“Why not?”
“The person who rang wanted to meet.”
“That person probably saved your life. A bomb had been planted inside the door to your flat, ready to go off when it was opened. At around eight in the evening, after you say that you left, someone evidently did open the door. A woman, a Russian who is now very dead as it happens. There is nothing left of your apartment. It’s been completely destroyed. Did anyone else have a key?”
“No one. How do you know she was Russian?”
Zeltinger describes some of the details that his forensics team have uncovered.
“Shit! The thing is, the people who tried to kill me yesterday evening were all Russians as well.”
“You mean the ones you left for dead in Green Park, Ben?”
There is yet more silence between them both. Then Lewis’s voice comes back on the line, this time the tone much more clipped and precise. The mood has changed, a sense of urgency in his voice.
“Zeltinger, we need to talk but I need to run. I’m going to have to trust someone on all this or else I am likely to end up dead. I’ll call you back on this number soon.”
Then the line goes dead.
32
Paddington
Ben is toying with his food whilst talking to Zeltinger. He pushes mushrooms and a piece of tomato onto his fork with one hand and then eats them when it’s the policeman’s turn to talk. He is hearing about the devastation of his apartment when he sees a man walking briskly passed the café window. The man consults something on his mobile phone and then comes to a rapid halt on the pavement outside. This one is tall, with a shaved head, black jacket and trousers. He looks muscular and in good shape. He has the lean look of the military. Or at the very least, certainly militarily trained. The opposition has found him, no question.
Lewis’s concentration switches away from Zeltinger in a heart beat. He ends the call, putting both phones back in different jacket pockets. He considers whether he has time to finish his breakfast before he needs to leave. Placing his fork back on the plate, he picks up a rasher of bacon with his fingers and eats it in one go, wiping his hands on a paper tissue as he chews.
If there’s one, there’s bound to be two. Or more.
He takes a swig of tea from his mug, unfolds a single five-pound note from a money clip and searches for some loose change in his trouser pocket. He finds a couple of two-pound coins and leaves them in a pile on the table. Then, in a sudden change of heart, he picks up the two-pound coins and puts them back in his pocket. Instead he looks for another five-pound note and places it on the table besides the other one. It has been a good breakfast. The Italian has earned his tip.
Lewis is ready to go. Another man has arrived outside. Two of a kind, they are conferring conspiratorially. This one is shorter but no less menacing, also dressed in black. Team colours, or so it appears. They are both staring through window into the café, hand against the glass to shield their eyes. They are looking at the diners from right to left. After a while, they settle on Lewis. Connection made, target acquired. Good, thinks Lewis. They’re making the opening moves. Unusually, black appears to be playing first. No problem, their first move will be predictable. They have no idea what they are up against and won’t have done enough planning.
Fuelled and watered, it is time for Lewis to get physical. Leaving his chair and nodding to the owner, Lewis heads out the back. He passes the foul-smelling bathroom and leans on the metal bar of the emergency exit. He thrusts his weight against the door and it opens into the alleyway at the back. It is nothing more than a small back courtyard bounded by properties on three sides. The fourth opens to the south into the run-down mews terrace about ten metres away. It isn’t a large space. For a moment he contemplates running into the mews and getting away on his bike. However, that isn’t part of the plan. There is just enough space for him to hide in the shadows behind the door. He presses his back against the rear wall of the property, and waits. This way he won’t be caught in the alley as a sitting target if one or both emerge with guns pointing.
He counts the seconds in his head. There is hardly room to swing a cat, let alone an arm. That suits Lewis fine. He is planning a few defensive moves of his own, something he is sure will surprise these two goons. Originally they had probably planned to jump him at his table and then escort him out the back for some rough stuff. They have given no thought as to what they might be up against: Lewis doesn’t play weak openers. Not in chess. Nor in real life, either. Not his MO at all.
He settles in for the wait. The heavy fire door is on his left, hinged close to his left arm, ready to swing outward in front of Lewis as and when it is opened. Twenty seconds have already passed since he left his seat. The two men in black would have waited five, perhaps ten, seconds maximum before entering the café; another ten or fifteen threading their way past various tables as they made their way towards the door at the back; and then a few further seconds for a quick search of the bathroom to confirm that Lewis isn’t hiding in the toilets at the back. So likely a maximum of fifteen seconds more before one or both comes charging out through the emergency exit.
In fact they arrive in ten.
The door is flung open with force, it’s speed of opening constrained by the substantial spring designed to allow the fire door to close automatically. Lewis has been contemplating his options whilst waiting. It feels tempting to put his entire bodyweight against the opening door, slamming it closed in the face of both pursuers. With luck he might have stunned one or both of them. The alternative is to let them emerge into the alleyway and for him to attack from behind once the spring-loaded door has closed. However satisfying the former approach might feel, Lewis chooses the latter option. It proves to be a wise choice.
With the door wide open and almost touching the rear wall of the house, it is immediately clear to both pursuers that there is no way from the alley back onto Praed Street that Lewis could have taken. They confer quickly. The shorter of the two then starts running down the alley, turning into the mews in the direction he believes Lewis is likely to have headed. This leaves the taller man standing still. He consults his phone, trying to locate Lewis’s mobile signal on his tracking app as the fire door closes behind him. He never gives a moment’s thought that Lewis might actually be standing less than metre behind him. More fool him.
Lewis uses the element of surprise to do two things. Firstly he aims his right boot in a powerful kick between the man’s legs. The blow crushes the man’s testicles and, as part of the follow through, the force transmitted through his instep causes several coccyx bones to break. Secondly, as the man cries out, doubling-up in agony, Lewis delivers a sharp elbow to an exposed left temple. There is enough strength in the blow to knock him out cold.
Lewis has finished his opening moves. Black is now in check.
The momentary screams of pain cause the other colleague – already halfway down the mews – to stop in his tracks. He turns back to see what has happened. Lewis crouches low next to the unconscious man’s body, reducing his profile and making it difficult for the other, now cautiously on his way back, to see anything in the dawn half-light. Lewis retrieves a gun from its shoulder holster under the unconscious man’s left arm. It is a Russian-made, GSh-18 semi-automatic pistol. No silencer but very deadly. He checks that the safety is on and places the gun in the rear waistband of his trousers. For good measure he also pockets the man’s mobile phone. Taking other people’s mobile phones is fast becoming a habit.
The other Russian, now standing hesitantly at the entrance to the little alleyway with his gun poised, is finally able to make out Lewis crouching alongside his fallen colleague. He points his gun clearly in Lewis’s direction.
“Get on your feet.” It is thickly accented English, spoken with a fluency that shows a clear familiarity with the language. Russian, Lewis is sure of it.
> Lewis is off the floor and onto his feet in one rapid movement, quickly reducing the distance between the two of them to less than eight metres.
“Put your hands up, where I can see them. Don’t consider any sudden movements. Do you have a gun?”
Lewis doesn’t answer but doesn’t put his hands up either. He chooses to remain stock still, arms by his sides, legs slightly apart, his body weight centred. He stares at the Russian intently, no expression on his face. This one also has a GSh-18 pistol. It too is un-silenced, yet another piece of team equipment. Quite sweet, Lewis considers: matching guns and matching black outfits.
“I asked you a question, you little shit.” Equal measures of tension, anger and impatience can be heard in his voice. A pained groaning sound emanates from his colleague on the floor. Lewis still says nothing, again not moving. He is showing no willingness to raise his hands for that matter either. The man with the gun is starting to get really pissed off, exactly as Lewis intends.
“Answer me, damn you.” He steps forward towards Lewis, the rage showing on his face. “And put your fucking hands in the air.” The distance between them is down to four metres. Lewis simply stares blankly at the man, his expressionless face taunting his opponent. The Russian steps forward one more time, gaining confidence, the separation down to two metres.
Lewis’s eyes never leave the other man’s face. This is fast becoming one seriously angry Russian. Lewis has been considering the man’s first move. A glancing blow from the gun hand is the most likely, he concludes. It is doubtful that the Russian will risk a bullet unless provoked, not at first at least. The gun remains pointing directly at him. Lewis continues watching the man’s eyes. The Russian’s pulse rate and blood pressure would be raised, both from the tension of the moment and from the exertion of running. Any semblance of calm would thus be lost. His first movement was likely to be rushed as a result: perhaps erratic, certainly uncontrolled. It would be the eyes that would give away the moment of first strike. If the man had been calmer and more in control of his body, then the game play would have been different. Lewis knows a lot about self-control in hand-to-hand combat situations. A stressed opponent always made mistakes. The eyes nearly always are the giveaway.
Lewis continues to eyeball the Russian and knows the moment is close. He is poised, ready to react. He bends his knees a little further. This will give him mobility in any axis of direction. Then he sees it, a momentary flicker of both eyeballs. In Lewis’s mind it happens in slow-mo. The gun hand, the man’s right hand, is rapidly drawn back and upwards at about forty-five degrees. Power and momentum begin building in the upper forearm, ready for the downward strike towards Lewis right cheek that begins a split second later. As he executes the manoeuvre, he shifts his body weight to the right, pivoting on the ball of his right foot. There is enough power in the movement to knock out Lewis with this hastily planned pistol whipping.
Except that the gun doesn’t connect with Lewis at all. Lewis has used his body balance to snap both his knees forward and his head backwards simultaneously. It is a windsurfing manoeuvre. Like now it can be a lifesaver. It removes Lewis’s face from the danger zone, in this case the gun’s trajectory, whilst maintaining a solid stance. The lack of impact causes the Russian to over-rotate and lose balance. Big mistake, thinks Lewis. He is quick to capitalise on his opponent’s loss of both footing and momentum by executing two rapid manoeuvres. Lewis is a fan of the one-two.
The first is a sharp up-thrust of his right knee into the man’s rib cage. The impact creates a sickening sound as Lewis’s femur, protected by many layers of well-developed thigh muscle, connects with the Russian’s ribs. Several are instantly fractured. The second is more controversial, perhaps not what Lewis’s commando colleagues would have advocated. They would have wanted the gun hand disabled, avoiding the possibility of any retaliation. Lewis always struggles with this. When fighting a right-handed opponent, the gun hand, having executed a downward swing that has missed its target, is by now diagonally on the opposite side of an opponent’s body. It is thus almost impossible to reach. Instead, Lewis does what he always does. He delivers a sharp blow from his left elbow directly into the man’s left ear. It lands slightly below the ear lobe, directly into the soft and dangerously vulnerable tissue there. On cue, the Russian sinks to his knees and passes out.
Checkmate.
33
Paddington
With two unconscious Russians at his feet, the first game in the match was his. Both foot soldiers had been wearing neck microphones, just like the others the day before. This meant that it had to be a well co-ordinated, if rapidly convened, Russian operation. It suggested that there would be others, either in a control room or nearby in the field supporting each other, most likely both. Almost certainly the thug he’d seen the previous evening in the park with the semi-automatic pistol, Panich, would be baying for Lewis’s blood. Especially if the bomb that Zeltinger had said had gone off in Kelly’s flat had killed one of his agents. He quickly searches the second Russian, finding a wallet containing credit cards and a substantial wad of cash, mainly Euros but also Pounds Sterling. Lewis discards the wallet but decides to keep the cash and the cards, placing them in an inner jacket pocket.
It is a good moment to turn off both iPhones once again. Lewis spends precious seconds doing this whilst the tall Russian lying by the café’s rear door emits more sounds of acute discomfort. Lewis puts both phones in separate inner pockets of his jacket, remembering that he now has a third phone that he has just acquired. He takes this out and examines it. It is a standard Android phone, similar in size and shape as his, perhaps marginally bigger. Having a third phone could provide all sorts of interesting additional possibilities.
He edges cautiously out into the mews, scanning the area for hostiles. He sees nothing that alarms him. His bike is still parked exactly where he has left it. Standing motionless, hugging the brick wall of the alleyway, he peers into the mews to make sure no one else is lying in wait. After a while, he concludes that it is safe to make his way across to his bike.
Feeling for the key in his pocket, he places the keys in the bike’s ignition and starts the engine. It may not purr as smoothly as the Yamaha, but it still sounds terrific. Just as he is putting on his helmet, an open-faced variety that he keeps clipped to his bike, he feels a gun being placed in the small of his back. Highly professional, he never hears or sees a thing. Where has that come from?
“Turn around, scum,” Oleg Panich spits with vehemence, in the process withdrawing two steps backwards lest Lewis had any fast moves planned. Lewis is quietly impressed. In the heat of the moment it is easy to forget the basics when you are pointing a loaded gun at someone. It can feel oddly reassuring to press the barrel into the middle of a victim’s back. A trained soldier is taught how to spin on their heels and wrestle a gun from an attacker’s hand faster than a finger can reflex-pull a trigger. Not to be performed, however, if the gun is a short distance away from the body. It increases the chances of taking a bullet in the back dramatically. A professional gun hand knows about such things. Panich is one of those, of that Lewis is in no doubt.
Keeping his helmet on, Lewis slowly turns around so that he is able to see and hear clearly. He doesn’t see Panich’s moving gun until it is arcing towards his exposed right cheekbone. The barrel hits his jaw obliquely with a sickening crunch. Lewis’s mind had for some reason switched momentarily into slow motion, worrying more about the make of the gun than his personal safety. As it is about to strike, his brain somehow registers the weapon. It is another un-silenced GSh-18 semi-automatic.
“That was for Olga, as if you care a fuck. Before I kill you, I should be handing you over to my colleagues who you treated so badly yesterday. You won’t believe how much they are looking forward to sharing some Russian-style retribution with you.” He spits in Lewis’s direction. Lewis sidesteps and the phlegm lands on the pavemen
t near his feet.
“Found a job lot of GS-h 18’s did you?” Lewis gybes, blood oozing inside his mouth from where a tooth has lacerated his cheek. That was going to be sore for a while. He shakes his head to clear the pain. Nothing broken at least.
“Grab hold of your ankles,” the Russian barks. Lewis slowly leans forward and does what he has been told to do. Panich moves behind Lewis and pats him down, finding the gun that Lewis has secreted in his waistband. Without warning, Panich kicks Lewis as he is bent over. However it is a clumsy attempt and only causes Lewis to stagger further away without doing any serious harm. Lewis stands up and faces Panich, his backside now resting against his own bike. He feels the reassurance of the Honda’s handlebars against his skin, the vibration of the engine giving him an idea. The Russian has pocketed the confiscated weapon and once more is pointing his own GS-h 18 directly at Lewis.
“Give me the woman’s phone.”
“Why?”
“None of your fucking business, just hand it over.”
Lewis hesitates a moment, the idea slowly taking shape. It is a bit out of the box, but then Lewis likes out of the box. If this were chess, they might even call it ‘The Lewis Variation.’ He rather likes the sound of that, come to think of it. Time to see if it works first. It is going to need precision timing and some very smart moves.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. “Very slowly,” Panich barks angrily. The two are eyeballing each other, Lewis’s right hand enveloping the Russian’s Android phone in his outer jacket pocket.
Slowly, Lewis withdraws the phone. Panich will not know that it isn’t the woman’s from where he is standing, currently about four metres away. He will want to believe that Lewis is obeying orders: that he, Panich, remains firmly in control. Lewis is happy to oblige the man’s fantasies. In exaggerated, slow, movements, Lewis smiles at Panich and moves his right hand containing the phone out in a horizontal arc. Lewis’s palm is uppermost, the face of the device being presented to Panich as the arc widens. Lewis offers the phone for the Russian to review, to check that it is the one he is expecting, proof that there is no trickery being contemplated.
The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1) Page 9