Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  We sat inside by the warmth of a log fire and ordered two lattes.

  “How are your parents?” he asked politely.

  “They’re well,” I replied.

  “Give them my regards.”

  “I shall,” I assured him as I glanced round the coffee shop and saw that they were so accustomed to foreigners here that all the signs were in English, including the price list - which I had just noticed for the first time. This explained why no Swedes appeared to be drinking here. Accordingly I regarded my latte with a new found reverence as I savoured each sip and dwelt fondly on my Delonghi Bean to Cup Coffee Machine at home.

  “So how are things in your “world”?” I asked cheerfully.

  He placed his cup back on the table after having just taken a sip and sat back, his brow became furrowed as if he were visibly contemplating an answer.

  “Do you remember Thornton School?” he asked at last.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It had been around since before our own school was founded. Over the years our school flourished whilst Thornton languished and shrank. But nevertheless it was a constant, a permanent fixture, even a symbol of stability. And then when we returned at the beginning of a new term when I was in the upper sixth, we were told that it had closed down. Thornton had been consigned to history and our school had taken over some of its buildings and most of its pupils. What had longevity and was seemingly permanent had ceased to exist overnight. Everyone carried on as if Thornton had never existed. Today’s status quo can be become tomorrow’s history in an instant.”

  I nodded, recalling the episode, before taking a sip of my latte; intrigued at where this was leading.

  “The point is that we’re seeing a gradual and perceptible shift in the power balance between nations in this early part of the 21st century. Europe and America are declining relative to others, whilst Asia is becoming more powerful in every conceivable regard. Whenever this happens there is bound to be friction and tension, sometimes it leads to war.”

  “You’re being rather dour. I was expecting our meeting to be a cheerful one,” I chastised.

  Jules gave a little laugh, “I don’t mean to be. But let me say my say. The Middle East, China, Central Asia and those Russians; whether it be because of energy, border or water disputes, nationalism or just a explicit grab at power - these are the places to watch.”

  His talk was ominous and I was not in the mood for it, “Rest assured, watch them I shall,” I said contriving a show of gravity.

  We were both leaving Stockholm today; he this afternoon to god knows where and I this evening back to London. During a Swedish lunch of fried marinated Herring, potato puree and lingon berry preserve we spoke of many things; a new American heavy machine gun we’d heard of, sport, books and politics. The talk was amusing and convivial. We parted outside the restaurant with a firm shake of hands and a degree of solemnity; for we had no idea whether we would meet again and if so when. Had we been foreigners, we might even have embraced, but such a show of emotion would have been as unnatural to us as it was revolting. I returned along the Vasterlanggatan and then across Vasabron Bridge to my hotel where I had arranged a late checkout.

  I had rarely seen a finer pair of breasts - pert, rounded and pleasing on the eye, as they bounced up and down glistening in sweat as the twenty two old Swedish Chambermaid rode me as I lay on my back in bed. I had noticed her in the corridor the very first morning I had arrived at my hotel. Camilla was the type of girl a chap could hardly fail to notice - even though she was just a Chambermaid: five foot eight, brunette, blue eyes, flawless skin, slim hips and a mischievous smile. After lunch with Jules I could hardly imagine a more laudable way to spend the afternoon. She gave out a large exhalation of breath as one invariably does when reaching congress with me and sighed in admiration, “Oh.....Tar....quin.”

  Camilla was quite exhausted, but impressed with her lover, or was I just flattering myself? She de-coupled herself and lay down beside me. Both of us breathed deeply as we recovered our breaths, our naked lean young bodies, sweaty with the exertions of an afternoon of unadulterated sensual debauchery. I looked to the bedside cabinet on my left and saw the time. If I was to make my flight to London, I would have to leave soon. I got out of bed and walked straight to the bathroom for a shower - without acknowledging Camilla in the slightest. The girl had fulfilled her purpose; proving useful in allowing me to sate my loins and thus kill a couple of hours before my flight. No point in developing any feelings for her. I stepped in the shower and turned on the water. The sights I have seen this afternoon in bed were preferable to any I have seen in the whole of Stockholm, I mused to myself as the water washed away an afternoon’s sport.

  Heathrow was not as ghastly as it usually is. I sighed with relief after a wait of only 13 minutes as my luggage appeared on the carousel. I caught a taxi to Kensington where I lived in an Edwardian building - Burlington Mansions; consisting of luxury mansion flats, one of which was bequeathed to me by my late uncle who died childless. I was loath to sell having become rather attached to the place. It was in a good neighbourhood, convenient for all the best parts of London. The flat itself was ideal: high ceilings, spacious rooms, quality fixtures and fittings and three bedrooms. I had sensitively modernised the flat in the three years I had lived there. Now I could barely countenance the thought of living elsewhere. After unpacking and putting away my luggage I reheated a beef casserole for supper and washed it down with a glass of Pinotage. After dinner I pondered on Nielsen an obscure composer whom I was trying to get to grips with, but instead settled on Haydn a rather underrated composer, whom I had modestly been championing since receiving a boxed set of Haydn symphonies several years earlier. I settled on symphony no 100, known as the Military; which I thought rather befitting. Moments such as this were one of utter contentment - a whiskey in one hand, free to think and ponder with no interruptions. I imagined where Jules might now be and reflected on his observations in the coffee shop.

  As the finale of woodwind, brass interspersed with drums came to an end the flat fell silent. I sat there appreciating the quiet and contemplating bed when there was a rude awakening - the telephone had intervened. Who the devil could it be at this hour, I cursed as I answered.

  “Hello”, I bellowed into the phone not making any attempt to conceal my displeasure.

  “Tarquin?” the caller inquired rather sheepishly.

  “Andrew?” I replied.

  “Thank heavens it’s you. I need your help”

  “What is it?” I enquired rather concerned, my displeasure at the call having all but evaporated on hearing the voice of Andrew Sinclair an old friend.

  “Listen there isn’t much time; I’m in a spot of bother. I think my life’s in danger.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Moscow. I‘ve been doing business here and I’ve got in with the wrong sort. I think I may be in over my head. I’ve received several threatening phone calls saying something unpleasant would happen to me. I dismissed it thinking that it was a crank call. But yesterday someone broke into my hotel room and rummaged through my stuff,” he explained.

  “I see,” I stated, trying to sound composed in stark contrast to Andrew’s excited state, “Get on the next plane to London or get to our embassy,” I counselled calmly.

  “I would do but I’m certain I’m being followed.”

  “Who exactly are these people?” I asked in exasperation. Just then I heard someone entering his room, there was then a muffling sound, shouts and the sounds of a struggle.

  “Andrew are you there? Andrew……Andrew” I shouted but the line had gone dead.

  “Hello…..hello!” I cried, but it was in vain.

  I looked at the receiver in desperation and reluctantly hung up. I called the operator and asked them to trace the number but they were unable to do so. The disappointment only served to accentuate my fatigue. The exertions of the day had caught up with me – namely the thrashing about with the licentiou
s chambermaid. There was nothing else for it, I decided but to go to bed.

  The next day started as a bright spring morning. I awoke late – it was 10 o’clock. I showered, dressed and breakfasted. I looked out of the window at the blue sky on this mild spring day, at the trees bursting with new leaves and the mundane London traffic. I had an appointment with my Stockbroker at 2pm apart from which I had nothing else planned for the day, except a visit to the gym. I felt the need to stay fit despite no longer being in the army. I looked across the wall in my drawing room where the picture of Captain Tarquin Collingwood, wearing his uniform and all his medals stared across at me. I could hear the birds singing as I opened the window and took in a deep breath of fresh air. It’s on days like this one’s glad to be alive. As soon as this thought crossed my mind the memory of last night’s phone call from Andrew hit me with as much force as if someone had just struck me across the face.

  “I had bloody well find out if Andrews alright!” I said aloud in rebuke to myself.

  I tried to deduce whom to call, when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver, “Hello?”

  “Collingwood?” the voice inquired.

  “Edward?” I sighed in recognition.

  “Yes. This is not a social call Tarquin. Look I’m awfully sorry but there’s no pleasant way of putting this,” Edward paused and my mouth went dry as I sat down and he continued, “A man’s corpse has been found this morning in Moscow. We’ve identified him as a British subject by the name of Andrew Sinclair....I believe you knew him.”

  CHAPTER 3 – A RESOLUTION.

  Edward called me over to his office. I had first met him when I had been appointed liaison officer between my regiment and military intelligence in the Balkans. The two of us had hit it off splendidly, through shared views on military matters and a fondness for the arts. Edward Palmer was now rather high up in MI6, doing what exactly I didn’t particularly care. My mood was rather grim. After the tedious security I was ushered into his office in that modernist pile overlooking the river at Vauxhall.

  Edward’s office looked out on the river. It was dominated by a large mahogany desk, which seemed rather incongruous in such modern surroundings. He rose from behind his desk as I entered, we shook hands and he bade me sit down. He was in his early fifties. He had dark hair and blue eyes, a military bearing and a kindly face. Edward wore an old Saville Row suit which looked none the worse for its age and spoke of his family lineage.

  “It’s unfortunate that we should have to meet under these circumstances,” Edward began sympathetically.

  “Yes”, I said under my breath, “You’ve presumably called me here because you have something else you want to tell me.”

  “We believe that your friend was killed by former KGB or Russian gangsters or quite possibly both as they’re often indistinguishable”, he began, “Did you know what Sinclair was doing in Russia?”

  “As far as I know he was on business, that’s what he told me last night on the phone.”

  “You know nothing more that?”

  I shook my head, and told him of the phone call I had received the previous evening.

  Edward continued, “I’m afraid that from our information he’s the type of man that would sell anything to anyone if the price was right. Without wishing to be insensitive about it I’m surprised that chaps like Sinclair aren’t killed everyday.”

  “Indeed,” I sighed rather in resignation than anger.

  Edward resumed, “Sinclair’s firm is Carrington Bendick Holdings otherwise known as CB Holdings; it’s registered in the Cayman Islands. Andrew Sinclair had two partners David Solomon and Matthew Bonham-Carter. We first became aware of CB Holdings when we heard the name mentioned in conversations we intercepted at GCHQ and from one of our agents in Russia. Since then we have had them under surveillance - that was only about six weeks ago. In that time we’ve managed to discern that CB Holdings have been doing rather a lot of business with our Russian friends - in particular high specification electronics, machine parts and certain chemicals.

  “What type of chemicals exactly?” I asked intrigued.

  Edward took in a deep breath and sighed in vexation, “We don’t know. That’s what’s causing us most concern. There’s a requirement for export licenses in such cases; it’s Her Majesty’s government’s way of keeping track of “sensitive” exports that we’d rather not have sold to unfriendly countries. I can tell you now that much of what they’ve sold required an export licence, but were exported without one. There are invariably middlemen who act for the customer, as much as to conceal their identity if nothing else. There is a good chance that Sinclair and his partners didn’t know for whom these exports are ultimately intended. Also closing down the operation would have alerted the end user whom we naturally wish to discover.”

  “By not getting export licences are you assuming they were trying to conceal these exports, or can we give them the benefit of the doubt?” I conjectured.

  Edward looked at me sharply as if in reproach and then as if he thought better of it continued, “I find it inconceivable that they were negligent. I am firmly of the opinion that they tried to conceal these exports from her Majesty’s government, because they knew or strongly suspected that they would not be approved. Sinclair and his partners must have charged a premium, as they were running the risk of going to prison….otherwise what incentive would they have had for running such risks? And as just as much concern to me is that someone was willing to pay that premium.”

  “My concern is having Andrew’s murderers brought to justice. I don’t give a damn what you do with this CB Holdings outfit. What have the Moscow police said?” I asked bitterly.

  At this point Edward moved uncomfortably in his chair, “According to the Moscow police, Andrew was killed in a road traffic accident - run over by a car.”

  “What!” I shouted jumping out of my seat and resting my knuckles on the desk as I looked down on Edward, “You surely can’t believe that!” I pleaded.

  Edward raised his right hand and gestured for me to sit.

  “Please calm yourself Tarquin. You’d be right to think little of us if we did believe such fiction. We have no doubt that Sinclair was murdered. Death was by strangulation and then it appears his corpse was run over, presumably in order to make it appear an accident.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. You’ve just told me that he was strangled first,” I queried.

  “Yes you’re quite right it doesn’t make sense. Let me explain,” he began, “Based on past form the official cause of death will be that his death was an accident. This is regardless of what the actual cause of death is discovered to be in the post mortem, or whatever passes for a post mortem. One of our people has seen the body. The doctor who examined him has intimated as much to our man there. Such methods of cover up are not entirely unknown to us in Russia.....what with criminals, ex KGB types and official corruption.”

  “How can you know so much already? He’s been dead for less than 24 hours?” I challenged.

  “Our embassy has a budget set aside. Baksheesh you might call it. It helps to loosen tongues and opens doors,” Edward advised.

  “So his murderers are going to get away with it?”

  “Quite possibly,” he replied embarrassed.

  I felt utterly impotent with rage. I got up and walked slowly over to the window and looked out on the river. Tears welled up in my eyes such was my indignation.

  I heard the legs of Edward’s chair scrape against the floor as he rose and walked over to me and in a calm consoling voice said, “Our government is keen not to upset the Russians. They have us over a barrel with their energy resources and relations with them are already rather fraught. Our agents in Russia, what few there are, are either under surveillance and thus compromised or busy with other work. Our resources are overstretched, particularly with these Muslims running around. I’m sorry Tarquin.”

  Edward placed a kindly hand on my left shoulder. I composed myself and turned away fr
om the window to face him.

  “You still need to find where those exports are ending up and I need to find Andrew’s killers,” I said grimly.

  “But why do you care so much? Let it go Tarquin,” he implored.

  “You forget – he saved my life!” I retorted icily, “Others might have forgotten such as debt – but not me.”

  “You can’t mean going to Russia?” he asked incredulous.

  A steely determination had possessed me as I stood by that window comprehending everything I had just heard. Edward’s face was one of initial shock.

  “Tell me what I have to do,” I hissed with deliberation and purpose.

  He sighed in acquiescence.

  CHAPTER 4 – A SCHOLAR AND A SOIREE.

  Had I lost my senses in a fit of bravado? Well no matter. I was going to Russia and I would face whatever befell me with stoicism. There was no turning back now. I had never been to the benighted country before, what little I knew of it only filled me with dread. Just then the Captain came on the address system and announced that we would soon be landing in Moscow. I looked out of the window at the bleak landscape.

  Just then a stewardess was passing down the aisle. I caught her eye.

  “A dry Martini please.”

  “Vodka?”

  “Naturally,” I replied.

  Edward had arranged for me to meet some fellow by the name of Guy Worthington the next day. I got the impression that he was formerly in Intelligence and Undercover Ops, although Edward had been rather vague. I gulped down the martini in one and felt the better for it. I fastened my seat belt and waited for what could be a bumpy ride – Russia.