The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  “I am, Kristina. You are to be congratulated on your progress. Why don’t you read out the code you’ve uncovered? I’ve got paper and pen to hand.” He listened as she read out the mixture of numbers and letters, carefully recording them on a sheet of headed notepaper.

  “When will you have the remaining two, do you think?”

  “Probably this evening.”

  “Excellent work, Kristina. Thank you. I am very pleased with what you’ve achieved in such a short period of time. Once I have all three codes, I shall of course settle your bill immediately. Payment on completion was what we agreed, I recall?”

  “It was indeed, Viktor. All things being well, you’ll have the final two very shortly. I’ll call you as soon as I have more news.”

  Viktor smiled to himself as he replaced the receiver. His contingency planning appeared to have paid off handsomely. Now that he was in possession of all three codes, he would arrange to travel to Zurich in the morning on his private jet. There was a certain Swiss banker that he needed to visit. Once Nemikov’s money had all been transferred, he would find someone to take care of Miss Tian. That way, he would be able to save himself an additional million dollars, plus her expenses.

  107

  “I can’t believe what you did, Ben! It was incredibly dangerous and incredibly foolish.”

  “Saul, I’m a good biker. I know what I am capable of, what my limitations are. Virenque obviously didn’t.”

  They are speaking over the phone. Lewis is on foot, walking out of the financial district, heading westward towards Holborn.

  “It is out of my hands, now, Ben. Officially, I am obliged to instruct you to turn yourself in. Perhaps it might be better if you came here, to Savile Row police station. At least I can try and ensure that you’re detained in a comfortable police cell.”

  “It’s a tempting offer, but for the record, not at the moment, thanks.”

  “The more dead bodies that keep appearing, Ben, the tougher this whole thing is getting for you. Remember that.”

  “I need a good lawyer, is that what you’re saying?” Lewis laughs.

  “Don’t joke. I’d turn that phone off if I were you, my friend. Even I can see that you’re walking along London Wall at the moment.”

  “Point taken.”

  Lewis ends the call and looks at the handset, about to disconnect it from the network. As he does, an incoming text message arrives.

  It is from a withheld number. It is a picture and a text message combined. When Lewis clicks to open it, he sees the photograph.

  He then reads the text message.

  His blood once more is turning to ice.

  108

  Saul Zeltinger answers Lewis’s call on the second ring.

  “Having second thoughts, Ben?”

  “Saul, I’m about to forward a picture text that I have just received. Look at it, then call me right back.” Ending the call he forwards the message on. Less than thirty seconds later, Zeltinger rings back.

  “My God, Ben. Who is this lunatic?”

  ”Someone I should have taken care off a long time ago.”

  “Where’s all this leading?”

  “Where do you think? I’ve got no choice: I’ve got to follow his instructions. Otherwise a lot of people are going to die.”

  “He might be bluffing.”

  “Saul, by this stage of the game, Panich will not be bluffing. Not after what just happened to Virenque.”

  “Why Trafalgar Square?”

  “He wants to play puppet on a string with me.”

  “Just like Virenque tried to do with you earlier?”

  “Precisely. Only suddenly the field of play has got much, much bigger. When I get to Trafalgar Square, in my allotted fifteen minutes, I will get another instruction: sending me somewhere else; then another after that; and so on. He’s going to be making sure I have no one on my back. And, you wait: the time separation is going to be reduced each time. I am going to be running around London like a blue-arsed fly, at his beck and call. And then, when he deems it right, he will try his best to kill me.”

  “What about the girl in the photo? I presume that’s Olena?”

  “Correct. Notice the sandbags she’s leaning on with her explosive vest? We have the potential for a monumental catastrophe.”

  “We should be shutting down the tube network. Thousands of lives could be at risk here.”

  “That’s a call for you and the authorities to make not for me. Until we know what we’re up against, it might be hasty. If you do, it’ll create widespread panic and disruption – which could be playing right into Panich’s hands.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “As discussed, I’m going to Trafalgar Square to find this bastard once and for all. Only this time, once I find him, be under no illusion. Once he and I are through, he is most definitely going to end up dead.”

  109

  Trafalgar Square, North side, by the National Gallery. Fifteen minutes or the girl dies.

  It is a big place. There is a wide pavement in front, stretching from St. Martin’s-in-the-Field’s on the East side to the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery to the West. Mime artists use this as their playground. The place is busy with tourists, even on a cold November morning. The time is shortly before noon. Lewis makes it with three minutes to spare. Technically he made it with seven minutes to spare: he has been using the last four minutes quietly completing a circumnavigation of the area.

  He sees nothing. He is expecting to see nothing. It is not evident that Saul has mobilised the world and his wife: overt police presence is no higher than normal; and Lewis is unable to detect any increased volume or frequency of police sirens or helicopters. He thinks he sees three who might be part of a plain-clothes surveillance team: they show no recognition when he passes them.

  Lewis’s mobile phone will now be the hottest number in town. Where he goes, others will be following. Whatever mails or texts he receives, they will see them at the same time.

  One minute remaining. There is no sign of Panich. Where will he be? On the top deck of a tourist bus, sitting with field-glasses making sure Lewis has turned up? Already heading to the next rendez-vous: perhaps in the back of a black cab, having checked to ensure that Lewis is in position? Next time Lewis resolves to cut his arrival much finer. Assuming that he is given a next time – and not about to receive a Russian sniper’s bullet in the head. He thinks that unlikely. Panich will want to exact some personal revenge, before killing Lewis. Besides, there is a certain code that Panich needs – and only Lewis has this.

  He checks his watch. The fifteen minutes are up.

  As if on cue, his mobile phone buzzes. It’s a text message.

  Harrods Department store. Western entrance on the Brompton Road. Twelve minutes. Just you, Lewis.

  Lewis feels no satisfaction in being right. He knew it was coming.

  What he needs is his bike.

  What he gets is Jake Sullivan in the back of a London black taxi.

  110

  “Do you still have the pager on you?”

  Lewis reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out the device. Sullivan takes it from him and affixes a small, thin, black disc to its rear before returning it.

  “In case he tells you to ditch the phone. That’s what I would do. Give me your watch.”

  Lewis hands his over. It is of the cheap, functional rather than pretty, variety. The one he gets back in return looks worn: but an upgraded version.

  “We’re working on finding the room. All London Underground operations and maintenance managers are being contacted. We’re showing them the picture. I’m not holding out much hope, but we’re giving it our best shot. Police units are on standby at all major railway stations. SO15 are also active. Transport
Police are being reassigned to patrol the major central London interchanges.”

  “Thanks, Jake. With due respect, we’re all fishing in the dark.”

  They are already at the roundabout by Buckingham Palace, about to head towards Hyde Park Corner. Seven minutes out of the allotted twelve remain.

  “You’ve known about the explosives for some time. What have the MI5 analysts come up with?”

  “Not a lot. Explosives in tunnels don’t make nearly as much damage as people like to think.”

  “Have you no ideas?”

  “We think the most likely places are the major interchanges. Piccadilly Circus; Holborn; Kings Cross; Euston; Oxford Circus and so on. As soon as you think of another one, you feel compelled to add it to the list.”

  “Why those stations in particular if explosives in tunnels don’t do much damage?”

  “Because of the numbers of people who pass through them. It’s the collateral damage they’ll be after.”

  They are at Hyde Park Corner and turning down Knightsbridge.

  “I want you to drop me at the next lights. I’d like to give the appearance, at least, of having got here under my own steam.”

  The taxi obligingly pulls into the curb.

  “Jake, I think you need to change the angle. You should be thinking more like the opposition, not what your theorists says the opposition ought to be doing. Get Saul Zeltinger into your inner circle. He’s a good chess player. Let him put a cold towel over his head. Don’t be hanging around me, waiting for the next message from Panich either. Find the room! Nothing is more important.”

  With that, he gets out and sets off running down the Brompton Road in the direction of Harrods,

  Ten minutes gone, two remaining.

  111

  The next message arrives exactly twelve minutes after the first. Lewis is standing with his back to the storefront windows, his eyes scanning in all directions. What if Panich isn’t here: what if it’s someone else doing all the fieldwork for him? Lewis stands no chance of spotting them in that scenario. The phone buzzes in his pocket once more.

  Drop the pager, your wristwatch and any other electronic device apart from your phone into the rubbish bin immediately to your left. Once you have done this, you will receive another text. No tricks, or the girl suffers.

  Lewis has to smile. So much for Sullivan’s state of the art electronic tracking tools. He walks to the bin and, very purposely and visibly, drops his watch and the pager inside. He wants to find Panich’s look out. There is no one he can see at street level. They could be anywhere: in a shop across the road; on a passing bus; watching from a first floor window somewhere. He is given no time to work it out either. His phone is buzzing once again.

  Go to the Underground Station at the other end of Harrods store. Take the Piccadilly Line train to Green Park. Wait on the platform to be contacted. Drop your phone in the rubbish bin. You have ten minutes.

  Things are starting to get complicated.

  112

  Saul Zeltinger was sitting in the back of a different taxi as he listened to Jake Sullivan on the other end of the phone.

  “What exactly did Ben Lewis suggest?” The taxi was heading west along Pall Mall.

  “He said we should be thinking more like the opposition, not what us theorists believe the opposition ought to be thinking. If you can work your way through that one, you’re a better man than me.”

  “I’m less than two minutes from Green Park station. Let me give that some thought and I’ll call you back. I was planning to go and keep Ben company on the subway platform. I suspect that half of London’s police may be about to converge on the same place.”

  Zeltinger rang off and closed his eyes, trying to fit all the various strands of thinking together. He liked nothing better than solving problems using logic. Two words kept swirling around in his mind from what Sullivan had just said. He had actually used them twice: ‘the opposition’.

  Who exactly were the opposition?

  Right this minute, it was this Russian, Panich, and his rapidly depleting army of deranged thugs. However, it had been Sadiq who had first had the idea of putting the explosive somewhere on the London Underground. If Sadiq hadn’t been killed, and if Panich hadn’t hijacked the explosives that Sadiq had planted, then whatever terror group Sadiq had been part of would still be the opposition, not the Russians. So, to solve the puzzle of where the room was located, perhaps one needed to think more like a terrorist than a former Russian spy? Perhaps that was what Lewis was hinting at? Remembering the Islamic State video that had been released in Jordan in the last twenty-four hours, it had promised ‘a bombing campaign against the capital’s transport system intended to drive terror into the heart of every man, woman and child living in, or visiting, the city’. The Welwyn Viaduct could have been one such strike against the transport system. Which out of the many potential targets on London’s Underground System had Sadiq chosen as the next? Which would create the most damage and cause maximum terror in its wake?

  113

  Lewis runs to the station entrance and purchases a ticket. Racing down the escalators, two steps at a time, he soon reaches the depths of the underground tunnels below. He no longer has a watch. By the train indicator board on the station platform, he has five minutes of allotted time remaining. The next train is a minute away. He looks around the platform. It is a mixed group: people with shopping in expensive-looking bags; and a few business executives carrying briefcases or shoulder bags. No one pays him much attention apart from one man at the other end of the platform. Lewis thinks he recognises him as one of Sullivan’s watchers from Liverpool Street station earlier.

  Something is nagging in his mind. Something that Sullivan had said in the back of the taxi.

  Explosives in tunnels don’t make nearly as much damage as people like to think.

  The train arrives. A few disembark before Lewis and everyone else on the platform squeezes on. The train is crowded. It is the lunchtime rush. Lewis stands, one hand holding on to the vertical metal pole in the centre. Green Park is only two stops away. There are about four minutes remaining.

  The train departs. As it picks up speed and enters the tunnel, Lewis works out what has been bugging him. Explosives in tunnels don’t make nearly as much damage as people like to think. Sullivan is saying something that Lewis thinks, on reflection, could be profound; it is the informed judgement of an intelligence expert. The implication being that most people aren’t experts.

  Most people think differently.

  Most people believe that a bomb placed in a tunnel would cause catastrophic damage. If you were a terrorist and thought like most people – and not like a well-informed agent working for a national security service – you’d be placing your explosives in a location you believed would cause maximum devastation.

  Even if, in practice, they wouldn’t.

  The question is, which of several hundreds of possible places might that be?

  114

  The Piccadilly Line platform at Green Park Station is heaving with people. Lewis gets off and stands to one side of the carriage doorway to let departing passengers clear the train. He wonders how many of those on the platform are part of an undercover Ben Lewis reception committee: plain clothes policemen and specialists from the security services?

  Warbling sounds indicate that the train’s doors are about to close. Moments later the train departs, accelerating at speed as it clears the station platform. In its noisy wake is a contrasting silence. A number of people remain on the platform, ostensibly waiting for the next train. One of these, Lewis is surprised but happy to see, is Saul Zeltinger.

  Putting his hands in his jacket, he casually starts walking down the platform in the direction of his friend, recoiling in surprise to find another unknown device lurking in the inner recesses of his pocket. Twice in one
morning; and, once again, he had never felt a thing. Most likely, it had been someone on the train. It would have been so easy, with people jostling against each other in the tightly packed carriage. Nonetheless, it is a professional job. He takes whatever it is out to have a look. It is a cell phone: a cheap device with a simple flat screen able to cover the basics, including taking photographs. The next thing, the phone starts bleeping. A text message has come in. He works out how to read it on the unfamiliar device; when he does, his heart sinks.

  Oxford Circus tube station. Victoria line northbound platform. Six minutes.

  The puppet master is, once again, pulling the strings.

  115

  To get to the requisite platform, Lewis has to go up one long escalator, almost to ground floor level, before coming down a different, but shorter, one. He takes the escalator stairs, two at a time, in both directions. By the clock on the platform indicator board, this platform change uses up three of his allotted six minutes.

  Few, if any, of Lewis’s supposed watchers seem empowered enough to race after him; the one exception being Zeltinger who surprises himself by managing to keep pace with the former Marine. They arrive at the northbound platform of the Victoria Line within seconds of each other.

  “I’ve been given a new phone,” Lewis says, hearing the distant rumble of an approaching train. He is not looking at Zeltinger, trying to keep up a not particularly well-disguised pretence that the two do not know each other. “Oxford Street station in two and a half minutes from now. I think we are starting to get close. The time intervals are shortening.”

  “We have to be thinking like a terrorist: one who wants to severely disrupt London’s transport system.”