A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  By seven-thirty, dusk was falling. Knowing darkness would follow quickly, Westgate reasoned that if anything was going to happen, it would most likely be soon. Assuming her, ‘Taverna’, was open that evening, it wouldn’t be long before she left to check things out. Following his gut, he got out and wandered round the corner to stroll, head down, past the house. At the end of the cul-de-sac he found an unlit spot between two gateposts where the view was good, and he was shielded by overhanging trees.

  Now able to study the house for the first time, he could see it fitted the pattern for the area. Two floors, upper veranda, flat roof, medium-size garden, small driveway, lots of enclosing greenery. Lights showed in some of the windows and now and again he glimpsed someone, though he couldn’t tell if it was her, or someone else.

  He’d been there less than ten minutes when a jeep turned into the road to drive, slowly, up towards him. He could just make out the driver leaning across the passenger seat, as if checking house numbers. It stopped across the back of her Merc. Though not Murray’s, he recognised it as one he’d clocked outside the Dive Centre a couple of times before they all disappeared. He congratulated himself on his foresight.

  The driver stepped out. It was Murray. As he approached the front door, Westgate noted he was empty-handed. She must have been expecting him, as the door opened at once and he went inside. Less than five minutes later he came out again. He was carrying a large envelope.

  Westgate made sure he was well-hidden as Murray drove down to the turning circle, made a fast three-pointer, then drove back down, slowing to give a brief wave as he passed the house. At the bottom of the road he turned left, and disappeared. Westgate knew that if he sprinted back to his car, he might still be able to catch up. Murray would lead him to wherever was now base. But it also risked drawing attention to himself. Besides, he’d seen enough. For now.

  In the muted light from the bedside lamp, Murray swigged a Keo bottle as he leafed through the papers. The information they contained was more revealing than he’d expected. Some he’d seen before - documents from the same Military Intelligence source he tapped into when he first learned about Podruznig - others were new. He sent mental congratulations to Iridotu. The Police Chief’s contacts were better-placed than Murray had given him credit for.

  The papers included what looked like extracts from Podruznig’s BRCR - Russian Criminal Record Bureau - file, detailing his early run-ins with the police and Communist Party-run Courts. There was also a lengthy profile which, judging by the Americanisms, had come from a US-based source, CIA probably. The US agencies had invested heavily in monitoring the Oligarchs since Putin came to power, as well as those associated with them. But of most interest were the several papers that carried the hall marks of having come from an FSB Intelligence File. The Federal Security Service - its English title - is the domestic successor to the KGB.

  Comprising what looked like extracts culled from a variety of sources – some carried margin-references Murray recognised as relating to CIA, MI5, MOSSAD, as well as others – each of the dated entries was recorded in two languages, Russian and English. Murray recognised the technique as one used extensively within what eventually came to be known as, SEMU, the Slavic Economic Monitoring Unit.

  Originally set up within the KGB prior to its break-up in the early nineties, the Unit’s official aim was to analyse and report upon the implications for Federal Security of the trend, begun under Gorbachev in the eighties and continuing under Yeltsin through the decade following, towards greater economic freedom and the so-called, ‘democratisation of Government’. The phenomenon would, eventually of course, come to be seen as more smoke and mirrors than any genuine reforming movement. But within two years of its establishment, SEMU’s work became almost wholly focused on something no intelligence agency - especially those of the old Soviet Union - had experienced before.

  The rapid growth of what collectively became known as the Russian Mafias, the simultaneous emergence of the Oligarchs, and the relationship between the two, was not something anyone, least of all the world’s intelligence community foresaw. To most observers, it was clear that those clinging to the reigns of power within Russia during those turbulent times were in two minds as to whether the changes they were witnessing were a force for good, or bad. Many were in no doubt that extending the country’s economic reach to parts of the world where Russia’s influence was low, was undoubtedly beneficial. At the same time however, power bases emerged, both within and without Russia, that were not only capable of matching anything the KGB had to offer in terms of resources and expertise, but were perceived as containing within them the seeds of revolution on a scale that could make the end of the Romanoff Dynasty look like a minor tweak in political direction.

  SEMU’s brief was to gather intelligence on what these various factions were up to and predict where things were headed. By this means, the hope was that if and when the revolution came, the executive of the day - whoever it might be - may have enough ammunition to act swiftly against those with the potential to lead such a movement. In the end it all came down - as such things always do in Russia - to dirty tricks and blackmail. And the SEMU Intelligence Files were full of it.

  Murray was familiar enough with the sort of shadowy, if not downright dead-of-night, activities that underpinned the rise of most of the Oligarchs. In particular, the Arabian side of the organisation Operation Priscilla had set out to smash, was known to have close links with branches of the Russian mafia. Murray had heard only recently how, having seen the success one of their ilk had enjoyed by investing in the English Premier Football League, several of those who had once been of great interest to MI5, CIA and the FSB were now looking to do the same - though through less well known ‘intermediaries.’ It came as no great surprise to Murray, therefore, to learn that Podruznig was linked - in some cases by strong evidence, in others only rumour and innuendo - to more than his fair share of double dealings, blackmail, disappearances - and murder.

  What was a surprise, however - and the more he read the more he sat up, even going so far as to place his bottle down so he could give the documents his fullest attention - was the detail the SEMU clerks had included within what were only supposed to be summary log entries. In some cases, Murray found it hard to imagine the original documents - wherever they now lay - containing much more than those he was reading.

  Names, dates, places, detailed assessments. They were all there. Together, they provided a detailed account of not just how Podruznig had acquired his wealth and risen to the position of power he now enjoyed, but also how he’d used that power to maintain his position, whilst also pursuing the acquisition of the things he needed to satisfy his peculiarly idiosyncratic interests. Of particular interest was an account attributed to someone with strong connections inside the murky underworld that surrounds the Black Sea port of Odessa.

  Eventually Murray finished reading. He didn’t so much put the last sheet down, as let it slip from his fingers so that it drifted down, like a feather on a breeze, to join the others strewn over the bed.

  For a long time he stared, fixedly, at a spot on the wall across the room, registering nothing but the thoughts and possibilities racing through his brain. Eventually, remembering his beer he reached for it. But as he brought it to his lips he paused, mind still mulling over the implications of what he’d read. Two words, more breathed than spoken, passed his lips.

  'Bloody hell.'

  CHAPTER 21

  Finished stripping what little grazing there was between the rocks lining the trail, the herd leader, an old Billy with a broken right horn, lifted its shaggy head, ready to move up to the trees that promised shelter from the baking, midday sun.

  The track was one the herd travelled regularly, if infrequently. Depending upon the time of year, a moon’s passing was usually enough for the grasses to grow sufficiently for the route to be worth re-visiting. And being the keeper of the collective herd-memory, the Billy knew it as a safe route up to the tree
s where shade now beckoned. But as he made ready to move he stopped, suddenly, left foreleg up and cocked - a warning to those following.

  Nearing the end of his allotted twenty-year-or-so lifespan, the Billy’s sight was no longer as keen as it once was, But his scenting ability was acute as ever, and it had alerted him to danger. It spoke to the presence of an invader, an animal smell that was not a natural part of the rugged landscape they were crossing. He peered about, checking the scrubs either side of the trail, trying to pick out what he knew was there, but which was, somehow, invisible to his gaze. As the scent came again, a picture formed of the creature they encountered now and again during their meanderings but which they always tried to avoid, wary of its unpredictable nature. But right now he could see nothing that fitted with what his instincts told him was near. The shapes and hues all appeared normal. Chalky rock, grey scrubs, sandy earth, grassy tones. Nevertheless, he trusted his senses enough to know he was not mistaken.

  Moving off the trail, he hop-skipped several yards up the slope, at the same time sending out the low whistle-grunt that would signal to the others they should follow his lead. Reaching a higher-lying track, he stopped again to sample the air. The scent was still there but weaker now, not growing in his throat as it would be if the invader were following. A few yards further on, it disappeared altogether. Satisfied he had led his charges away from danger, the old Billy lowered his head and returned to his grazing.

  Some distance away, down the hillside towards the coast, Valerik Podruznig descended the steps outside his front door to where the freshly-polished BMW X7 xDrive stood, gleaming in the sun. A faithful charger awaiting its King. Rounding the shining expanse of bonnet, he ran his fingers, lovingly, over the hot metal. As he did so, a ripple of pleasure coursed through him. He pursed his lips in an expression of satisfaction.

  It was six months now since Podruznig had taken possession of the purchase that, as much as any other in his mind, signalled what he had achieved in the face of adversities that would have overwhelmed lesser men. Though he first placed the order many months before, the cost-doubling modifications and customising Podruznig had insisted on, meant that the vehicle’s gestation in its - of all places South Carolina - womb, had taken longer than normal.

  But despite having had half-a-year to get used to it, he still found that physical contact brought a glow of pleasure that bordered on sexual in its intensity. He felt it as a charge that ran through him, speaking of both the pleasures he’d taken clawing his way to his present position, as well as those he looked forward to experiencing in the years ahead - the ones that come with success.

  All his life, the man who was born in the small collective south of St Petersburg that was so anonymous it merited only a district reference - DY13 - had dreamed of owning a ‘top-of-the-range’ mark. Even when, as a young boy, he fought off those much bigger than him for the right to buy the last loaf of bread on the frequently-bare shelves of the collective’s only grocers, he was determined that one day he would own something that would mark him as, Special.

  Admittedly, there were more expensive and luxurious models on the market, particularly the Lexus and Porsche equivalents. But this, the much sought-after BMW X7 xDrive, fitted the bill, exactly. With its high driving position, reserves of power, and lofty air of Germanic supremacy - not to mention the Get-Out-Of-My-Way statement it made when on the road – the X7 reflected the qualities Podruznig now stood for. Strength. Dominance. Efficiency. In Valerik Podruznig’s view, the likes of Rolls Royce, Bentley, Aston Martin, were just toys. Better- suited to retired financiers, failed would-be-James-Bond dreamers, and little boys with too much money and not enough imagination to know how to use it.

  The X7, on the other hand, spoke of someone who knew how to make things happen in this world. Someone who meant business . Someone who would not be pushed aside. An Achiever.

  As he rounded the car’s nearside, he spied a piece of lint, a thread from the polishing buffer by the look of it, caught in the chrome strip lining the front wheel arch. He tutted, loudly. He hated such sloppiness, and would remember to mention it to Lantzeff. But as he bent to remove it, the barest draught of a breeze passed somewhere close to his right ear. At the same time a resounding ‘CLANG’ rent the air and the car seemed to give out a little shudder.

  Podruznig blinked, trying to make sense of what had just happened - and found himself staring at a neat round hole in the lower wing a mere twelve inches to his right. For several moments he was too disoriented to do anything but stare at it, his brain struggling to rationalise what had just happened. Then another ‘CLANG’ sounded, and the BMW rocked again. At the same time a second hole appeared - in the door this time, a few inches below the handle.

  As realisation hit, a scream of rage erupted from Podruznig’s throat. At the same time, he spun round to face towards the hills of the Paphos Forest, a good mile distant, and which looked down over the house that was now his home.

  'BASTARD,' he yelled. Even as he vented his defiance, his eyes scoured the miles of chalk and scrub that made up the uniform and ruggedly beautiful landscape. The shout was followed by a stream of guttural abuse and cursings - in Russian, as well as English.

  From behind and out of the house, alerted by their employer’s cries, armed men appeared, the alarm in their faces evidencing their readiness to deal with whatever they found. Experience had taught them it could be anything from a missed garden weed, to a full-blown assault - real or perceived. Most had their automatics already drawn as they spilled through the door, thrusting them out in front, two-handed, eyes swivelling in all directions as they searched for targets.

  What none were prepared for was the sight of their leader waving his fists about his head like a demented shadow boxer, screaming into the air at some invisible foe. Unsure of themselves, or what action was required, they stopped, looking round again for an enemy before exchanging puzzled and, in most cases wary, glances. As Lantzeff appeared in the doorway, and primed by years of training, he took the initiative, leaping down the steps to reach his boss’s side.

  'What is it, Valerik? What has happened?'

  Even he was shaken by the face that swung to meet him. So twisted with fury was it, Lantzeff feared for a moment that he might even, for the first time, have to defend himself against his employer’s rage. He seemed even angrier than that morning in the kitchen - if that were possible. This time it seemed to be taking him to an extreme even Lantzeff had not seen. Podruznig kept making strange, jerking half-turns towards the car, back to Lantzeff, then the gate, then back again. At the same time he appeared to have lost the power of coherent speech, babbling snarls and oaths that contained what sounded like random scatterings of, 'Bastard,' and 'Dead,' repeated, over and over.

  It was during the few seconds this process was taking place that Lantzeff picked up on the wild glances Podruznig kept throwing at the X7. What did the fucking car have to do with anything? But then he realised that some of Podruznig’s wild gestures were also directed towards it, as if trying to draw his lieutenant’s attention to something. As Lantzeff’s eyes finally lit on the hole in the wing, the other in the door, understanding dawned. At the same time, Podruznig managed finally to put his words in some order of semblance. And Lantzeff was in no doubt that the command they formed was intended to be carried out - to the letter.

  'DEAD. DO YOU HEAR ME, URI? I WANT THE BASTARD DEAD. DEAD, DEAD, DEAD.'

  The sun was lowering over the sea when the trucks turned back in through the gate, Podruznig was waiting, hands on hips, face dark-crimson. And as Lantzeff stepped from the lead vehicle, he knew that, as before, he had to be careful. The Russian was closer to breaking-point than he could ever remember. Nevertheless he met the man’s glare evenly as he made his way over to reiterate what he had already reported over the radio.

  'Nothing but goats,' he said. 'The area is too big. It would take an army to search it properly.'

  He didn’t wait for Podruznig’s response - that he was st
ill furious went without saying - but turned to cast his gaze over the hills he and his men had spent several hours scouring. All afternoon they had criss-crossed the undulating slopes, searching through scrub, checking out any rock formations that looked like they could provide natural cover for a shooter. But they had found nothing - just as Lantzeff had anticipated when Podruznig began issuing his raging demands that every man at his disposal, 'Get out there, find the bastard, and bring him to me.'

  Not that Lantzeff had argued against. The state Podruznig was in, he would have brooked no objections, even from the Siberian. And Lantzeff wasn’t that stupid. Easier to disappear for the afternoon along with the others. Let Podruznig calm down a little, then they could talk, sensibly, about how to respond. Nevertheless, he had made sure that two of the team remained behind, though discreetly, to provide cover should it be needed. What had happened didn’t have the feel of a feint-and-draw tactic, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  It was now obvious to Lantzeff and, he hoped, Podruznig as well, that the Russian had never been in the shooter’s sights. To hit a target twice in succession at this distance - even something X7 size - called for a degree of skill that had to mean the sniper was well capable of hitting a man had he chosen to do so. If more evidence were needed, the shot-out CCTV camera the morning of the graffiti provided it.

  No, this was a deliberate attempt - and a clever one Lantzeff had to concede, though privately - to hurt Podruznig in a way no physical attack could ever achieve. To intimidate. To wind him up. To show that someone was far from ready to give up. Which meant that something had to be done, and quickly.