PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  The guard panned the camera out and switched to another view, looking for his partner who was patrolling the grounds. He spotted the other guard by the boat sheds at the back of the property. Dostiger was fastidious with his security and every square inch of the property was closely monitored by cameras and patrols. If he had been at home, no less than ten heavily armed men would be on duty, but tonight Dostiger had taken most of the men with him to the club. Only two guards remained to secure the house in his absence.

  Methodically the guard continued flicking through the camera feeds being streamed from the grounds. He paused on an image of one of the bedrooms shown from a hidden camera. The field of view didn’t quite extend to the smaller bedroom next door that was currently occupied by a lovely Russian model. So far the guard had only caught a glimpse of her sultry curves but it didn’t stop him from constantly checking the feed.

  The guard switched back to the view covering the front of the gate, looking for the drunk. Panning the camera back and forth, he wondered if the wretch was in one of the blind spots.

  Without warning there was a loud thump. The guard glanced up from the video screen and was startled to see the dirty face of the drunkard peering at him through the bulletproof glass. The drunken bum smeared his face against the window, flailing at it with an empty bottle. Rising from his chair, the guard grabbed his jacket and a baton from the desk. On his way out he pressed the release button for the heavy iron gate, opening it a few feet.

  His feet crunched on the gravel as he walked across to the gap in the gate, slapping the baton into the palm of his gloved hand. He cautiously squeezed through the opening and paused, looking around until he saw the man, passed out at the bottom of the guard box.

  “Hey! Get up!” The guard strode over and gave the bum a swift kick. With a groan, he mumbled something incoherent and proceeded to vomit onto the sidewalk.

  “Ah, fuck!” The guard leapt backwards to avoid the splash of acidic green liquid. The stench was overpowering and he dry retched. He watched the homeless guy struggle to his feet and wipe the vomit from his mouth. As the man stumbled forward, the guard held out his baton in an effort to keep the vagrant at arms’ length. It was one of the last things he would remember. The bum caught the stick under his arm, grabbing it firmly with his left hand. His right fist flashed around in a well-timed hook as he pulled Dostiger’s man in close. The lead-packed Kevlar glove caught the guard on the temple, his eyes rolled back and he crumpled in a heap.

  “Very nice, Kurtz.” Pavel appeared from the shadows wearing a copy of the unconscious guard’s uniform. He knelt next to the man, pushing a stimpack up against his neck, and a shot of compressed air pushed microscopic particles of a sedative through his skin. The guard would stay under for at least twenty minutes and then awaken with a splitting headache. The two men grabbed the arms and legs of the guard and carried him through the open gate. Kurtz used the guard’s keys to open the security door and they dumped the body unceremoniously on the floor.

  Pavel sat at the guard’s computer and inserted a USB key into the terminal. A custom program on the device immediately bypassed the surveillance system’s security measures giving the Russian unrestricted access. Now he could manipulate the video footage, removing any trace of their activities. He could also control the alarms, switch off the internal motion sensors and keep tabs on the movement of Dostiger’s second guard.

  “Kurtz, can you hear me?” Pavel transmitted into the radio mike attached to his collar.

  “Ja, loud and clear,” the German responded. He had already left the guard box and was halfway to the house, using the shadows of the trees to avoid the floodlit lawns. Even though there was only one guard, he remained cautious.

  Pavel flicked through the screens at the computer terminal until he found the master floor plan. “Kurtz, I’ve located what looks like Dostiger’s office. It’s on the second floor. You need to enter through the western side door and use the staircase just inside on the right.”

  Kurtz hit the radio switch in his sleeve, “Acknowledged. Where is the other guard?”

  “Still down by the river, comrade. We should have about ten minutes.”

  “Gut, I will be in and out in seven.”

  Chapter 41

  Dostiger’s Residence

  The former German counter-terrorist officer paused at the edge of the perfectly manicured lawns. There were no flowers or hedges, the garden was all trees and perfectly trimmed grass. He would have preferred a little more cover, even with Pavel on overwatch with the cameras.

  Kurtz identified the side door and sprinted across the lawn. He crouched next to the entrance and pulled out the keys he had taken from the guard. Taking a deep breath, he drew a suppressed pistol from inside his jacket and grasped the door handle firmly. It turned slightly, unlocked. He gently pushed the door open and slid inside.

  The lighting in the stately manor was soft and the long wood-paneled hallway was decorated with expensive artwork and antique furniture. He padded down the corridor until he reached the hardwood staircase. With trepidation he eased his weight on to the ancient stairs. There was no creak; they were as solid as the day they were made. He gently crept up the stairs and onto the landing on the second floor. At the top he paused, looking up at the small camera pointing down the corridor.

  “Pavel, anyone on the top floor?” he whispered softly.

  “Nyet, it’s possible that someone is in the bedroom to your right, but the lights are off. I can’t see anything. Dostiger’s office is the second on the right.”

  He crept down the hall, past the bedroom, stopping in front of the heavy wooden door that protected the arms dealers’ private study. The lock was complex, a Medeco Cam lock, all but impossible for the average thief to pick, but Kurtz wasn’t your average thief. He pulled a small device from his pocket and inserted the tiny probe into the lock. A sensor scanned the inside of the tumbler and the universal key on the other end of the device used hundreds of tiny threads of titanium to replicate the key. It took Kurtz fifteen seconds to open it.

  “Very slick, my German friend, but you still set off no less than three sensors: one motion, one heat and one weight in floor.” Pavel was shutting the alarms down as they occurred, removing the events from the security system’s electronic log.

  “Herr Dostiger takes this all very seriously, ja,” Kurtz whispered. “Where’s the other guard?”

  “Still down by the boat sheds. He’s smoking now; you have time.”

  Dostiger’s study reflected a man obsessed with the instruments of war. The room’s oak-paneled walls were lined with antique weaponry, everything from a Japanese samurai sword to a battered Winchester lever-action rifle. Not a book in sight. Clearly Dostiger wasn’t academic.

  In the middle of the room was a sturdy old desk that looked like it would be more at home in the Captain’s cabin of an 18th century warship. On the desk was a laptop plugged into the wall via a clean power filter. Kurtz already knew that the computer was not connected to the Internet. Dostiger was obsessive with his security and there was no way anyone could hack into his files remotely.

  Kurtz placed his pistol on the desk and spun the computer around. He didn’t want to sit in case he left some of his homeless odor on the chair. He opened the screen and it immediately requested a password. Kurtz took a device that looked like a mobile phone from his pocket and plugged it into the computer’s USB port. A red light on the device blinked for a few seconds, then turned green. Bishop had shown Kurtz how to use the sophisticated device and right now, as he understood it, a technician at MI6 HQ in London was sorting through Dostiger’s files, removing anything of interest. Kurtz watched the device in earnest; he had been promised that it would only take a minute or two. Finally the light blinked, turned yellow, and he removed the device, putting it back in his pocket. He slid the laptop back into its original position and picked up his pistol.

  “All clear, Pavel?” he whispered into his mike.

  “You
have a couple of minutes. The guard is moving back to the house.”

  Kurtz left the room and closed the door with a gentle click. As he moved towards the staircase, the bedroom door in front of him began to open. He had nowhere to go. He brought his pistol up. With the other hand he fished in his jacket pocket for a stimpack. The door opened fully. Standing before him was a gorgeous woman clad only in her satin slip, the soft fabric barely containing her full breasts. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the weapon.

  His radio interrupted. “Damn! I am sorry, comrade.”

  Kurtz wordlessly stepped forward, pushing the girl back into her room with the barrel of his pistol, flicking on the light as he entered. “English?” he asked.

  “A little,” she replied softly. Her sensual lips looked so inviting.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. You need to get back into bed.” He lowered the pistol.

  “Yes, OK,” she said drowsily, moving back to the bed.

  Kurtz watched her climb under the silk sheets. She didn’t seem too afraid. Kurtz assumed, as the mistress of an arms dealer, she was probably used to aggressive behavior. He dropped the stimpack into the palm of his hand and tucked the pistol inside his jacket.

  “Close your eyes.”

  She did as she was told.

  He lingered a second, disarmed by her beauty.

  “You need to hurry, Kurtz.” Pavel’s Russian accent interrupted his thoughts. He placed the stimpack next to her neck. Her eyes flashed open at the feel of the plastic. With a small pop he delivered enough sedative to knock her out for at least an hour.

  She looked at him for a split second, then her pretty grey eyes closed.

  “I hope we meet again in better circumstances,” Kurtz whispered as he turned off the light and slipped out of the room.

  He hurried down the stairs and bolted out the side door, coming to a crouch in the shadow of a large tree, the pistol back in his hand. Seconds later the guard turned the corner of the mansion and walked towards the same door he had just exited. Kurtz caught his breath as the guard stopped, looking around. It seemed the man was staring into the shadows straight at him. A few seconds passed before the guard lit a cigarette and continued walking around the yard.

  Kurtz raced back along the other side of the yard to the guardhouse. He didn’t look happy as he helped Pavel move the body of the other security guard. “She’s going to wake up in an hour and then we’re blown. We need to warn the boss.”

  “I’ve already messaged him. Did we get what we need?”

  “I think so. The device worked like he said it would.”

  They dumped the unconscious guard back at the camera’s blind spot in front of the guardhouse. When Dostiger’s man awoke in a few minutes, Kurtz didn’t think he would be quick to admit to anyone that a homeless wretch had knocked him out with one punch. If the guard went back to check the cameras, there would be nothing to make him think any differently. Apart from the initial approach, Pavel had removed all trace of their break-in on the CCTV system and spliced in older video footage to cover Kurtz’s movement through the residence. The perfectly executed break and enter should have been completed without trace, but the unexpected presence of Dostiger’s woman had ruined that.

  On cue, the white Mercedes van drove up and both men jumped in through the sliding door. Pavel looked at his watch; he had timed the cameras to start recording new footage two minutes after they left. They still had thirty seconds.

  Five minutes later the guard moaned, showing the first sign of life since he was knocked out. He sat up, rubbing the side of his head, still dazed, then lurched to his feet, checking the keys in his pocket. He ran straight to the back of the guard box, frantically looking around. Everything seemed the same. He logged into the security system and ran a quick check over the log, the alarms, the surveillance camera footage, and wound back the gate feed. No one had come through the open gate during the twenty minutes he was absent. The guard sat back in his chair, his heart rate slowly returning to normal.

  Chapter 42

  Club Kyiv

  Bishop had just finished his whisky when the double doors of Dostiger’s office opened and another muscle-bound henchman gestured for him to enter. He wondered if somewhere in Kiev there was a factory turning out the big bastards. The room was empty except for the security guard who positioned himself just inside the doorway, leaving Bishop the opportunity to acquaint himself with the lavish space.

  The office was remarkable. The most impressive feature was the silence. Despite huge one-way mirrors that overlooked the dance floor, only a few meters below, you couldn’t hear the music. Bishop looked down through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the throng of bodies dancing amongst the flashing lights.

  The furnishings in the office were similar to the waiting room, except on a grander scale, contrasting with the modern décor of the main nightclub area. Dostiger’s desk was an impressive, engraved hardwood antique, giving a clear message to visitors that the man they were dealing with had serious influence and money. The rear wall opposite the glass window was covered in weaponry. Swords, maces, crossbows and a plethora of primitive tools of death were fixed to the wall. Bishop’s eyes were immediately drawn towards the middle of this antique arsenal where a single modern weapon was mounted.

  He moved closer to inspect what looked like a SA-18 missile launcher. As he ran his hands down the empty fibreglass tube, his blood ran cold. He wondered if this could be the weapon that killed his parents. His hand started to tremble and he dropped it to his side, sliding it into his pocket.

  “One of my best selling products.” The harsh Ukrainian accent startled Bishop. “In the past ten years I have sold more of them than any other weapon.”

  Bishop looked over the two men who had quietly entered the office through a concealed side door. One was yet another guard; the other had to be Dostiger. He was smaller but exuded a far more intimidating presence. Dressed in an expensive suit and leaning on a polished wooden cane, it was his battered and scarred face that drew attention. Bishop stared at the arms dealer, suppressing the urge to leap over and snap the man's neck. Dostiger gave him a questioning look. “Is something wrong, Mr Fischer?”

  “Ah no, I was just admiring your collection.”

  “Do you like weapons?” Dostiger asked.

  He would have been a physically impressive man once: not tall, but well built. A hard life had obviously taken its toll and he walked stiffly, with a slight limp.

  Bishop guessed his age to be close to sixty. “No, not really. Don’t get me wrong, Mr...?” Bishop extended his hand, trying hard to hold it steady.

  Dostiger ignored the gesture and the question. “A pity, Mr Fischer, a man’s choice of weapon tells much about him.” He directed attention to a heavy broadsword fastened to the wall. “The man that owned this sword, a Frenchman, believed it the only weapon worthy of his hand. He died with a peasant’s arrow in his chest.”

  “The battle of Agincourt?” Bishop maintained his British accent. “By my recollection of history, and I apologize if I am wrong, but didn’t the French knights die as a result of their own arrogance.”

  “Correct, Mr Fischer. There may be more to you than I first thought.” Dostiger pointed towards a pair of sumptuous velvet chairs. “Please. Sit.”

  The concealed door opened again and one of Dostiger’s scantily clad women deposited two tumblers of whisky on the low table in front of them.

  “I did notice you like whisky, Mr Fischer.”

  “Indeed, and let me say your own taste is exquisite.” Bishop took a quick drink, hoping the alcohol would steady his hand.

  “One of a few things that eases the pain in my leg.” Dostiger picked up the other glass. “So Mr Fischer, we cut to business, yes? My man tells me you want to buy attack helicopters.”

  “That’s correct. The company I represent is looking to acquire four aircraft and an extensive support package.”

  “And what company is that, Mr Fischer?”

&n
bsp; “They would prefer to remain anonymous at this stage. Once we’ve formalised a transaction, then I will be able to disclose their identity.”

  “My business is one built on trust...” he paused, looking up from his glass, “and without it, you and I, we have no business.” Dostiger’s emotionless gaze was penetrating. Bishop found it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact.

  The PRIMAL operative swirled the scotch and casually sipped from the glass. “This is true, but the fact is you know far more about me than I know about you.”

  Dostiger laughed, causing Bishop to shiver. It sounded almost manic. “You’re not stupid, Mr Fischer. This I like,” he lowered his voice, his look intensifying, “but in this game, often things are not as they first seem.”

  Before Bishop could reply, Dostiger’s guard walked over and whispered into his master’s ear. The arms dealer frowned and placed his glass on the table.

  “I am sorry, Mr Fischer. Something has come up that I must deal with.” He rose stiffly from his chair. “Please, make yourself at home. This should only take a few minutes.”

  Bishop felt a cold chill come over him as Dostiger limped through his concealed door. The phone in his pocket vibrated. He checked Kurtz’s message quickly: