The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  It is just after two-fifteen in the morning. A huge burden of responsibility hangs on his shoulders – and it is not simply because of Olena’s kidnapping.

  Arkady Nemikov’s death has been the game changer.

  Whether it is Viktor Plushenko, Oleg Panich or whoever previously had been planning on getting to Nemikov’s money by means of his wife and children: each will have had their game plan completely turned upside down. No longer will killing or kidnapping members of Nemikov’s family, to extort money from the father, be the order of the day. For the time being, everyone needs both Olena and Borys alive – and, for that matter Lewis, assuming it becomes more widely known that he is in possession of Valentyna’s codes.

  It was starting to feel like a complicated, real-life game of chess. One or two major pieces had been taken out of the game; various key pieces were still in play; the game had been turned on its head by a series of unexpected moves; almost akin to castling. The upshot was that a different winning strategy was urgently required. Which, given his prowess at chess, should be to Lewis’s advantage.

  If he were Oleg Panich, what would he be doing next? The answer depended on two related questions: does Panich yet know that Nemikov is dead; and, if so, has he become aware of the contingency arrangements that Nemikov has set up to protect his money in the event of his death? Not to mention whether, if yes to both of these, Panich is also aware that Lewis is in possession of Valentyna’s codes?

  Lewis toys with various moves and countermoves in his head before coming back time and again to one over-arching conclusion: whatever other imponderables there might be, his next move, surely, has to be to head to Cambridge, to check that Borys is safe.

  It is more of a defensive play really. Not really his forte. However, it is something that he knows needs to be done.

  78

  Cambridge at two forty-five in the morning is quiet. The centre of the city is especially deserted. Most student parties and clubs have long-since finished for the night. Lewis hauls his Honda motorbike off the road and on to a pavement not far from Christ’s College. He parks it outside a branch of a bank, close to where undergraduate bicycles have been padlocked to iron railings. Rather than walking the direct route to the Nemikov apartment, he takes a small detour; around the back of a church on the corner of Petty Cury before slipping into the bottom end of the Lion Yard shopping precinct. This small, anti-clockwise, circuit brings him to a vantage point: one that allows clear line of sight directly into the narrow pedestrian precinct on the other side of St. Andrew’s Street: the passageway where the entrance to the apartment block is situated.

  He waits in the shadows, next to the church. He stands, barely moving, for a full ten minutes. All the time his eyes scan back and forth, looking for movement. He sees nothing. All of which is expected, but it helps to have confirmation. Feeling in his pocket for the keys that Fedorov had passed him, he moves slowly out of the shadows. He crosses the deserted street, and walks into the passageway leading to the entrance lobby. When he holds the small key fob over the magnetic panel, adjacent to the door entry intercom, there is a satisfactory ‘clicking’ sound. The lock releases. Without waiting, Lewis heads inside.

  Similar to Alexei Polunin and his accomplice, Vince, a few hours previously, Lewis takes the stairs rather than uses the lift. Inching open the door on the first floor landing, he lets it close behind him, moves out of the light from the stairwell into the darkness, and pauses. Apart from the distant humming sound of college heating systems in operation, all is quiet. Nothing out of place can be heard at all. Lewis moves in silence towards apartment twenty-five, the open-air corridor meandering around the outside of the building. Lewis has a birds-eye view over the city centre streets and courtyards: college buildings, church spires and shopping arcades. He stops suddenly; his face looking down at an oblique angle into the pedestrian precinct by the ground floor entrance. He has seen something; a man moving stealthily: carefully but deliberately. Two things strike Lewis about the individual. First is his furtive behaviour: at two forty-five in the morning it stands out. Secondly, and more worryingly, Lewis recognises him: from another time and another place. The location had been London’s Green Park a few months earlier. Lewis had had cause to dislocate the man’s shoulder after he had been followed all the way from Berkeley Square. The man was Russian. Lewis had nicknamed him ‘Scarface’ due to a long, thin, knife wound he had down one cheek. As Lewis had known on that first occasion, such scars come from knife fights. He should know. In hand-to-hand combat situations, many would testify that in Lewis, there was rarely any one better.

  Several questions come to mind, none with any immediate answers. What is a Russian SVR agent doing skulking around the back streets of Cambridge at this time of night? Next, if he was here in order to keep an eye out for Ben Lewis, how does he know that Lewis is about to show up? Lastly, if Scarface is indeed following Lewis, is he alone or will there be anyone else with him?

  79

  Olena was sobbing: uncontrollably – like a child, almost. The transformation from confident adult to emotional wreck had been rapid. The cause had been Virenque: he had just told her about her father’s death. She was sitting on a chair with her hands and elbows tied roughly behind her back. The wrist ties had been Panich’s idea: the elbow ties were Virenque’s. It was a Spetsnaz trick, designed to prevent prisoners from shuffling tied wrists under their body – otherwise achieved by wriggling their feet through the gap between wrist and shoulder.

  In the adjacent stall, within earshot but out of direct line of sight, Panich had just given the same news to Borys. He, too, had been physically restrained in the same manner as his sister. His emotional reaction had been more controlled: less believing, possibly; less overtly emotional, definitely. This had intrigued Panich, likely, as it was, to shape the way the interrogation would progress.

  “Your father gave you some codes, Olena.”

  It was Virenque speaking, each word clearly audible by both Borys and Panich nearby. He spoke softly at first, his tone even, and with no hint of menace. “And to Borys as well.” He waited to see if there was any reaction. She continued sobbing, her head bent down low.

  No reaction whatsoever.

  “In the event that he died. In order to protect his money.”

  Still no reaction.

  “We need those codes, Olena,” Virenque continued, his voice unexpectedly raised; less patient and more authoritative. “Assuming that you don’t want me to hurt you or your brother?”

  “Don’t tell them anything!” Borys yelled from the next stall. Panich was quickly off his seat. He hit Borys with a clean left hook, right across the bridge of his nose. Borys screamed. Blood began to pour. It was a slow, steady dribble; down on to his upper lip and chin before splashing on the table in front of him.

  “Another word out of you, and I promise you there’ll be much worse to come,” Panich said through gritted teeth.

  In the next stall, Olena looked up, terrified: her eyes red, her cheeks wet with tears.

  “Don’t hurt him. Please! I beg you.”

  “Your father gave someone else your mother’s codes tonight. Is that correct?” Virenque asked her. Once again, his tone was soft, his voice not raised.

  He waited. Olena still refused to say anything; she was weighing up her options. In reality, she had none and Virenque knew this.

  “I think Borys needs more treatment,” Virenque eventually called out in a loud voice to Panich.

  “Okay. But don’t say we didn’t warn you,” Panich replied.

  “Wait,” screamed Olena finally. Virenque knew that long interrogations were for the movies. In real life, all you needed were the right pressure points.

  “So who has your mother’s codes, Olena?” Virenque asked, softly and gently. “Is it Ben Lewis? Does he have them?” He was staring hard at her whilst she looked at
the table, her body shaking, the tears continuing to roll down her cheeks.

  “Oleg,” Virenque called out. “I don’t appear to be . . . . no wait,” he said, seeing Olena nodding her head. “My mistake. Finally we might be making progress. Are you nodding your head because the person is indeed Ben Lewis?”

  Virenque waited. For several seconds, there was no sound in the dark basement other than their breathing. He was staring hard at Olena, willing her to speak.

  “I’m waiting,” he said, his voice rising once more.

  “Yes,” came her answer. Very softly, hardly audible, but nonetheless there.

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  This time she spoke more confidently. “Yes. My father gave the codes to Ben.

  80

  “Finally we’re getting somewhere.” It was Virenque talking. “Perhaps it’s time to bring young Borys over here,” he calls out to Panich. “I have a chair for him, all ready and waiting.”

  Panich arrived, holding on to Borys’s arm. The young man’s nose was a bloodied mess. Olena looked up.

  “Oh my God!” she screamed, seeing her brother’s face. Ignoring her, Panich thrust Borys into the vacant chair before positioning himself behind him. As ever, he had a cigarette in his mouth. He was drawing on it, heavily, ignoring where any ash fell.

  “Your brother’s fine,” Panich said in between puffs, using a tone that indicated that he was bored by her the fuss. “I didn’t hit him hard. You’re meant to be the doctor. These things look worse than they really are. He’ll be okay. That is, unless you decide not to co-operate. In that case . . . .” he paused, his sentence deliberately unfinished. He shrugged his shoulders, turning down his bottom lip and tilting his head on one side at the same time. He glanced at Virenque and saw the Frenchman copying the gesture: the implication was abundantly clear.

  “So, Olena,” Virenque continued. “Now that we are all together. Perhaps you should be the first to give us your code?”

  Olena was staring at her brother. Just for one, brief, moment, he gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

  “We’re waiting,” Virenque said, his voice rising.

  Olena still said nothing. She sat, head bowed, shaking gently from side to side.

  “This is it. You won’t get any more chances, Olena. From now onwards, things are going to get unpleasant for you both.” He pushed his face very close to hers. “You really don’t want to see my friend over there get angry.”

  Olena began to shake, her eyes still locked on her brother’s. Once more, he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. It was the signal that Panich had been expecting – and waiting for.

  “Are you right or left handed?” Panich whispered into Borys’s left ear. It caught the young man by surprise. He swivelled his head around sharply to try and look at Panich. Instead the Russian placed his prosthetic hand on Borys’s right shoulder blade, just close to his neck. His fingers began to squeeze, the mechanically induced pain instantly excruciating.

  “I’ll ask one more time,” Panich said menacingly into Borys’s left ear. “Left or right handed?”

  “Right,” Borys gasped, writhing in agony.

  Panich released his grip. The young Ukrainian breathed out, his body trying its best to relax and recover. It was only a momentary respite. Before he realised what was happening, Panich grabbed Borys’s bound wrists with his left hand, pulling them taut behind him so that they were straining the shoulder sockets. Borys instinctively curled his fingers into a ball, trying to block out the pain. Anticipating this, Panich placed his prosthetic right hand over Borys’s, letting his mechanical fingers encircle the bunched fingers of the young man’s right hand. Borys tried to wriggle the fingers free; even uncurling them would have helped. It was no use. Panich’s ever-tightening grasp made any movement impossible.

  “So now, Olena. The time has come to stop playing games,” Panich said. He was slightly breathless, but nothing in comparison to the effect his exertions were having on Borys who was sweating profusely, his breathing ragged, his eyes full of fear. He could sense what might be about to happen and he was terrified. The pain was building in his fingers and shoulder sockets as Panich increased the pressure on both.

  “The codes please, Olena. Or your brother will find himself needing an artificial hand in future: just like me. It’s your choice.”

  Again Borys shook his head. This time he was more overt.

  “Don’t tell them Olena. If they kill me, they can’t get Papa’s money. Let them do it. If I die, their plan is finished.”

  Panich didn’t wait to see if Olena responded in any way. He was not renowned for being patient during interrogations. Instead the electrical impulses from his arm muscles were directing the motorised digits in his right hand to close. Borys began to scream. The Russian was oblivious and the pressure continued to build. He had rehearsed this many times during his rehabilitation. The screams became more agonised; something was about to break, everyone in the cellar could sense it. Having curled his fingers into a ball, it arguably had made Borys’s predicament much worse. Without warning he felt his index finger snap at the knuckle; soon after, so did another; with the pressure refusing to abate, the remaining knuckles soon all dislocated, the joints squashing and becoming useless. Borys’s screams were ear-curdling. Panich tuned out this sound. He was even oblivious to Olena’s high-pitch screaming at him to stop.

  When he finally reduced the pressure, he looked across at Virenque and nodded.

  It was Frenchman who spoke next, after a suitable pause: his voice was once again soft and gentle.

  “Now, perhaps, you have something to tell, Olena?”

  The tone was in such contrast to the aggression and noise that Panich had induced, that Olena simply nodded, then started to speak almost immediately.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said. Tears were trickling down her cheeks as she looked across at her brother. He was unconscious, having blacked out with the pain.

  “We’re listening.”

  “Pavel Eljanov,” whispers Olena. “In the World Cup in 2013 in Tromsø. When he defeated Sergei Karjakin.”

  Virenque looked bemused. It was Panich who showed the only sign of recognition.

  “Karjakin eventually went through, but the Ukrainian, Elijanov, defeated him earlier in one of the rapid fire games.”

  To his surprise, Olena interrupted him.

  “They are both Ukrainian born. Karjakin, for his own reasons, decided in 2009 to become a Russian citizen. Therefore, we Ukrainians enjoy seeing him lose.”

  “What has this got to do with the code, Olena?” It was Virenque, speaking. He still was looking puzzled.

  “When Elijanov beat him, he was playing white.” She was speaking in a flat monotone voice. It was as if the life was draining out of her as she spoke. “It was the nineteenth move. Knight to g5. Thereafter, Karjakin had no way back. Black played pawn to e5. White responded with bishop to b7. Black took white’s rook on d4. White ended the game by moving his bishop to d5. The code is in the moves: Ng5 e5 Bb7 ed4 Bd5.”

  She lowered her head in exhaustion. Panich looked at Virenque and flicked his head briefly over his right shoulder. The message clear: it was time to leave their prisoners alone. The two of them needed to talk.

  81

  Vince dropped Polunin on the corner of St. Andrew’s street. He then continued around the back of the apartment block to park the red transit in the same place he had parked previously. This meant, once again, approaching the ground floor entrance from the north. Meanwhile, Polunin walked a broad sweep of the area to the south. Without realising it, he was covering exactly the same ground, along Petty Cury and into Lion Yard, that Lewis had walked only minutes earlier. Their reconnaissance complete, the two met back at the ground floor entrance. They were confident that Lewis wasn’t lurking in t
he shadows. Polunin used the key fob on the set of keys that they had found on Borys Nemikov to open the door.

  Their first imperative was to check the apartment. Only once they were happy that Lewis was not there, waiting for them, would they begin their stake out. Vince had already agreed that he would position himself outside the front of the building; Polunin was going to remain inside, on the first floor landing, close to the door where the stairs emerged. That way, they could execute a pincer manoeuvre on Ben Lewis: let him get inside the building; before trapping him on the stairwell. Perhaps give him a much-deserved working over, before taking him to the apartment until Panich arrived.

  Polunin checked the silencer on his Walther P-22 pistol, switching the safety catch to the ‘off’ position. They then began climbing the stairs to the upper floor.

  Lewis hears them, long before he can see either: Scarface and another man. This newcomer sounds heavier than the Russian. He can tell by the breathing. Lewis has found a dark recess, tucked into an inner wall, adjacent to some cupboards. In the dark, he is certain that the other two will walk past and not see him. Which suits Lewis just fine. He wants to see who he’s up against – and to watch what they are up to. The latter, he believes he knows; however, he still prefers to check.

  The Russian with the scar down his cheek is tall and thin, exactly as Lewis remembers him. He is wiry rather than stocky. Lewis remembers that the man’s right shoulder blade had dislocated with relative ease. His companion is the opposite. Well over two hundred pounds, probably more. A lot of it muscle. The man moves like a gym workout specialist: great strength in his muscles but already out of breath from climbing one flight of stairs.