The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  “I am Mikhail, show me the photograph.”

  The bar staff holds out a black and white photograph of Mikhail, taken from a long lens. Mystified at this Mikhail nods his head, his hand already inside his jacket pocket wrapped around his Glock 19, confirming to himself and the bar staff that we both agree he looks like the ‘geezer.’

  “Well mister, a man came today, gave me this photograph, told me when you come and only you, I’m to tell you your date is waiting at the ‘British Arms,’ it is just around the corner. he gave me a fifty for my trouble.”

  Wasting no time Mikhail snaps the photo out of the man’s hand brushes him to the side and makes a hasty exit heading now to this British Arms bar. No time to recce the place, Mikhail is troubled at this, his skillset, however, will ensure he adapts to the pressure and his paranoia can only feed his human instinct finding threats where others would not. Anyway, calling off the meet would look too suspicious, guilt would be viewed as the only reason. This is the worst-case situation for Mikhail, walking briskly past the inconsiderate pedestrians shoving their umbrellas from his face he mouths to himself, ‘Be cool Mikhail, be cool.’

  Getting drenched in the rain is the least of his concerns, reaching the Bar he takes a sly glimpse of the surrounding area and walks into the unknown.

  This bar is much more Cockney in nature, a handful of men sit at the well-worn bar staring in silence hanging over their warm pints, two men are playing pool and a couple more are at the dartboard. A group of workmen are seated around a table watching the dog racing on the flatscreen above the bar while the single barmaid plays off advances from a couple of Chelsea supporters drinking flat-looking pints of Carlsberg.

  Kolmogorov is easier to spot in this bar, the beast of a man sitting at a booth in the far corner, facing both the exit and men’s room, he exerts an air of manliness and strength. A large group of football hooligans in the pub would still be wary of this man, the thick neck and huge forearm would keep the skinny British yobbos at bay, even when Kolmogorov smiles, he looks threatening.

  Standing to greet Mikhail with a powerful handshake he immediately sits back down and slides inward to the edge of the bench. Mikhail notices this is allowing him to peer out the only clear piece of stained-glass window offering a covered view of the street.

  Mikhail opens the conversation slowly, “Is the situation that bad? You look like a man on the run.”

  “Sorry I gave you the runaround, I wanted to make sure you don’t have a tail on your back, it took me over an hour to get here shaking a team off mine,” Kolmogorov keeps his response short and sweet.

  “From whom, the Kremlin? I have all my fees paid, I calculated the percentages and wired what needed to be wired, why should we be worried?” Mikhail is thinking back to the meet he had on the yacht. He was sure his counter-surveillance was on spot, could Kolmogorov be digging something!

  “The Kremlin was minding their own business, it’s the Brits, they have been asking difficult questions to their counterparts in Znamenka, let me get you a drink,” Kolmogorov waves to the young barmaid, giving her a moment of relief away from the drunks.

  “Two pints of Carlsberg love and a couple of packets of salted peanuts,” drinking like the locals to blend in he returns his attention to Mikhail, allowing him these few seconds to process his lies.

  “Forgive me for asking, but the Znamenka is where the general staff building for our Ministry of Defence is located, why the hell are the Brits asking our armed forces about us? if that’s what you are saying!”

  Kolmogorov nods, “That’s exactly what I was warned about in Moscow, they think Trevor or someone else is playing us, let me ask you something, have you been approached by anyone? anyone at all that you may have disregarded as trivial?”

  With a hushed but harsh tone, Mikhail stares down Kolmogorov, “How dare you, how long have we known each other? you drag me down here in the middle of London to point the finger at me! Мудак!”

  “I’m not pointing the finger, I asked myself the very same question, I have been replaying the last few weeks and months over my head, thinking of anyone out of the ordinary. We all agreed to lay low and focus on this work with Trevor and René, I just don’t know why now? why have the Brits been asking questions when Trevor has been keeping a lid on everything?”

  Calming down again Mikhail moves the attention further away, “Could be Americans, they don’t like shit happening without having a say, they don’t like the Brits, the French and Russians working together, especially us.”

  Kolmogorov waits for the barmaid to disappear after dropping off the sad-looking pints of beer and a couple of bags of nuts. “Trevor spoke to me yesterday, his contact in the CIA, one of the directors of the staff operations officers advised him there are no investigations of any sort on him or his activities, that includes us. If there was, he would have them sideline all work and reward them with other dark secrets held by the British government.”

  Shrugging his shoulders Mikhail sits back and waits for Kolmogorov to speak again.

  “Have you spoke to René lately? Someone has taken money from one of the vaults, that is what I have been hearing. Trevor is fuming, this team of men he is hunting down are closing up shop, travelling through Europe and moving the money, our money, Russian money!”

  Again, Mikhail keeps a blank face and remains silent, looking around the bar, no one inside looks like they could handle themselves, no signs of any hitmen. The only hitman he can see is drinking a Carlsberg right in front of him. His Glock 19 feels heavy in his jacket pocket. Mikhail’s heart starts to pump blood quicker around his body, knowing what he must do, it is inevitable, he must strike first to save his own life. He will quite gladly reduce the weight of this firearm by firing off a couple of rounds into Kolmogorov’s thick gorilla-like skull.

  Mikhail, like many of the mobsters and self-achievers, has his own plan regarding the Russian money, and it certainly does not involve Kolmogorov, René, or Trevor. The Maltese are going to provide him with a new identity and the yacht on which he visited with the mercenary for hire and old friend Jean-Baptiste, who for a reasonable sum will deliver him safely to the port of Valletta.

  Now to turn his carefully crafted plan into concrete action. ‘Looks like today marks the beginning of the plan’, Mikhail tells himself, he quickly reorganises the next few seconds carefully in his mind.

  “Ok,” Mikhail begins, “What about pulling René and Trevor in and having a word, let us hear what they both have to say? We need answers Kolmogorov, otherwise, we sit around tables with paranoid heads. Can you call René and organise it, get him on a flight to London?”

  “Possibly, you are right, we need clear heads, I’ll try and reach him now,” removing a phone from his jacket pocket Kolmogorov slowly goes through his contact list.

  Mikhail takes a drink from his pint and screws up his face, “this is dirty drain water this stuff,” he rises from his seat, “I need a piss.” He then makes his way across the room, his footsteps making a heavy sound on the thin worn out carpet stained from years of spilt beer.

  Kolmogorov casually reaches into his pocket and removes another phone, waiting for the Bluetooth connection he rises to his feet.

  Entering the cubicle Mikhail knows he must be quick, removing the Glock from his jacket pocket he checks the magazine and flips the safety mechanism, he holds it between his left arm and chest inside his jacket for a quicker draw. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the door handle.

  Before a deafening bang could be heard Mikhail was suddenly rocketed across the dirty London barroom toilet. Nitrogen and carbon oxides expanded at twenty-six thousand feet per second, Mikhail’s head had been split open his bones shattered against the urine-soaked bathroom urinal killing him instantly while the roof exploded upwards in a vacuum before being sucked down to equalise the pressure. Covering Mikhail’s bloodied and smashed corpse with bricks, plaster, roof tiles, urine, and faeces from the sewage system.

  Cyclotrimet
hylenetrinitramine was the explosive component in the Iranian manufactured C4 which Kolmogorov used to make the IED only an hour before. Planning to target a lightly occupied bar aiming for the least amount of causalities, he had only minutes to fix his bomb in place and make it somewhat hidden. Knowing Mikhail would use the bathroom to prepare his ambush otherwise it could have been a shootout in the public bar.

  Kolmogorov had only stepped out into the wet street when the Bluetooth connection was made setting off the detonator. Sealing Mikhail’s fate, Trevor would no doubt see this on the news, one down.

  The blast was unexpected, Jean-Baptiste knew two men walked inside and only one would walk out again. The other would be carried out in a body bag. From his position following Mikhail and providing surveillance, he did not think this is where they planned to kill him. He figured Mikhail would be taken somewhere for interrogation, from there Jean-Baptiste could wipe out the team and free his old friend.

  There would be no mourning, another soul has simply passed through his life, plans change and his was changing rapidly. Listening to the communication received from Mikhail’s hidden microphone, before he was blown apart, he picked up enough information to alter what was required. He wanted to follow Kolmogorov, being aware of the counter-surveillance training the Russian would have received. He holds back, a message blinks on his phone, time for action in another part of town.

  NINETEEN

  Somerset, England

  Back in Frank’s country home Arthur is waiting on his breakfast to pop from the toaster, eggs already cooked, and a fresh pot of tea awaits him on the antique English oak table in the dining room off the kitchen. He already wasted about thirty minutes looking around the windswept grounds for big Robert, he hoped to catch him grazing somewhere on the fresh dew-covered grass through a set of binoculars. To no avail he sits down with his toast and laptop then clicks the link on his homepage to the Telegraph’s news website. The headlines detail an explosion in a London pub, just off Soho, all the usual commentators are pointing to Islamic extremists, with a few smaller groups already claiming responsibility. The response crew recovered four bodies.

  He scrolls through other headlines and then with no more time to waste he swivels around to his military encrypted laptop to continue his progress into the who is who of corrupt spies and mercenaries.

  Finding information late last night on Émilie the French spy, Arthur is working on the details of all her contacts connected to a ruthless Albanian gangster. The boss, the Krye, named Muji, together with his underboss sidekick the huge man-mountain Skënder, these men have deep connections and appear to, from what Arthur can find, have been given the green light from DGSE to operate their business in repayment for ‘sensitive services’. Hailing from Shkodër the Xhakja clan is one of the toughest of the Albanian mafia, even the Russians and Islamists do not want anything to do with them. Arthur needs to ensure Jack and the boys understand that perhaps the French cannot be a safe country for them, the connections between these odd pair run right to the top.

  The information he had received on Émilie, with thanks to his old university roommate now working to the NSA in Fort Meade, describes her as a talented intelligence officer who skirts on the edge of risk and adventure. An IQ of over 120, a lady of immense beauty, confidence and unnerved by her actions leading to a long list of assassinations. Many of which she carried out on her own volition, single-handed and without fear or remorse.

  Intrigued by this woman Arthur thinks how he would love to meet her, on this cold, wet and windy morning in the English countryside he visualises what he would do with Émilie in front of an open fire. With his finger on the screen, he traces slowly along her cheek line stopping on her lips. Suddenly the doorbell buzzes giving him a fright, knocking him out of his sensual imagination. He wonders, with a degree of annoyance, which of the ground keepers employed to maintain the property needs Franks advice on something trivial and why come around the front of the property. Uploading the last of the files to the draft folder for the boys to check over he walks to the front door past the drawing room and office, and out into the porch. He is too far away to recognise the sharp sound of cracking glass at the rear of the house.

  “Good morning young Arthur how are you this wet and damp morning?”

  Shocked at the sight of Trevor standing on the doorstep Arthur quickly slams the door shut and runs back into the house, there is a panic alarm button in each room, as he reaches the office he catches a glimpse of a masked man running down the corridor. Splinters of timber explode around him as the rounds smash into the door jam, narrowly missing him. The feeling Arthur is experiencing is unreal, like a slow dream. The suppressor on the firearm removes the noise of the heavy gunfire, changing the sounds to something similar as clicks on a mouse.

  Slamming his hand on the panic button was all he could do, unarmed and untrained in close-quarter combat, he dived from behind the desk in the office, where he and Frank stood only a couple of days before looking out at big Robert, crashing through the plate glass window out into the rose bushes surrounding the house. Adrenaline pumping through his body from the thought of near-death he rolls off the thorns and into a crouch. Like an injured alley cat, he sprints off blindly away from its predator. Finding himself coming up to the barn at the rear of the property he swings right onto the large paddock. Knowing the hitman will be coming back out the rear of the house he tucks his head down and runs with all his energy. With sheer dreed he can hear the horrid shots of gunfire behind him, the sound of the projectiles crack as they pass close by spurs him to run faster. He must have run three hundred meters through the open gates and down the tractor tracks. Running out of lungs and with his heavy legs fighting against him he spins his head around briefly. It was all clear, no one was following him, walking backwards, he retrieved a phone from his pocket then hit the dial button for Jack. Looking up and scanning the property, the call is connected, he speaks hurriedly with a sound of panic in his voice, “Jack, Jack I’m at the property, Trevor…”

  ***

  Freiburg im Breisgau, Germany

  Jack in the car with Ben and Sam listened until he heard ‘Trevor,’ that was the last word spoken, the unmistakable sound of a blood-filled windpipe ended the conversation. The sounds of a hitman could be heard tramping through the wet ground, arriving closer to Arthur the men could make out Trevor’s voice in the background, the sound of gunshots rang out before the phone went dead. Those shots would have sealed the fate of their good friend. Screaming at the thought of Arthur taking rounds meant for them was too much for Jack. “Coward Bastard,” he shouted to no one, the others in the car knew exactly what had happened. With boiling blood, the men knew they had to put an end to this. Trevor would not stop there; their families would be next. Jack thumped the top of the steering wheel with his fist. Driving around Germany they all knew where they needed to be. Back in England, “We need to take this war home boys.”

  “I’m with you brother”, said Ben through gritted teeth.

  Sam, with a cool head, spoke quickly, “What will we do about Gordon?”

  Jack in the moment of anguish forgot about Gordon.

  “He is driving towards us with a car full of money, weapons and a dead body,” Sam added.

  “Ok, Sam and I will head back to England to take care of Trevor, the scumbag, Ben you will stay and meet up with Gordon, organise for Mark’s body to be flown back to the UK. Then stash the money in the farm, retrieve all the rest from storage, and think of something to help, because my head is spinning everywhere.”

  Jack takes a deep breath and adjusts his hip, taking the pressure from the area he received the knife wound days ago, he wonders if he will get a chance to get his payback.

  Sam speaks again, “Lucky for Frank, best to keep him out of England for the time being.”

  “Good point, yes, check in with him later Ben, make sure he is behaving and not getting involved too much, I don’t want him back there just yet. Ok, Sam, we will fly
from Zurich, it is over an hour away from our position now. Ben, you drop us off then get Gordon to meet you at the Liebfrauenkirche, the huge church on Weinbergstrasse, you can’t miss it, we have friendlies there who will assist you.”

  ***

  Somerset, England

  Laying crumpled on the cold and wet grass, Arthur was drowning in his own blood, the only sounds were from the gurgling in his throat and the sounds of chirping birds who have returned to the treetops. The dying spy, the friend, the young intelligent man who had his whole life ahead of him was not even aware of the man standing over him.

  About thirty seconds must have passed by, maybe minutes, or maybe Arthur was already dead. In front of him, only five meters away was Robert, the huge red deer standing silently, staring, quietly staring, in the distance, he could see a young boy playing. A young boy oblivious to the carnage and mayhem, dressed in long shorts and a tee-shirt running through the long grass. The longer he looked at the boy he realised he was looking at himself, as he watched himself playing, innocent in his childhood, darkness slowly covered him.

  The silence lasted for only a short while, the birds lifted suddenly from their nesting places once more as another shot rang out, followed by another. Trevor had joined the hitman, who was now doubled over holding his stomach, two gunshot wounds, one in the stomach the other in his chest. “Sorry about this Ivan, you know how it is.”

  Trevor calmly searched Arthurs body. The mobile phone was removed from his limp grip and switched off then he was left alone in the English countryside to bleed out the last few minutes of life.