed by means of a single, solid oak door: stone stairs led down to the dark and dank-smelling basement, with no access to natural daylight.

&n
bsp; On a wet afternoon, two days later, Polunin had returned to the farmhouse, parked his minivan out of sight from the road, and then picked the locks on the front door. Within minutes, the door was open, the alarm disabled and the house was theirs.

  Polunin’s next task was to prepare the house for its forthcoming houseguests. He went shopping, purchasing various pieces of equipment, and busied himself getting the cellar, in particular, ready. Later that same afternoon, Vince, the local muscle that he had hired, arrived in his beaten-up, red transit. The two of them had played cards, before heading into Cambridge for a curry in Vince’s transit until it had been time to go and collect Borys.

  The young Nemikov was something of a fighter. On two occasions Vince had needed to whack him, the second being whilst he was being forcibly marched to where the red transit had been parked. When he had tried to make his escape, Borys had nearly collapsed under the force of the belting that Vince had given him. The two of them had needed to half carry, half drag, the dazed young man before throwing him unceremoniously into the back of the van. Polunin had climbed in after him, for good measure. He had sat on the van’s floor, pointing his Walther P-22 pistol at the Ukrainian to make sure there were no further misunderstandings.

  They had arrived at the farmhouse a short while later. Vince had unlocked the rear door, and Polunin had helped drag a now frightened Borys from out the back. Vince held him whilst Polunin opened the front door, the two of them roughly shoving their new prisoner inside. They led him through the solid oak door leading to the cellar, down the stone steps, and into the makeshift prison area. Various metal chains lay waiting for him: they had been securely fastened to bolts drilled into the stone floor by Virenque earlier.

  Once Borys was handcuffed and secured, Polunin had returned to the ground floor. He reached for his mobile phone and checked the time. It was nearly thirty minutes after midnight. Time to call Panich and tell him that Borys was safe and secure. Polunin took a lot of personal satisfaction of a job well done. His old friend and colleague would be well pleased: once more, Polunin had delivered, as usual, on time and in the manner prescribed.

  63

  The next time Rudi Hildebrandt had visited his gym was two days later. There had been a new Chinese girl working on the desk that evening. She had been wearing the standard, all white, club uniform and had smiled at him agreeably whilst handing him his normal locker key. Changed into his gym kit, Hildebrandt had then headed into the gym to begin his normal routine. As usual, he started by using the Tunturi cycling equipment first. One of the machines he liked had been vacant, so he had set the programme that allowed him to cycle six kilometres over rough terrain: then he had begun cycling.

  Tian had wasted no time before heading into the male changing room to access Hildebrandt’s locker. Using a master key, she had opened Hildebrandt’s locker and searched his jacket, locating his iPhone in the same inner jacket pocket where she’d seen him secure it two days previously. Closing the locker behind her, she had retreated from the room and went to find the ladies’ toilets. Finding a vacant cubicle, she had closed and locked the door and set to work. Taking from her pocket one of the acetate sheets that contained the dried latex thumbprint, she carefully bent one of the sheets to allow the latex print to come away from the transparency. Breathing on to it, to make it slightly moist, she had firstly pressed the button on the bottom of the iPhone to activate the screen, before placing the latex print onto the circular TouchID sensor at the bottom of the phone.

  It had been the moment of truth.

  She needn’t have worried. Seconds later, and Hildebrandt’s phone was unlocked. All that remained was to sync it with her own device and she would be done. From a jacket pocket she took a palmtop device of her own, complete with its own iPhone connecting cable attached at one end. She pushed this directly into the bottom of Hildebrandt’s iPhone until it clicked into place. Since his phone was now unlocked, she was able to connect with, and interrogate, his phone without any further passwords being required. She touched the screen on her device in various places, initiating a routine that copied the entire contents of Hildebrandt’s iPhone across to hers. A progress bar appeared showing the time remaining: it told her that the data transfer was going to take twelve minutes.

  Fifteen minutes of fast cycling later, Rudi Hildebrandt’s Tunturi programme came to an end. He decided to call it a night. It had been a punishing workout and he felt exhausted. Filling a blue plastic cup with cold water from the water cooler, he headed back into the locker room. Although he often completed a longer work out, it was getting late: Arkady Nemikov wanted an urgent call with him later that night. It was something to do with changing his wife’s security codes apparently.

  Back in the locker room, he collected a towel from the pile near the washbasins and began undressing, wrapping the towel around his naked body. He was about to open his locker and put his gym kit inside when the pretty Chinese girl from the front desk came into the room carrying some towels. She looked visibly shocked when she saw Hildebrandt standing there, half naked.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said bowing to hide her embarrassment. She made a swift exit. Hildebrandt, in turn, decided to leave his gym kit where it was and went, instead, directly to the showers.

  Tian had been caught completely off guard. The download was completed successfully in twelve minutes exactly. By the time she was back in the main reception area checking on Hildebrandt’s progress, he had been in the gym exactly eighteen minutes. Less than half his normal workout session. More than enough time, she had thought, for her to slip back into the locker room and replace his phone. Luckily, she had decided to carry some towels with her as she quietly knocked on the door and entered the men’s dressing room.

  To her complete surprise, when she opened the door and stepped into the room, Hildebrandt was changing out of his gym kit. Damn it! What should she do next? One idea she considered was whether she should inform Hildebrandt, when he was leaving the gym later, that his phone had been found by another male guest in the locker room and been handed in. It was a plausible option. Tian didn’t favour it, however. It drew too much attention to the fact that the phone had been out of his control in the first place. There was another possibility. Since Hildebrandt had not yet had his shower, perhaps if she left it two minutes, she could slip back into the room once again whilst he was in the shower? She only needed thirty seconds at most to undo his locker, replace the phone, then leave. If that couldn’t be made to work, for whatever reason, she would resort to the first idea.

  Hildebrandt’s phone began to ring. It was an incoming call, the ring tone loud and distinctive. Tian pressed the button to divert the call to voicemail. She had precious little time remaining before it would be too late. Picking up the towels once more, she entered the locker room. To her relief, Hildebrandt appeared to be in the shower still: she could hear the water running. She left the towels on the side and crossed to the locker. It took less than twenty seconds to open it, replace the phone, and then lock it once more. She turned to leave just as the distinctive ring tone began ringing once again.

  Hildebrandt could hear his phone ringing even from within the depths of the shower. He quickly turned the water off, grabbed his towel, and headed across the locker room naked. His locker key was on a rubber band around his wrist. By the time he had unlocked it and found his phone, the call had rung off. It had been Arkady. There had been another missed call only two minutes earlier. He sat on the bench and decided to call him back. As he did so, he noticed the pile of fresh towels that had been left on the side. They hadn’t been there when he’d begun his shower. Perhaps the Chinese girl had ventured back in again after all?

  64

  The tedious work had been trawling through the contents of Hildebrand’s iPhone. The emails had been the easiest, although it had soon become clear that they contained nothing of any great importance. Tian nonetheless had scour
ed through hundreds of mails in both his ‘sent’ folder and various mailbox folders that had been set up. They had all looked very irrelevant and innocuous.

  Next came the calendar entries. Again, there had been nothing in here that had caught her attention.

  The address book had been where she had hoped she might find what she had been looking for. She had waded through all the entries, taking especial care to look at any notes that had been written. They had been surprisingly unrevealing. She had known that this was the place where many usually hid their electronic secrets: passport numbers, bank account IBAN’s – and especially codes and PINs that they worried would otherwise be forgotten: tucked away as some innocuous footnote to an electronic address book entry; and synced with the cloud, available on all devices, as and when they were needed. It was, of course, a thieves’ paradise. Except that Rudi Hildebrandt appeared to be one who had been reluctant to play that particular game. Damn, damn and damn!

  She had tried wading through his photos, but again had found none that had been revealing. Despondent and on the verge of giving up, she had one final place that she wanted to check: the ‘Notes’ application.

  Less frequently used by many, these were a serious of electronic pages that could be filed and synced in the cloud, which contained whatever anyone wanted them to: recipes, shopping lists, to do lists, diary jottings. Tian had prayed that Hildebrandt was a user. When she opened the application and saw what was there, she had known almost immediately that she had struck gold.