On Borrowed Time

by Solomon Carter

  “It’s Obstov. He has new information for us. I’ve got to go.”

  Eva looked at Gillespie for permission. The old man nodded. “Get out of here, now. Remember. I’m watching.”

  They ran to their cars and sped off into the London night.

  Thirteen

  “They know I am on to them. I couldn’t be sure they were following me before, but a man knows these things. It is like the Angel of Death hovering when those people follow me,” Obstov didn’t look well. Dan knew he liked his vodka a little more than the average Russian bear, but Dan also knew fear when he saw it – hell, Dan had lived through it long enough. Obstov reeked of fear and stress. He looked sick with it. “I am on to them and I am in danger. But when you get as close as we are, it becomes like an addiction.”

  Dan nodded. Addiction was something Obby knew a lot about.

  “The assassin goes by the name Anna Kropotkin, which is almost certainly false. We believe she could be the same Kropotkin who carried out the hits on senior Chechen rebels during the conflict there. If it is her, then she is fearless. Grozny was not far from hell back in those years.”

  They were drinking in a bar on the edge of Docklands. It was a dark little place, and had chosen it for its secluded feel. The smallness provided the illusion of safety. In truth nowhere was safe anymore. Brodski was watching City Pinnacle for them. The motorbike was back in its place on the bike rack, but any trace of the original mic had gone. The assassin – Kropotkin - had found it of course. The woman was always going to find it eventually.

  “Where did you learn these things?” asked Dan.

  “You’ve been calling old friends, Obstov” said Georgiev, grinning at him. “The trouble is when you call too many old friends, a footprint is always left with the enemy. They have infiltrators everywhere.”

  “I called around with what I knew. She fits this description.”

  “Did you find anything else, Obby?”

  “Not yet. But we can discover more, I know we can.”

  “Well done, Obby,” said Dan. “You look like you need a holiday. So what does this mean Obstov? How does this information help us?”

  “The assassin is no longer a shadow. We know her skills. You know she is brutal and deadly and to stay alive in Grozny means she is capable of anything.”

  “Does this confirm the belief this operation is high level Russian?” asked Eva. Trevor sat impassively at her side, a great big Buddha in a suit and shades perched on his crown.

  “You could read it that way. I know you are cynical about this, Eva. But Anna Kropotkin would not be involved in trivial matters.”

  Georgiev’s phone buzzed. He picked it up and spoke in Russian, then downed his beer in one gulp.

  “Drink now. Anna Kropotkin is on the move once again.”

  They all drank up.

  Brodski called in his route and directions to Dan over the mobile. He started after them and Trevor followed. This time the motorbike wasn’t going to Tower Hamlets. It was heading out of the city.

  They met up with Brodski at a motel car park on the A13 just outside London. The area wasn’t pretty – just a grey strip of land with a few blocks of concrete studded with light jutting into the evening sky. One of the blocks was the Eurotel. It was a hotel chain joint, but these were in the upper price quadrant for comfort, décor and all experience. So they said. Dan had never been near one until now.

  “She went inside two minutes ago.”

  “Then we’ve lost her. We’ve got no radio contact this time. All we can do is wait,” said Dan.

  “Not quite. She didn’t go to reception. She turned towards the restaurant and bar,” said Brodski.

  “So?” said Georgiev.

  “She’s never seen me before. Or at least I hope so. I can go in and try to listen to them.”

  “It could be risky, Brodski.”

  “Let me do it,” said Obstov. His red face was firm and fixed.

  “I’ve made the most ground so far. I want to finish this.”

  Dan slapped him on the arm.

  “Are you sure?”

  Obstov nodded.

  “Good man. If there’s any trouble, we’ll come in after you.”

  “Sure.”

  Obstov left them in their cars and moved inside.

  Fifteen minutes later, Obstov came out running. The Eurotel door opened with a hasty whack, and the man was sprinting towards them, wheezing. He reached the car at the side of the building and sucked in air as he looked over his shoulder.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” said Dan.

  “I listened hard. I pretended to be waiting for someone, but I must have been too obvious. They saw me. They knew I was listening.”

  “Get in, let’s go!”

  “No. I do not want them to tie me to you. It is better you go without me. I must hurry now. All you need to know is this. Senior FSB – she knows the highest of the highest, Dan. Go now, before they see you – and get all the help you can. Please, go!”

  Dan nodded. “Get moving yourself. Call me later, right!”

  Obstov nodded, then jogged back into the darkness. Dan started the Jag and pulled back out of the Eurotel carpark back into the night traffic with the Range Rover behind them. They stared at the red light which held them back close to the motel for far too long and then they looked back at the dark hulk of the hotel. Just as the light flicked to green, the night sounded with a crack, which echoed across the whole of the grey space, and a small flash of light appeared for a fraction of a second near the Hotel and was gone again. It could have been a car backfiring, a rogue firework or an industrial noise. But every passenger in the Jag and the Range Rover knew exactly what they’d heard. A single gunshot – without reply.

  Dan’s phone sounded. He picked up and spoke to Eva

  “Did you hear that?” he said.

  “Who couldn’t hear that?”

  “Obstov said she was with FSB. The new Russian KGB. Very high level.”

  “That’s it, Dan. This is getting beyond us. We’ve got to call this one in.”

  “Call it in where? The police? This one is way bigger than Rowntree.”

  “Don’t be silly. One of your boys has to know someone in MI6. Russian defectors would have to.”

  “Hang on.” Dan looked at Georgiev. “How can we contact MI6? Do you know anyone?”

  “I know someone. Give me Eva’s number and tell her to hang up and wait. He will call back.”

  Dan told her and read Eva’s number to the man. Georgiev made the call.

  “Yes, it’s been a while. I know. But I haven’t had anything important to tell you until now. Please call this number right now. Speak with Eva Roberts. She will tell you everything you need to know,” said Georgiev,

  Eva stared at her phone screen as Trevor drove after the Jag. After not too long her phone screen lit and coloured her face with its pale light. It was a witheld number. That figured. She answered the call and a well-spoken man with a deep voice answered.

  “Eva Roberts?”

  “Yes?”

  “A mutual friend tells me you have some information, which could be of interest to Her Majesty’s Government.”

  “You may not believe me, but everything I’m going to tell you is true.”

  “It’s a crazy world, Miss Roberts. Carry on.”

  “We have uncovered a Russian plot to undermine this country by infiltrating the crime world and starting a gang war.”

  “Russian gangsters are as old as time, Miss Roberts.”

  “This is different. It’s a political and economic strategy. This is part of a battle for supremacy on a higher level. We know because a Russian assassin is involved. Do you know of the murder of Maggie Gillespie?”

  “I can look it up.”

  “The wife of Brian Gillespie, a senior criminal in London. She was killed a few weeks back by a Russian assassin. The same assassin plans to kill me.”

  “How and why do you know?”

  “I k
now because they’ve tried at least three times now. And because they are trying to pass off our murders as the acts of a despicable and deluded old man. They want to give Brian Gillespie the kind of infamy which will mean the authorities go after him, leaving a vacuum which his competitors will fill. The people who will fill the gap are all Russian or Russian backed. This strategy comes from the very top. It involves Pyotr Dobcek. We have seen this woman meet with FSB agents in London. But the worst of all is that we heard the killer have a clandestine meeting with someone called Henry.”

  “Henry?”

  “We believe he works for the British security services. But we believe he is a double-agent, working for the Russians too.”

  “Miss Roberts. Are you being serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep your phone lines clear and await our call. Please look to ensure your own safety and don’t take any unnecessary risks. Do you understand?”

  Eva sighed with weary relief. Finally, the experts were involved. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. We’ll be in touch.”

  The phone line went dead.

  “They’ll be in touch,” said Eva, looking at Trevor. Trevor didn’t say a word.

  At a government office in Southwark, a phone rang.

  A thin man in his early forties picked it up.

  “Yes?”

  “Henry. It’s me.”

  The man called Henry shifted in his seat and sat up abruptly.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “No. It’s not okay. Your work has been compromised. You’ve been sloppy.”

  “How?”

  “You can fret about that afterwards. But first you’ll have to contain the problem. We’ve been lucky. Take this number. It belongs to Eva Roberts.”

  Henry winced at the name. How in the hell did Eva Roberts manage to involve him in this?

  “You will call her and you will book a meeting. And you will contain this. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Henry, licking his lips nervously. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Very good.”

  The call ended, and the man called Henry slammed the handset down and swore. It shouldn’t have escalated this far at all. At least now he had the chance to make everyone forget that it ever had. Henry looked at the handset and began to work up a plan. After all, he was an expert at this. If anyone could lay a trap, Henry could. For a few minutes, Henry sat and waited for an idea. Finally he smiled and picked up the phone and dialled.

  “Hello? Am I through to Eva Roberts?”

  “Yes,” said the voice at the other end.

  “Good. Very good…”

  Fourteen

  She stood alone in the crisp cold morning at the South Bank end of the Jubilee footbridge which ran alongside the Hungerford railway bridge across the Thames. The air was cold. The water below was murky, the current rushing and swirling down river towards Essex with menacing speed. Londoners walked by at working pace, hurrying and impatient, or at tourist pace, ambling and sedate, stopping to snap each other with the city sights either side of them. Dan had been left behind with Trevor. They were waiting and watching from a street bench on South Bank, and were both unhappy about it. Brodski was at the opposite side waiting for them if escape was necessary. Escape shouldn’t have been a consideration now, but the Russian boys were ultra-paranoid and so far it had served them well. They were still alive. The man from MI6 was late, but not by much. She was sure the lateness was deliberate – he would have had time to watch her and probably identify her support on the South Bank. Maybe they had identified the Russians too. Time was ticking. Eva was out in the open. They were making her wait, and they were leaving her exposed. Eva was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

  She looked around to the left and saw Dan’s face aimed toward her. Trevor had moved, but she wasn’t sure where yet, and there were pedestrians blocking a clear view. Asian tourists dressed in winter clothes designed for the North Pole with their iPhones on extension sticks so they could take selfies with the London scene behind them. She looked left, and saw a steady stream of people in work garb, long coats, and women in boots and thick jackets and scarves. Like a computer, she tried to pinpoint the faces who might mean something, but none of them, did. Until one, a man with spiked grey hair, and a long black overcoat began to make a straight line towards her. Eva fastened onto his eyes. The slightest nod was given, and she took a breath of relief.

  “Miss Roberts.”

  “Mr Jameson.”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  The man was handsome and confident. He was a little old for Eva, but he was still attractive and seemed to know it. He took his time appraising Eva, as if he was putting a face to the name.

  “You’re just the kind of person one should meet on a bridge,” said Eva.

  “Yes, it’s appropriate. And not just for the symbolism, Miss Roberts. It’s strategic too.”

  Eva looked up at him quizzically. He had been gazing at the water, now he turned to face her more fully. “Yes. You’re also a strategist of a kind, are you not? You’re a detective. You strategize in reverse –working backwards from a problem I would guess.”

  “Sometimes. But often you can start with a case and have to work in all directions – outward like a star – until you reach the right point.”

  “Yes, that sounds familiar. So, tell me about your information.”

  “I’ve told you already. The dissidents are using the words hybrid war. They say this is what the Russians are trying to engineer here.”

  “Hybrid war? As in Eastern Ukraine, with Russia denying their troops have been deployed, yet thousands of Russian men in unmarked uniforms fight for Russian interests on foreign soil.”

  “They don’t see the soil as foreign, do they?”

  “Privately, no. They see it as a zone of Russian interest. A buffer country to keep the West at bay. Frankly I don’t see any correlation between the war in Ukraine and a gangster’s wife getting shot dead down in Essex.”

  “If you need me to spell it out Mr Jameson, I will.” Eva looked past the tall man’s shoulder to check the oncoming walkers for threats of any kind. She didn’t see anything to worry about, just tourists in shades and hats. But her nerves were coming on in waves. Eva felt anxiety rising within.

  “If I hear it again, it might help,” said Jameson.

  “Here it is,” said Eva, smiling. “The Russians see the black market here as a way to influence and undermine the enemy. A direct military invasion is out of the question, as you know war with Britain would be impossible for so many reasons. But there are many ways to attack a country, to influence it, and to weaken it. Russia is rich, but less rich these days. The Chinese have already bankrolled the UK, so Russia doesn’t have financial subjugation as an option. Instead, they have chosen to use crime as the back door. Organised crime. This has been a Russian expertise for generations, so I am told. Now they are setting up the leading British mobster to take the blame for a crime which will take away his prized anonymity in Britain. They intend to make him notorious. If they make him notorious our government will be forced to act against him, and when they do, the Russians will take advantage and seize key assets while they are exposed. They will carry out a takeover. Like an invasion. That’s the hybrid war theory. I didn’t believe it initially, but the more I think about what is going on, the more I’m warming to it.”

  Eva turned and looked towards South Bank. Trevor was out of view. So was Dan. Their seat was empty. Through the thin dressing of the birch trees, which stood outside the grey hulk of the National Theatre, she saw something shine at her – for a fraction of time. A camera? A telescopic lens? Eva shivered.

  “You mean Brian Gillespie. How can they make him notorious exactly?”

  “What? Why are you asking me all this again? I told you last night, Jameson. What’s going on?”

  “I’m simply checking your story for consistency. If it’s true, you will hold to the same line, even in the de
tail. Liars create where they forget. It’s a verification method.”

  “It’s wasting time! First they will make it look like the man has killed his own wife. And then they will kill me, and do the same. A ruthless criminal who kills women is a different kettle of fish to a successful businessman who doesn’t play by the rules. The public like successful mavericks who don’t play by the rules. But men who kill women? No one likes them. The police would be all over his businesses in an instant. The government would force the hand of even the most corrupt policemen to get involved. The rest is obvious. They intend to kill me, Jameson. So what do you mean to do about it?”

  The tall man looked down at her. “What am I going to do about it?” His face became a sneer. “I’m going to watch.”

  The man stepped away from her and to the side. Eva’s nerve-system erupted; she threw her body right, mimicking the tall man’s direction. He growled and tried to push her back. Now people were looking. The handrail beside Eva made a loud mechanical clank, reverberated, and paint chippings flew into the air. A bullet missed her.

  Dan had been watching the crowd shifting between sightseeing at the water side and the food options along the South Bank. The tourists here hailed from the whole world, all different, and yet seeking their sedate holiday vibe made them seem an homogenous mass. Here and there Dan picked out different people. He meandered to the tables by the theatre where a guy sold cheap prints, second-hand books and photographs for the tourists. Dan pretended to pick through a box of historical London prints while checking out three groups of people. He disregarded the first two after a moment. But an odd couple caught his eye. Dan pulled his scarf high around his face and looked at their backs. A big lump of a man walked with a woman wearing a long open coat and a short skirt with thick dark tights. They looked like tourists with money. They looked European with class and bearing. Maybe they were Scandinavian, something of that ilk. They shared a joke, and the big man pointed across to the glass-fronted food joints near the end of the bridge. Wagamama and all that. The woman smiled and gave him her food order, in what language he couldn’t fathom. Then she ambled over toward a clutch of three silver birch trees, looking like she was going to appreciate the view while she waited. She wore big black Jackie Onassis shades and a hat. He watched her hand delve into her coat, and she pulled out something with shining glass on it. Her hand covered most of the object, so he wasn’t sure exactly what it was. He guessed it could be one of those vaping things all the sub-thirties were smoking these days. The vaping gizmos generally had a glass tank on them. But when she pressed the glass together with something dark in her other hand, and then lifted it to her face like a telescope, Dan dropped all pretence of looking at the prints. He broke into a sprint and headed directly for the trees, his scarf unfurling behind him. He looked to his left with just a quick flick of his eyes, looking for Trevor the Traveller. Dan saw two large shapes talking to one another. He looked to the trees - he was close but he was too late. He dived at the woman after the first shot had already gotten away. The shot was silent.