by Chris Allen
Morgan saw the Aquariva heading toward him and didn’t know if he was going to be run down or rescued.
And still no sign of Arena.
Morgan felt an unexpected tightness in his chest. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the day he said goodbye to her at Heathrow and she’d walked through the customs frontier and disappeared so completely from his life. Or so he’d thought. Anxiety. Pain. Loss. Regret. All of those things swirled around in his mind, squeezing and tightening with every pass. But this time there was an added element. Morgan thought he’d dealt with losing Ari long ago. Now, faced with the very real possibility that she may be lost to him forever, he realized he hadn’t.
The Aquariva throttled back with a loud rumble, slowing to a halt just a few feet away. Torn, his mind awash with long buried memories of Arena and sudden guilt-laden flashes of Beth, Morgan kicked off toward the tender. He reached up to the waiting hand of the crewman, clambered awkwardly aboard and slumped exhausted upon the long bench seat.
CHAPTER 23
Morgan jumped across to the pier from the Aquariva and left the crewman to tie her off. Rodenko and his offsider were still standing over the body of Kristina Zolner.
“Are you two just going to stand there all day looking at her or are you going to take care of her?” he asked.
“She’s dead,” said Rodenko. “What’s to take care of? The meat wagon is on the way. Stay out of it.”
Morgan ignored Rodenko and walked between the two men to get to the body. He kneeled down beside her, turned her on her side for a moment and examined the obvious damage with an experienced eye. She had been shot in the back at least three times. The rounds had caught her down the left flank, in the neck and directly over the lung and kidney on that side. The bullets must have found their mark as she and her bodyguards ran down the steps to get to the boat. She was dead. That was for sure.
“I said, stay out of it,” Rodenko barked. “He’s waiting for you.”
Morgan laid her back down made his way up the steps to the gardens and found his jacket where he’d dropped it. He looked at it and then his trousers, shirt and shoes. Another suit trashed. He reached the top of the steps and was suddenly hit with the sinking feeling that he would find Arena somewhere in the gardens in a similar condition to Kristina Zolner; nothing more than collateral in the race to send a message to Helldiver. When he reached the edge of the gardens he walked to where he’d the seen the other bodies – Rodenko’s guy and the woman from the household staff. He found them, checked them, confirmed they were both dead, laid his jacket over the woman and kept looking around. There were no obvious blood trails on the grass and no groans of pain anywhere close by. Fuck! His only option was to work his way back to the house and then see what was going on with Helldiver.
When he reached Helldiver’s office, he found the billionaire there in a rage. The bottle of Glenfiddich had moved from the cabinet to the desk. Helldiver was holding a glass in one hand and hurling anything that was within reach across the room with the other. In the background, standing well clear of the affray, was Arena, white as a sheet. Thank God! Morgan was ready to run to her but she caught his eye and shuddered almost imperceptibly to caution him. He reluctantly stood down. She was OK. She was alive. That was all that mattered but the tight feeling in his chest didn’t ease.
Helldiver saw Morgan enter.
“You know, those fucks from the SVR have done this! They killed her at my home!” he yelled at Morgan. He pointed to the cellphone lying dormant on the desk. “And now, they are recalling me. Me! They are sending a plane to collect me tomorrow. They expect me to roll over and play fetch like a dog. They expect me to travel back to Moscow with my tail between my fucking legs.” He emptied his glass, slammed it back onto the desk and refilled it.
“I don’t understand,” Morgan said, feigning ignorance. He was reminded of the conversation that was left hanging when he spotted the agents stalking Kristina Zolner in the gardens. Helldiver had been on the verge of unloading the background. A righteous enterprise. Heroes to the cause. Reclaiming heritage. Morgan needed to know for sure. He needed to know the extent of the connection to the Russian government. That would definitely explain the global impact of the strategy. Why else would a billionaire want to employ jihadist kamikazes to bring down all those airplanes and kill hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people? “The SVR. Why the hell is the SVR recalling you? What do they have to do with any of this?”
Helldiver slumped again in his seat and rubbed his hands across his face and through his white hair. He waved a drunken finger at Morgan and began to laugh in that way that drunks do. “You’re the only one I know who runs toward the danger, Morgan,” he slurred. “Do you know that? The only one. The others all run away. If I’m going to beat this, I need you on my team. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I understand.”
“So, are you on my team, Morgan?”
Morgan walked closer to the desk so that Helldiver could see him more clearly.
“If you want me on your team and you want to take the fight to whomever it is that is after you, then leave that to me. If there’s one thing I know how to do better than anything else I’m employed for, it’s taking the fight to an enemy and winning. If that’s what you want me to do then, yes, I’m on your team.”
Helldiver stood and faced Morgan, holding himself against the desk. Morgan could see that he was mustering everything he could to sound as sober as possible.
“These fucks want me dead but they can’t kill me because this face is too well known and I know too much. So they killed her instead.” He took a deep breath, wavering slightly. “They’re not telling me what to do. I’m not going to be treated like their fucking dog. So, we will fly to Moscow tomorrow but on my plane and on my terms. I will tell them!”
“What’s your plan?” Morgan didn’t place much stock in rash decisions made while under the influence but somehow he had a suspicion that Helldiver would follow through no matter how drunk he was.
“Dominique will arrange everything. I’ve told her. We leave on my jet in the morning.”
Morgan glanced at Arena. Her face was full of concern but she was still in character, supporting her employer’s wishes. But Morgan knew her, remembered her well enough to know she was torn. Questioning the extent to which she should be proceeding with her orders or bringing Helldiver down here and now. But bringing him down wasn’t her job, wasn’t her call. It was for Morgan to decide and he needed to see this through. If that meant taking Helldiver back to Moscow to see where this had all started, then that’s what he would do. Arena would just have to go with it.
Meanwhile, if Helldiver was hell-bent on going to Moscow in the morning then Morgan would have to play the advance-party card. That way he could get the lay of the land ahead of Helldiver’s arrival and, as urgently as possible, reestablish contact with Intrepid HQ to see if there’d been any developments.
*
Back down at the pier Rodenko and his offsider were loading the body of Kristina Zolner back onto the Aquariva. They’d weighed down her body with large rocks from where the pier met the shoreline. When they had her back onboard, the engines rumbled once again. They took her body out to where the tender had exploded and dumped it in the ocean.
CHAPTER 24
St. James’s Park Lake, Westminster, London
General Davenport stepped out onto Broadway. The sun was streaming down and in a rare moment of indulgence, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, basking in the warmth of the sunshine, enjoying a beautiful London summer’s day just like any normal person might. Normal person? Perhaps one day.
He strode purposefully, turning right past the Ministry of Justice and along Queen Anne’s Gate toward his destination, all the while thinking through the myriad issues that had dominated his thoughts and plagued his memories since receiving the news and seeing the image that Sheridan had presented to him two nights ago.
; He’d managed to contain the anger that had so thoroughly consumed him at the sight of that simple, pixelated image, the face of a ghost from the past. Yet, not really a ghost. Not dead, as he had been led to believe for the past ten years, but in fact very much alive and well. Zolnerowich. General Igor Sergei Zolnerowich. In that instant, the operation to bring down Helldiver had ratcheted up in significance by about a thousand percent. Because, while the son was a formidable adversary in his own right, the implications of the additional influence of his father were unimaginable. The man was an unconscionable butcher who had only sought to embolden that reputation over the many years since Davenport had last seen him in Aldershot. “The West condemned us for Afghanistan,” he’d said back then. “But one day, colonel, you’ll wish you left us alone to finish the job. Mark my words.” So, he was still alive and therefore, without the slightest doubt in Davenport’s mind, still pulling the strings. He had to be.
Soon, Davenport crossed Birdcage and arrived at St James’s Park Lake. At the park, he took his time wandering along the paths amid the trees, shrubberies, squirrels and waterfowl, and crossed the Blue Bridge, scanning for his contact. Eventually he found her sitting on a bench just where she said she’d be, watching tourists taking photos of a pelican.
Asya Namdakov was a senior official stationed at the Russian Embassy in London, listed under a suitably obscure title within the Scientific and Technical Cooperation section. Davenport had known her for many years, dating back to his deployment to Kosovo in the mid-nineties and his various visits to the continent during the intervening years. She was a career intelligence officer, just a few years younger than him. She’d got her start in military communications and technology in the dying days of the Soviet Union, and she had gone on to their foreign service, stationed at various diplomatic posts around the world as a technology adviser. One thing led to another, as it so often did in the espionage game, and she’d found herself permanently assigned to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where she had carved out a career as a signals intelligence guru. She was only about five-two or -three, and comfortably proportioned, but despite her relatively small size, she was a powder keg, not to be underestimated. He smiled as she noticed him and stood.
“Thank you for meeting me, my dear,” he said. They hugged and kissed each other lightly on each cheek. “Rather ironic don’t you think? You sitting here, watching a bloody pelican.” They began to walk.
“What on earth do you mean, Reggie?”
“Didn’t you know? These pelicans are directly descended from the original birds that were a gift from the Russian ambassador in the seventeenth century.”
“How interesting,” she replied. “Did you know that pelicans wait for their prey, patiently, quietly, watching until it comes near the surface and then—” she clapped her hands together, “—they snatch them and eat them. Maybe not so ironic that a Russian gave them to you, I think.”
Davenport laughed, surprised at how relaxed she seemed, especially as she was meeting him at such short notice. He said so.
“I am not worried, Reggie. I believe I already know what you want to discuss and I suspect – I hope – that our discussion may turn out to be mutually beneficial. So, I have nothing to hide.”
“Very well, Asya. Then I’ll get straight to the point. Two nights ago I was sent a photograph that was recently taken in France. Of all things, I happened to be in Lyon at the time. It was a face that I haven’t seen in over twenty years. A face I thought I would never see again: General Igor Sergei Zolnerowich, looking very much alive and well.”
“So,” she said sharply. “Now you know.”
“Yes. Yet, all this time, I was under the impression he had been killed by the SVR in 2005.”
“Unlike the Koreans, we don’t broadcast our political assassinations in the international press, Reggie. In the case of General Zolnerowich, it was staged. As you now know, he is not dead.”
“Very well,” said Davenport, and took in a deep breath. “Confirming that information makes what I need to discuss with you much clearer, for me at least. I will understand if you can’t discuss everything I’m about to raise with you, but I would appreciate at least some clarification here and there.”
She smiled but remained silent.
“For some time now we have been investigating certain individuals who we believe are responsible for the recent string of air disasters that, you’d be aware, have been reported widely in the press, specifically, Patiala Airlines flights 550 and 190, Chimbu Airways 376, and just last week Katak Airlines flight 712. Last night one of our agents managed to stop another attack; an attack which could potentially have resulted in significantly greater loss of life than any of the others. Our early intelligence drew our attention to a Russian businessman with significant resources and international connections. Our interest was due, in part, to an association between him and a pilot recruitment consultant known to us thanks to his extremist sympathies.”
“You say ‘due in part.’ What was the other thing that drew you to this Russian businessman?”
“His name. Not the name he’s given himself, but his real name.”
“Of course. You are speaking of Zolner, yes? The son of the soldier, General Zolnerowich. The one who calls himself the ‘Helldiver.’ And this recruiter of pilots: the Argentine, Salazar, yes?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Go on.”
“On the basis of our earliest information, it appeared that this man Helldiver was operating in isolation. So, the strategy behind his actions in bringing these aircraft down confounded me. I could not see any reason for the attacks beyond basic extortion, but why kill all those people just for money? He’s already a billionaire and, despite his ancestry, he has no personal history associated with violence or mass murder – not that I’m aware of, anyway. So my thoughts turned to an association of some kind that might support the theory that the attacks were part of something bigger.
“Then a few days ago we had a breakthrough when we confirmed the identity of Helldiver’s wife, Kristina Zolner. She is not a Turkish heiress as they would have us believe. She is in fact an Armenian by the name of Khristya Bedrosian, a former or possibly even a currently serving officer of the SVR. We have ascertained that Ms Bedrosian is the protégé of SVR Director Vasily Latushkin, who we also know was a previous deputy director of the SVR’s Directorate S, responsible for illegal intelligence and maintains an active interest in that area to this day. Their SVR association suggests the high probability of an ongoing collaboration; an argument supported by the very close association that once existed between Latushkin and Helldiver’s father, General Zolnerowich; back to the days, in fact, when the young Latushkin was protégé to Zolnerowich. Confirming that Zolnerowich is still alive convinces me that this group is both capable of devising and implementing the plan to attack these airlines, and most importantly, they are motivated to ensure its success.”
By now their walk had found them free of the tourists around the bridge. Buckingham Palace was in clear view and an empty bench beckoned. They sat down.
“Is that all you have so far? I know you well, Reggie. I suspect you have more to add.”
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But first, I would appreciate your views on my theories.”
“Very well. You have taken me into your confidence and I will take you into mine. When you reached out to meet with me, I was already aware of most of what you have told me, but there is more. Much more. Some of what I will tell you is official, some is not; but rest assured the reason we are speaking at all is that we are working to the same end. I can help you and you can help me. You understand, yes?”
Davenport nodded.
“Some time ago, influential people, old Communists within the Russian government and our intelligence services – Vasily Latushkin among them – embarked upon a campaign to reinvigorate our energies toward destabilizing the West, specifically the United States and her principal allies. The foundations of the op
eration had already been laid by the United States many years ago when we were in Afghanistan. All that was required was support and encouragement. Hearts and minds, I think you call it. In the eyes of the hardliners, the operation was an unprecedented success and the reaction of the West will be known to you as the War on Terror. The plan was progressing well, exceeding expectations, in fact, and then Bin Laden was killed. Suddenly, the efforts of the extremists in the Middle East began to falter, and the US began the withdrawal and handover to the Afghan government. I’m sure you appreciate the irony, from our point of view, of the West being embroiled in a decade-long war against the very forces they helped to defeat us in Afghanistan thirty years ago. But this changed situation, the US withdrawal, was counter to the hardliners’ plans. They wanted the distraction of the war against the Islamist extremists to continue. It took the attention away from Russia and its plans for expansion. Or so they had hoped. A new strategy was devised to maintain pressure on the West by forcing them to recommit to the Middle East, placing even greater strain on America’s relationships with her allies in seeking their commitment to supply more troops. But most importantly, nothing could be traced back to the Kremlin. So, the task was, how do you say … out …?”