The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by David N Robinson

  So, two men and one woman and there would surely be others. Is this the team that assassinated Leyla Zamani? If so, why are they suddenly interested in him? What are they going to do with Lewis? Stop him and beat him up in front of scores of likely witnesses? Unlikely. Try to make a grab for him more like. To do that, they would need a van, something solid with no windows and a powerful engine. Their modus operandi would likely be to apply a little chloroform, then bundle him into the back of the van before driving off somewhere nice and quiet for the rough stuff. Or worse.

  Turning away from the window and as if on cue, Lewis sees a white Mercedes windowless van navigating its way around the Berkeley Square traffic. It is moving in a clockwise direction, coming from his immediate right. The driver is male, thickset, with a black moustache and wearing sunglasses despite it being nearly sundown. There is no one else with him in the van. It comes to a halt a few metres before the Bruton Street junction where Lewis is standing. Scar-face is no longer leaning on the lamppost. Instead he has moved fractionally closer to the van, exchanging the smallest of hand signals with the driver.

  ‘Got you’, thinks Lewis. Perhaps it is time to take some of his opponent’s pawns out of the game? Debating his various move and counter-move options, he favours fast legwork as his opening gambit. He could have outrun any of them, he is confident about that. However if he simply lost them, the opportunity to ask questions would be lost. So he opts for a hybrid manoeuvre, wanting to lose at least one of them, possibly the cigarette smoker, leaving him probably with just one, Scar-face, to deal with. Especially if Lewis took him somewhere the van driver couldn’t follow.

  Lewis takes off at a fast run, heading south towards the bottom of Berkeley Square. He runs across the southern perimeter of the square and then out west towards Curzon Street. He slows up by a side street that leads directly towards Green Park, pausing for sufficient time to see if anyone is following. Sure enough, Scar-face is soon flying around the corner in his direction, evidently not quite as fit as Lewis and out of breath. Lewis continues running, this time more of a jog, allowing his pursuer to gain ground as Lewis covers the distance to the entrance to Green Park on Piccadilly. Crossing the busy street, Lewis checks his watch before entering the park. This allows Scar-face to see where he is headed. There are no signs of the others or the van. So far, so good.

  Green Park at six-thirty in the evening is a much-used cut through for West-End commuters walking to Victoria or Waterloo stations. Lewis knows that the area to the south-west, over towards Hyde Park Corner, is the least likely to be busy. He heads in that direction, walking now, careful to allow his pursuer to think that he has a chance to catch him.

  Lewis stops suddenly and hides behind a large oak tree, its broad trunk providing great cover whilst he waits for Scar-face. He doesn’t have to wait long. He can hear the man trying to regulate his breathing as he edges closer. He will be puzzled as to where Lewis might have disappeared. The light is fading and it is hard to see clearly. ‘Over here, punk’, Lewis silently wills him on, not making the slightest sound lest he reveal his location. Sure enough, seconds later, Scar-face inches past the tree. With the man’s back turned and looking the wrong way, Lewis jumps out and grabs a right arm expertly in an arm-lock, twisting hard. Next, a deft flick of Lewis’s right leg causes his opponent’s legs to buckle from under him. In seconds, Lewis has him lying on his stomach pinned to the ground, his left foot positioned in the small of the man’s back. Lewis pulls sharply on the man’s arm, using the strength in both hands whilst pushing back with the heel of his left foot. Suddenly there is a ‘popping’ sound. It is heard and felt by them both, the noise signalling the abrupt dislocation of Scar-face’s right shoulder blade. Game over. The man screams but Lewis ignores it. Instead he grabs the other arm in a similar arm lock, preparing to repeat the performance with the left shoulder blade.

  “Want a matching pair?” Lewis’s right foot is now pressed down on the man’s back one again, the tension already building in the one remaining good shoulder.

  “Nyet, please. I’ll speak. Anything.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alexei.”

  “Why did you kill the Iranian woman?”

  “We didn’t.” Lewis presses down harder with his right foot and the man cries out. “I promise, we don’t know who shot her. We were only following her.”

  “So why are you all now following me, Alexei?”

  “The Iranian woman. You were there when she died. You have her phone. We want to know . . .” he pauses struggling to breathe, the pain in his left arm increasing. “Please, I beg you, not any more,” he gasps. Lewis reduces the pressure a little.

  “Go on. I am listening.”

  “We want to know how much she told you.”

  “Are you Russian?” The man nods.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Six.”

  “Six? Fuck, what makes me so special all of a sudden.”

  “Oleg has his orders.”

  “Who is Oleg?”

  “Oleg Panich. He is in charge.”

  “So, I have a message for you to give Panich. Tell him, if he or any of your comrades continue to come after me, I promise that what I have done to you will seem like kindergarten, do I make myself clear?” The daylight has virtually disappeared. Under the leaves and branches of the old oak tree it is dark. “Tell your friends, the woman said nothing to me, do you understand? She was dead when I got to her. I took her phone because I needed a new one. End of story. Crawl back home and fuck off and leave me alone, do you hear?” He gives Alexei a final kick in the ribs causing him to cry out once more. Then he lets go of his arm and walks away. He doesn’t look back. Alexei lies on the ground whimpering with pain. This is one Russian agent that isn’t going to be on active service for a while.

  Time to make his way to Victoria to do his internet research.

  He heads across the park towards Constitution Hill at the rear of Buckingham Palace, his mind preoccupied by thoughts about the dead woman, trying to work out exactly what had happened that afternoon. Who killed her and why? Why are the Russians involved? And who had sent him that text message saying that they needed to meet urgently? So many questions and, as yet, so few answers.

  His thoughts are interrupted when he notices the white Mercedes van. It is the same one he has seen earlier in Berkeley Square. It is now drawing to a halt on the roadside about a hundred metres away. Lewis stops in his tracks. Three men are climbing out. One of them, the same stocky, tough-looking man he had seen staring at the Bentley showroom window earlier, presumably the man known as Panich, has a gun. It is a semi-automatic by the look of it.

  How the hell have they managed to trace him so quickly?

  11

  Savile Row Police Station

  Saul Zeltinger had not been having a great afternoon. His one and only material witness, Ben Lewis, had been helpful. However, Zeltinger couldn’t help have this feeling that he’d been holding back on something. No one else had come forward with any information as to the identity of the killer or what motives they might have had. Three construction workers had all been interviewed and hadn’t heard or seen a thing. One bright spot was that around five in the afternoon, a single 9 x 19mm pistol cartridge had been found by the forensic team in amongst the hedges on the south-eastern side of the square. Assuming that the bullet that had killed the woman was found by the autopsy team still to be inside her body, Zeltinger was hopeful that the bullet and the cartridge would match.

  Finding the empty cartridge wasn’t a great help but at least it was something. 9 x 19mm ammunition was arguably the most common pistol calibre, used by a huge variety of weaponry: from Lugers, to Sig Sauers; and from Makarovs to Berettas. He faced an impossible job trying to trace the weapon that had killed the woman from this single cartridge case. There was pe
rhaps a glimmer of hope that forensics might find something: fingerprints on the shell casing, for example.

  Zeltinger had, though, discovered the identity of the woman. She was an Iranian freelance journalist living in Paris by the name of Leyla Zamani. Single and, from preliminary police checks, apparently having no known relatives in either Paris or London. Zeltinger had already sent a priority request for information about next of kin to the Iranian Embassy in London. He wasn’t particularly hopeful about receiving a prompt reply. He had also contacted the French police who had promised to conduct a thorough search of Zamani’s Parisian apartment for him as a priority. There had been both a French and a Swiss passport in her name in her handbag along with credit cards, various articles of make up, and some business cards in a small plastic box. Finally, there had been a conference binder containing papers connected with the International Fusion Nuclear Technology symposium being held in London over the following four days. Zeltinger had already checked. Leyla Zamani was indeed an accredited journalist who had been expected to participate in that conference. One item not in her handbag was a mobile phone. This had struck Zeltinger as odd. For a journalist not to have such an essential piece of equipment was almost inconceivable. Zeltinger had removed a business card from the plastic box and examined it. Sure enough, there was Zamani’s name, her occupation, email address and her mobile number, the +33 in front indicating it to be a French-based number. He put the card in his pocket, promising himself that he would make further enquiries into her phone records later.

  Further scouring of the internet revealed that the dead journalist had written several recent major news stories. Two were for the Economist magazine and one for the Financial Times, all connecting the importance of nuclear technology to the emerging balance of power in the Middle East. Each were critical of the manoeuvres and political machinations being played by Iranian politicians as they sought to redress what they saw as the current political imbalance in the region back in their favour.

  Saul Zeltinger was no nuclear expert. However, even he could see the theoretical connection between on the one hand a journalist digging deep into sensitive areas that were likely to cause political embarrassment; and on the other hand certain politicians or governments wanting to keep various secrets covered up and away from the public eye. Did that make Leyla an assassination target? It certainly had to be a possibility.

  12

  Green Park

  They are here to get him, of that Lewis is in no doubt. The question now was whether to give them the slip or to try and inflict some damage? The odds are not stacked in his favour. One against three unarmed men would have been fine. He might even have enjoyed it. However, one against three when at least one of his opponents is armed might be suicidal. On the plus side, Lewis knows the layout of park, and he still has the element of surprise. Furthermore, unlike his opponents, his eyes have already become accustomed to the dark.

  Lewis decides on a compromise. He is not sure what his fight with the Russians is yet, but he is keen to get these irritating fuckers off his back. If what the injured Alexei had said was true, they too were interested in Zamani’s phone. Well, too bad, punks, it had to be beneficial to take a few more of the opponent’s attacking pieces out of play.

  He begins by circling around behind them as they head, line abreast, towards where Alexei’s injured body is lying. Lewis circles to their left, his right, his route being the long circular arc taking him to the imaginary point D behind their current position at point B. This will position Lewis eventually to their rear: the one place they won’t be expecting him to be. He sees their silhouettes as they walk past him, momentarily pausing and crouching low in order to avoid detection.

  He searches the gravelly edge of the path with his hands and locates two large stones. Each is about five centimetres in diameter. He weighs them carefully in both hands, sensing that they will be prefect for what he has in mind. He is behind all three by now, about twenty-five metres to their south-western flank. Time to make his move. He gets to within ten metres in a crouching run, then stands up and takes careful aim. He has time only for two shots. Deliberately, he chooses the two largest targets.

  Lewis throws each of the two pebbles in turn with full force, running sharply to the right as he lets go. It is a Ben Lewis party piece, it always has been. There are few better or more reliable at throwing objects at a target. Irritatingly for some, he never misses. Coconut shies, knocking cans off walls from a distance, he can do them all with his eyes closed. He doesn’t miss this time either. The first pebble strikes its tall victim behind his the ear with knockout force. The man goes down like a puppy. Likewise, the second pebble catches the over-weight van driver full force on the side of his neck. This man sinks more slowly to his knees, before he too collapses to the deck. The third remaining Russian, the one that Lewis guesses to be Panich, only realises what has happened too late. Here the smaller Russian with the gun makes his first and only big mistake. He fires off a round in the vague direction where he thinks Lewis ought to be standing – but isn’t. The noise of the gun is loud, Lewis knowing that the police will likely be on the scene in only a matter of minutes. Buckingham Palace is, after all, only a few hundred metres away.

  It is time for Lewis to disappear.

  13

  Victoria

  Lewis checks his watch. It is nearly seven o’clock in the evening and the store will be closing shortly.

  He has been scrolling down the list of Google search results. Initially the number of links that appeared under Leyla Zamani’s name had surprised him. An Iranian by birth, Zamani had been a journalist specialising in nuclear issues, based in Paris. She had her own website and even maintained an active blog. Everything on the site was written in English, not French. Her last blog entry stated her intentions to travel to London to attend a nuclear conference this week at a hotel in the West End. That at least began to explain in part why she had been in London.

  Slowly Lewis begins to build a profile of the woman. Here was someone who had lived in exile from Iran for most, if not all, of her life. For several years she had been a freelance journalist. She evidently had enough respect to have articles published on a fairly regular basis. There had been several short pieces published in various major papers in recent months. Lewis skims through one long article about modern day Iran published recently in the Financial Times. In it Zamani refers to what she calls an emergent new wave of ‘Crazies’ in the country. These are some of the more radical young Islamists determined to exploit Iran’s uranium resources in order to develop nuclear weapons. Her contention was that these Crazies seem willing to do sanction-busting deals with foreign super-powers by trading oil and mineral rights in exchange for access to the forbidden fruits of enriched uranium and weapons. It is a well-researched and quite technical article. Even so, its hard-hitting message is clear. It points the finger unambiguously at Russia and China as two countries trying to push the boundaries in their relationship with Iran. Each is said to be vying secretly with the other to be in prime position at the negotiating table. Both, according to Zamani, are prepared to stray into what the West would see as unacceptable territory in order to achieve their goals. He could find no reference to anyone called Shafiq, however. How is Lewis going to find out about this person – let alone why he had been in danger?

  One very recent article for the Economist magazine catches his eye. It is a special report on the new wave of Islamic extremism tearing Iraq and Syria apart. In it, Leyla Zamani is quoted expressing her concerns about how a coalition of oil-rich, Shia dominated nations that includes southern Iraq and a nuclear capable Iran could radically reshape the balance of power in the Middle East. Her main thesis is that she believes that neither Russia nor China would be prepared to stand idly by doing nothing whilst the Western nations, in particular the US, continue to cosy up to Sunni-dominant allies such as Saudi Arabia. If that means being prep
ared to supply nuclear weapons secretly to Iran, then it might well be a price the Russian or Chinese consider is worth paying.

  There is an announcement over the intercom that the shop is closing in two minutes. Lewis clears his search history and prepares to leave, still wondering what evidence, exactly, Zamani might have uncovered and recorded in this dossier of hers.

  ‘Take my phone, it’s in my bag. Promise me that you’ll guard it with your life? It is the key to finding the dossier.’

  Could it be that all the material, the dossier itself, is stored on her locked iPhone? Had whatever she had found been so damaging that the Russians had felt compelled to kill her? To seek it out and destroy it – and anyone who knew about it? It seems plausible, Zamani herself having described it as ‘explicit and highly dangerous’.

  As Lewis is making his way out of the store he has a sudden idea. He will give his sister-in-law, Holly, a call. Although a nurse, her hobby was genealogy and researching family trees. She would be much better placed and knowledgeable about how to dig and delve into Zamani and her background than he ever would. Perhaps she might even be able to discover who Shafiq was and why he might have been betrayed? Back on the street once more, he takes out his own iPhone and calls up her number.

  14

  Pimlico

  Sui-Lee was studying herself in the full-length mirror that Ben Lewis had fitted in the cramped but functional bedroom in his tiny apartment. It was one of many such one-bedroomed cubbyholes in the nineteen-fifties housing block located several streets away from Pimlico station. Sui-Lee wore her thirty-two years well, she thought admiringly. No grey hairs in any part of her long, black, silken hair. As for her skin, there were few signs of approaching middle-aged puffiness – and even fewer wrinkles. She turned and studied herself from the rear. Not bad from that angle either.