by Alex Shaw
Sergey closed his eyes and ran through the plan in his head. By the time he arrived at Lancing it would be dusk. He would make his way down to the beach via the target. As he passed the target he would be partly hidden by the failing light and workers returning home, so would perform a quick close target recce, choosing a place to lie up later. On the beach he would await darkness and hope that no one would use the beach on a dark October night. At two a.m. he would put on the oil skins and move from the beach to his chosen lying up position and await the target.
At the next stop a young mother and daughter sat opposite him. The mother busied herself with reading a magazine whilst the little girl stared directly at him with a serious face.
*
Crawley, West Sussex, UK
“Da. For sure.” Arkadi Cheban negotiated the roundabout with one hand. “I make drop off in thirty minutes.”
Business had been good for Cheban; including the meet with the American the day before, he had made two drops this month. He exited the roundabout and immediately had to swerve to avoid a learner driver who had taken the corner too wide and half mounted the opposite curb. He swore in his native Moldovan. The instructor held her hand up and smiled cheerily whilst the spotty teenager wrestled with the gear stick. Cheban gave the instructor a one-fingered salute in return and accelerated hard up the road.
“Here comes another punter,” P.C. Wilks aimed the speed gun. “Forty-eight point seven, Geoff. Stop him?”
P.C. Thorpe nodded; it had been a slow morning. “Go on then Rodge.”
Wilks climbed back into the patrol car and Thorpe entered the flow of traffic after the speeding Vectra.
Cheban saw blue flashing lights in his mirror and his heart almost stopped. He immediately dropped the phone leaving his contact talking to himself. He could not be stopped, not now with his consignment hidden in the boot. He assessed the road ahead. The traffic lights had turned red. He indicated left and pulled over. The police Astra came to a halt behind him, the passenger door opened, a police constable stepped out and walked towards his driver’s side window. Back in the patrol car Thorpe, as per usual, accessed the DVLA database to check if the vehicle had been reported stolen. Reaching the Vectra Wilks peered through the open window.
“Good afternoon sir.” He adopted his best ‘you’ve been naughty’ face.
Cheban nodded.
“Can you turn the engine off please? Is this your vehicle sir?” He removed his note pad and pen.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to speak to you about a safety issue. Are you aware that you were travelling at 49 mph in a thirty zone?”
Cheban’s hands started to sweat. “Yes officer I am sorry I have to meet a friend and I am late.”
Wilks nodded and listened to the accent, not knowing quite where it was from. “Well that is all ‘well and good’ but 49 mph is a lot faster than thirty sir. There are several schools in this area which is why we must enforce this limit.”
Cheban kept quiet and nodded, a bead of sweat forming on his temple.
“I am going to have to issue you with a fixed penalty ticket for driving in excess of the speed limit. Now if I may take your name Mr –?”
“Trillevich, Igor Trillevich.”
Wilks made a note. “How is that spelt? T… r… i… l…”
“T… r… i… l… l… e… v… i… c… h.” Cheban tried to stay calm.
“Do you have your licence with you, Mr Trillevich?”
Cheban swallowed, “I keep it at home is safer than to keep in car. What if the car gets stolen?”
Wilks smiled. “You never know who is about do you? OK just one moment while I speak to my colleague.” Wilks returned to the Astra.
Cheban lifted the phone and spoke rapidly in Russian before ending the call. In his mirror he could see the two police officers conferring.
“It all checks out, not reported stolen. Registered to a Richard Lewis of Horsham.” Thorpe tapped the screen.
“He said his name was Trillevich.”
“Oh. In that case it doesn’t.” Thorpe squinted at the display.
Cheban wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his t-shirt and his hands on his jeans. It was now or never. He started the engine, put the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The Vectra shot forward tyres squealing, reaching the junction in seconds he swung left through the lights which were again red and entered Newton Road on the Manor Royal trading estate.
“Cheeky bugger!” Thorpe floored his own accelerator and, sirens flashing, followed. A double decker Crawley bus slammed on its breaks and narrowly missed the patrol car.
Cheban sweated profusely as he worked the Vectra up through the gears. Into third and hitting sixty, past the Gatso camera, which flashed obligingly, and the BMW dealership, through a pedestrian crossing and on towards the roundabout. Wilks called for backup and Thorpe fought to keep up with the more powerful car.
“That’s right, right, right at the roundabout.” Thorpe gave a running commentary for his colleagues in order to help locate the chase. The Vectra had increased the gap and was now at the next roundabout joining Crawley Avenue, the M23 slip road. Cheban’s drop off was in Croydon but he would not lead them there so he powered around the roundabout and hit the M23 south. What now? What now? He shouted at himself in Moldovan, mind now fully in ‘panic mode’. Head south and take a turn off, lose yourself in any number of country roads and villages, get to the coast and a boat?
Two miles to the North at Gatwick’s South Terminal a high powered Police Subaru Impretza joined the chase. The advanced police driver eased the cruiser onto the motorway. He was in no doubt that his 155 mph ‘Scuby’ would soon catch the Vectra, especially with the tail back caused by road works at Handcross Hill.
The Astra maxed out at 102 mph and whilst Thorpe cursed his luck at being given a shopping cart to drive, Wilks talked the Impretza into the chase.
In the fast lane, lights flashing other road users aside, Cheban hit 110 mph. His vision became limited to the road ahead as he concentrated on getting as far away as possible. Traffic in his peripheral vision became just a blur as he flew south.
Wilks and Thorpe slowed to 90 mph as the Impretza catapulted past them. The lunchtime traffic pulled to one side and more than one envious sales rep re-evaluated their chosen profession.
Cheban saw the distant blue lights in his mirror and realised that they were getting nearer. He pushed the Vectra’s V6 engine further with the needle now dancing.
The Impretza tore on like a bullet, the advanced police driver, although outwardly concerned for the general motoring public, secretly hoped that he could enjoy this speed for a while more.
Signs cautioned the end of the motorway, further signs signalled the road narrowing to two lanes. Cheban’s lane abruptly disappeared and he swung left in front of a BMW Z4, which had been happily cruising at eighty-five. Down Handcross Hill now and he had to use his breaks, 90 mph – he dared go no faster. Down the dip and up the next crest, right bend and – suka! Cheban saw the queue of traffic stretching ahead and his mind went into overdrive. He slammed on the breaks harder than ever and tried to swing left into a fast approaching ‘B road’. The front wheels fought to bite the asphalt, the combination of torque steer and ABS made the Vectra understeer. Touching the grass verge it lurched sideways, the rear of the car suddenly swung out as two tyres found traction in the mud. Unable to steer, Cheban froze in terror as the vehicle rolled into a ditch. Momentarily he saw earth and sky swap places before the airbags inflated at the moment of impact and his world went black.
Seconds later the Impretza came to a halt in the slow lane, the passenger disembarking and placing a warning triangle on the road. The Astra arrived a minute later, Wilks and Thorpe both keen to see what had happened. The Vectra had come to rest on its driver’s side in the ditch, Wilks could see the driver lolling inside the crumpled wreck against the imploded side window. He was motionless. As the driver of the Impretza called for an ambulance the pa
ssenger was in the ditch trying to get to Cheban. Thorpe inspected the rear of the vehicle, which seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact. He saw the boot that had been ripped open and the contents which had fallen out.
“Bloody hell!” Stunned, he raised his radio to his mouth. “This is Thorpe. Alert the anti-terrorist squad!”
ELEVEN
Lancing, West Sussex, United Kingdom
NewSound UK’s office was situated in Dolphin Close, a crescent shaped cul-de-sac in Lancing business park. A large timber warehouse was placed haphazardly in the next road. The roof of this would have afforded Sergey a grandstand view of the target had it not been too far off to be of any use to his Uzi. This time he was using a CQB weapon designed to inflict the maximum amount of trauma at short range, and not the precision sniper’s rifle he had used on the father.
The driving rain cut down visibility, which was good for him. Sergey lay on the damp concrete under the builder’s truck, his left side leaning against the cold steel of the skip. His dark blue waterproofs kept most of the rain out except for the continuous trickle which worked its way down his cuff, where it mixed with the sweat on his damp skin. Wearing jeans and a heavy pullover under the oilskins, he would change his appearance after the attack and head back to Gatwick Airport. Mark Peters would then return to Vienna and the warmth of his new girlfriend.
Lights started to come on in the timber warehouse as the first workers began to arrive. The business park, however, remained silent. As seven a.m. arrived the sky lightened but the rain did not and continued to pound on the steel of the skip and the bonnet of the builders’ truck parked next to it. Sergey’s view was limited to what he could see directly ahead between the truck and skip and to his right under the vehicle. If anyone approached on foot he would not see them until they were directly on top of him. This included the owner of the truck, who may or may not return. It was not an ideal OP but Sergey was now committed. He put all thoughts of comfort to one side and continued to await his prey.
Dave Ossowski felt none too good. Like most nineteen year olds he had been out drinking the night before. Unlike most nineteen year olds he had had to be up the next day for work. It was not that he minded giving up the occasional Saturday morning; but that Saturday morning came right after Friday night! This Saturday morning, especially, was a bugger. His mum was doing a double shift at the hospital so had wanted the car. Hopefully Bav would give him a lift home; he was usually good like that. Dave pulled the hood of his parka up over his head as he stepped off of the bus and leant forward into the rain.
Bav entered the Shoreham tunnel and briefly lost the radio reception and the rain. His wipers scraped against dry glass briefly before the automatic sensors turned them off. Bav sniffed, he was coming down with a cold. He seemed to have a permanent cold recently. The stress of running the company was affecting his immune system, so his wife, the resident doctor, had told him; he should take Echinacea, vitamin C and zinc. He’d agree as usual but continue to sip his brandy when she’d gone to bed.
Since Jas’s death he’d spent more and more of his time at the office taking charge of everything, from updating data sheets to testing returned aids. Today was the turn of the website, specifically the NewSound news section. He had written a fitting tribute to his dad and now wanted this to be properly added with new photos. Exiting the tunnel the rain beat on the screen until the wipers decided to work once more. In the distance Bav noted that the sea did not look too dark, there were distant patches of blue sky. Perhaps today would not be so bad after all?
Sergey felt rather than saw the first timber shipment arrive. The trucks could appear any time after the transporters had cleared customs at Newhaven and been offloaded. For this reason the warehouse was always staffed. It was now almost eight. Sergey stretched in an attempt to relieve his cramped muscles. In an ideal situation he would have had something to lie on, but then in an ideal situation it would also be dry and there would be no risk of witnesses.
His mind started to repeat over and over the words Bull had told him. How it had been Bav who had carried out Jas’s orders, how the son had complied with the father’s death sentence only after Sergey’s brother had burned, torn and tortured. Inside his overalls Sergey Gorodetski started to sweat heavier as a white rage shook his body. They would pay for his brother’s murder, all of them; the father, the son and the cousin in Pakistan.
Dave heard the car horn over the rain and turned. Bav flashed his lights and drew alongside. “Get in and try not to drip too much on the leather.”
“Cheers Bav.” Dave shut the door.
The headlights of a car cut briefly across the close and brought him back to the present. His mouth dry, his body suddenly stopped screaming at him for warmth and comfort. Sergey readied the Uzi.
Bav handed Dave the factory keys, “No sense in us both getting wet, you open the door and I’ll follow you in.”
Dave rolled his eyes and pulled the hood back up over his head, “Thanks boss.”
Splashing from the reserved parking bay through the puddles Dave reached the entrance porch and reached for the lock. He thrust the key in and turned. He stepped inside and started to punch the code into the alarm key pad.
Flashes of light erupted and an explosion of sound hit him from behind. Dave jumped and fell forward against the wall in shock. He crouched there for a second trying to understand what he had heard. He stood and gingerly took a step forward back out to the porch. What he saw his brain momentarily could not comprehend. Bav lay sprawled against the bonnet of his Mercedes, his arms out at either side. His white shirt, plastered to his skin by the rain, was turning a bright crimson as streams of blood poured out of his chest and stomach. He tried to sit up, only his head rising clear of the car. Three feet in front of him stood a figure in blue oil skins with a machine gun in its hands. Bav seemed to sense Dave’s presence; his mouth moved as he attempted to voice a warning. His words had no time to escape. The assassin raised the weapon, shouted something at Bav, then pulled the trigger. Bav’s body convulsed as the red hot metal ripped through his flesh and into the car below him. Dave turned on his heels and half fell through the front door. Hands shaking, he managed to lock it behind him before crawling behind the receptionist’s counter where he threw up uncontrollably.
Sergey repeated his proclamation, but this time to a lifeless corpse. “This is for my big brother…”
He heard a noise from behind. Had there been a passenger in the car? Shit. He had let his passion rule his head and acted as an amateur. He moved towards the entrance and slammed another magazine into the Uzi. He pushed the heavy industrial door. Locked. Should he look through the small window? No. He jogged back across the waterlogged car park to his hiding place, collected his small backpack and placed the weapon inside. This done, he ran as fast as he could out of the industrial estate.
*
Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London
Cheban sat in the interview room chain smoking. He felt like, in his own words, ‘shit’. His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder heavily taped and he wore a surgical collar. He had been very lucky according to the doctor who had examined him. No sign of brain damage or internal injuries just a broken collar bone, three cracked ribs and a heavily sprained left ankle and severe whiplash. Cheban had disagreed, saying that he was very ‘unlucky’. The doctor has reluctantly given medical consent for the patient to be released from medical care and interviewed.
“I am a dead man. You understand me; a dead man. If I go to jail I die, if you let me go I die.” In Cheban’s own mind his future was very bleak.
Furr frowned and looked at the Moldovan. “Who wants to kill you?”
Cheban held up his right hand, the only one he could, and waved his cigarette. “No. No. You make deal with me, I tell you everything.”
“Arkadi. You are in no position to make a deal. You are facing a very long sentence for possession and supply of firearms. This is before we even look at possible terroris
t charges and traffic offences.”
Cheban stubbed out the cigarette. “No. You listen to me Mr DCI Furr. If you sentence me, I die and you will learn nothing. They recruit another and bingo, you have more AK on streets.”
Furr cast a glance towards the two-way mirror where he knew the guvnor was watching. “What type of deal had you in mind?”
Cheban lit another cigarette. “You give me protection – new identity – and I tell all. I tell who I get work from, where I get shipments, where I drop off, the works. Who pay me and when. This is very big operation, like Mafia.”
There was a knock at the door and a uniformed officer entered and gave Furr a note. Furr read it and stopped the digital tape recorder after saying, “Interview suspended at 10:28 a.m. DCI Furr leaving the room.” He spoke to Cheban. “I’ll be back.”
“OK Arnie. I no go anywhere.” Cheban looked at the empty cigarette packet. “You bring me another packet?” Coughing, he winced in pain.
*
Lancing, West Sussex, UK
The adrenaline of the kill had passed and he felt nauseous. Exfiltration, however, was not to be rushed. He sat staring out of the window of the bus, just another passenger on this wet and miserable Saturday morning. Gorodetski had run to the beach, where he placed the Uzi in his day sack which he weighted with pebbles and then waded out into the sea. Removing the oil skins and waders, which he placed in his second bag, he then walked the mile and a half to the Worthing bus depot where he caught the coastline bus from Portsmouth to Brighton. The driver, underpaid and not happy at doing the ‘early’ shift, paid no attention to the American accent and gave him a ticket for Brighton. The bus retraced Gorodetski’s steps back towards Lancing. By the time Brooklands Pleasure Park was in view the driver had become even less happy. Flashing police lights had caused rubber necking and both access roads to the industrial estate were blocked. On the other side of the coast road an ambulance approached, sirens blaring, pushing its way past the morning traffic of early shoppers. The lights changed and Gorodetski’s bus moved off. Unable to resist, he shot a glance at the mayhem he had caused. His head spun and he tasted bile in his mouth. Was this what revenge, justice felt like? Finally the men that murdered his brother were dead. Tears formed in his eyes and he wiped them on the sleeve of his woollen sweater. The bus made slow progress along the coast road passing through Shoreham, Southwick, Portslade, Hove and finally Brighton. He alighted from the bus near the Palace Pier and turned left into town. He got into the lead taxi in the rank.