Going Rogue, page 20
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ said Jane. ‘Carry on.’
The financial expert cleared her throat nervously and continued. ‘I also found that one name crops up in a number of the transactions, either by funds coming from companies he has an interest in or, in a few cases, from sales of assets he owns.’
‘And?’ Jane asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
‘Oleg Zelenko. He’s a Ukrainian billionaire who made his fortune in gas after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He has properties and companies all over the world and, although it’s well-hidden, I am convinced that he is the owner of Heartwood House.’
‘What do we know about him beyond that?’ Jane asked.
‘I don’t know anything about him; I only just found most of this out,’ Farita said.
‘Right. Tiny I want you onto this right away. I want everything there is to know about Oleg Zelenko; whatever you need just shout. Can we get anything from the Americans about the RPGs?’
‘It will probably take time,’ Tiny said pessimistically.
‘I don’t care. Just crack on and use whatever resources you need. We have to get to the bottom of this. We strongly suspect that McEwan has left the country and I want to know where he is. Right, get to it everyone. I want updates at the close of play today.’
Everyone began to disperse from the meeting room to their own workspaces, but Tom remained at the table and yawned. He was still tired and really didn’t have the energy for a long and probably fruitless intelligence trawl to locate McEwan. Suddenly, he made a decision. He needed to cut through all the red tape and find out where the bastard was. Right now.
He stood and walked over to Tiny, who was deeply engrossed in two large hi-definition monitors. ‘Tiny, can I have the full intel overview including all of Farita’s findings? I’ve an idea.’
The big Mancunian looked at him quizzically. ‘Tom, I know you are a DS and I am a mere DC, but can I ask why?
‘You can, but I may not give you a full answer.’
‘You’re a right obtuse bastard, Tom. I’ll fire it over to you now.’
‘Cheers, man. Do you have access to the CTC intel overview as well?’
‘Do I fuck, mate. They wouldn’t share a bloody cookie with us,’ he said shaking his head.
‘Do you know who their intelligence manager is?’
‘I do. I’ve fallen out with her twice this week. Obnoxious twat, she is. DI Karen Jennings at ESB.’
‘Cheers, man,’ Tom said.
Tom left the office, pulling on the crumpled hoodie that he had been wearing for the past few days. He was unshaven and his thick hair was bushy and badly needed a cut. As he left the office he dialled a number from memory that was answered cheerfully,
‘Now then, Royal. I was wondering when you were going to give me a call,’ Stan’s cheery voice boomed out from the phone’s earpiece.
‘I need a favour, Stan,’ Tom replied.
‘Now why am I not surprised? Go on then, fire away,’ he said resignedly.
‘There’s a DI Karen Jennings on Counter Terror Intel. Do you know her?’
‘Can’t say I do, Royal.’
‘I need to get an intelligence overview on the prison break and all associated intelligence on the main players, phones, computer intel, financial. Everything that they have. I understand that she may be a little reticent and parochial, Stan.’
‘Can’t have that, can we? There is no “I” in team. Although there is a “Me” if you look closely enough,’ Stan said, jovially. ‘When by?’
‘Probably about an hour.’
‘Consider it done. Everything okay?’
‘Been a tough few weeks, Stan. Have you kept up with what’s been going on?’
‘You know me, my old son. Finger always on the pulse. I will do whatever I can, mate. You have to get these bastards, there’s been too many senseless deaths.’
‘Gotta run. Thanks, Stan.’
‘Always a pleasure, never a chore. Be careful, okay?’
‘Sure.’ Tom hung up and headed out, his jaw set grimly in determination.
*
An hour later Tom stepped out of the lift on the twelfth floor of the Empress State Building, pushing open a door marked “SO15 intelligence”. He walked into an open plan office that was a hive of activity. Every desk contained a harassed analyst or researcher busily tapping away and there were spreadsheets, photographs and spider graphs on every surface. Tom recognised one of the analysts at the desk closest to the door and approached her, smiling widely
‘Hello Pat. Is DI Jennings about?’
‘All right Tom, mate,’ she replied in a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘She’s over there in the corner. I’d be careful, she’s in a shite mood, mate.’
Tom snorted a brief laugh. ‘Thanks, Pat.’
He walked over to the Detective Inspector, who was smartly dressed in a blue two-piece with her long hair tied back. She looked stressed and harassed and was squinting at a large monitor in front of her.
‘DI Jennings?’ Tom asked, politely.
‘Yes?’ She said without looking up from the screen.
‘DS Tom Novak from Covert Policing Advice Unit. Can I have a word?’
‘I’m very busy,’ she said, still not looking up. Tom smiled to himself.
‘I need a full download of the detailed intelligence overview for the operation, please. I need it emailing now to our secure server for onward analysis.’
She looked up, at once surprised and irritated. ‘Sorry, who did you say you were?’
‘DS Novak Covert Policing Advice Unit.’ Tom flashed her his most charming of smiles whilst simultaneously showing his warrant card.
‘I’m sorry, sergeant. You can’t just bowl in here demanding sensitive intelligence. I’m not sure who you actually think you are, but this is counter terror. We don’t hand out intel like this.’ She looked flustered, irritated and, Tom surmised, out of her depth.
He said nothing as a tone pinged from her computer, indicating a new email. The DI continued to stare directly at Tom, challenging him to say something.
Tom could sense a little discomfort in her body language as her eyes dropped to her monitor screen, her face registering surprise at what she saw as her hand moved to the mouse to open the email. As she read it, her expression changed from hostility to one of capitulation almost immediately.
‘Well, DS Novak. It seems that whoever, or whatever, Covert Policing Advice is, it has some significant backing. The commander of CTC himself has just ordered me to release it to you. Can I ask why you need it?’
‘Sorry. Not really,’ Tom said, politely.
She sighed deeply and rubbed her eyes. ‘Do you know that every bugger is constantly trying to have me over? I’m like a mushroom, me: kept in the dark and fed shite. Give me the secure email and I’ll get it sent within the next thirty minutes. I’ll have Pat tidy it up for you. Can you promise me one thing? At least share what you develop out of it. It’s taken us bloody ages to put it together.’ Tom couldn’t help but notice that the DI’s accent had shifted a touch and was now redolent of the Midlands.
‘I can’t promise that, sorry,’ Tom smiled.
‘Thought as much.’
Tom scrawled the secure email address on a Post-It Note and passed it to the DI.
‘Whatever you’re doing, best of luck,’ she said, smiling for the first time.
38
McEwan sat in the spacious kitchen of the rustic but comfortable dacha, situated on the edge of the Yavorivskyi National Park, some twenty-five kilometres outside Lviv.
He mulled over the events of the last ten days as he poured himself a coffee. Since leaving the UK his feet had barely touched the floor. He couldn’t believe how quickly things had changed from being incarcerated in Belmarsh Prison surrounded by scum, to living in a wonderfully comfortable abode with a housekeeper and every available luxury.
On landing at Calais Airport, he had been met directly from the tiny Cessna by a heavily built but taciturn man who had hurried him onto a larger, sleek-looking private jet that was sitting close by with its engines humming. Once on board he had been met by the welcome sight of Oleg Zelenko, relaxing with a large cigar and a tumbler of vodka whilst sat on one of the sumptuous-looking seats.
On seeing McEwan, he had leapt athletically to his feet and embraced him like a long-lost brother. ‘My dear friend, I am so glad you are here. I am pleased that the arrangements I made have secured your release. Sit and join me, Major. I have a very rare vodka ready for you.’
McEwan felt relief flood through his body as he accepted the chunky crystal glass from the lean Ukrainian. Inhaling the clean, pure spirit was so evocative to him that he felt tears begin to seep from his eyes.
‘Drink, Major. Drink to your freedom, Ukrainian style.’ They chinked glasses and then downed the precious liquid in one gulp.
‘Ypa!’ the oligarch declared in the Ukrainian salutation.
‘Ypa!’ repeated McEwan.
‘You must learn our language, Major. I have arranged for a private tutor and you will begin immediately. With what I have planned for you, communication will be imperative.’
McEwan settled into his seat as the aircraft began to taxi to the runway; within a few minutes they were airborne, and Zelenko fixed him with a piercing stare softened by a broad smile.
‘My dear Major you must have many questions, but these can wait for later. We are bound for Lviv in my homeland, where I have a comfortable residence waiting for you. I have a hunting lodge in a nature reserve that I use only occasionally when the desire to shoot overwhelms me. You will be very comfortable there. I have seen to the arrangements personally. For now, my friend, relax, have some more vodka, and we will have some food. My personal chef has prepared a feast in your honour. Those six months in prison with all the degenerates must have been very testing.’
McEwan had relaxed, closed his eyes, and basked in the feeling of freedom as the vodka began to work its magic on him.
The flight had been very pleasant; the food was simply sensational and was a delight to eat after the six months of eating prison slop. Once the flight was underway, Zelenko had retired to the rear of the plane and engaged in a lengthy, hushed conversation with one of his entourage. McEwan was exhausted so soon fell into a deep, contented sleep, waking only when the steward gently shook him awake to prepare for landing.
They had been met at the aircraft steps by a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, which took them on the forty-minute drive to Zelenko’s dacha. McEwan knew that dachas were normally small and rustic weekend residences used by Russians and Ukrainians, but this was nothing of the sort. It was a stunning, Swiss-style, four-bedroomed affair nestled in a valley in a national park with views over a lake. It was surrounded by high fences and walls and sat in about ten acres of lovingly tended private grounds with a small jetty that jutted out onto the lake.
‘The fishing is excellent, Major,’ buzzed Zelenko as he showed McEwan around the residence. ‘I also have a beautiful collection of shotguns and rifles if hunting is something you enjoy. We have deer, pheasants, and ducks in the forest, and chef loves nothing more than cooking freshly-caught game.’ McEwan’s room was spacious, with an en-suite bathroom and dressing area well-stocked with a good selection of casualwear and one or two suits.
‘I took the liberty of ensuring that we had sufficient clothing ready for you, Major. I trust they will fit; I had to guess on your sizes but I think I am a good judge.’
The next ten days had been so relaxing that they felt just like a holiday after the fug and stink of the prison. Zelenko had quickly departed and left McEwan in the company of Piotr, the stocky, bespectacled housekeeper, chef and driver. Piotr was a quietly spoken Ukrainian who spoke excellent English and was keen to ensure that McEwan had everything he needed. Despite his occupation, he had the tough and uncompromising appearance of a man who had seen combat. He had a pronounced limp and vivid scarring on his forearm and neck that McEwan would have bet had come from shrapnel.
He fished most days, often catching brown trout that Piotr cooked wonderfully. He relaxed more than at any time he could remember but, after a few days, he felt boredom start to creep in. He even looked forward to the Ukrainian language teacher, the unsmiling but beautiful Daria, who taught him for two dull hours every day. He found the lessons tough going, the unfamiliar, Slavic-based language giving him no reference points to cling to. He worked hard at it, however, and even after a week was able to manage basic greetings and a few phrases.
It was with some trepidation that he now sat in the kitchen awaiting Zelenko’s arrival. Piotr had warned him that the oligarch would be arriving that morning with much to discuss. McEwan was wise enough to realise that Zelenko would not have gone to the trouble of breaking him out from prison and then installing him in his luxurious dacha without wanting something substantial in return.
Piotr entered the kitchen and nodded a greeting. ‘Mr Zelenko will be with us in a few minutes, Major, so please be ready to receive him.’ He couldn’t help but notice that Piotr wore a holstered automatic pistol at his hip and that his usual relaxed manner had been replaced with a more animated and focused one. Piotr removed his wire-framed glasses and polished them with a handkerchief before re-setting them on his nose.
‘Why the pistol, Piotr?’ McEwan asked, trying not to show any nervousness.
‘Mr Zelenko has many enemies, Major. All his staff will be armed when he arrives and that includes me and, in the future, will also include you. Whilst I keep house and cook for him and his guests, my first responsibility when he visits the dacha is his safety.’
A commotion from outside indicated Zelenko’s arrival. Piotr stiffened at the sound of at least two large vehicles drawing up outside. ‘Please wait here, Major. Mr Zelenko will be brought to you shortly.’ He then left the room, bristling efficiency replacing his normal relaxed demeanour.
McEwan remained seated at the large, scrubbed kitchen table, a slight feeling of butterflies in his stomach. He took a sip of his coffee and waited.
The kitchen door burst open and a huge shaven-headed man walked into the room, briefly eyeballed McEwan and then moved over to the large, panoramic bi-fold terrace doors that led down to the lake. He scanned the area outside before speaking in Ukrainian into his wrist. McEwan could see the coil of flex of an earpiece in the man’s ear.
‘Stand,’ barked the bodyguard.
McEwan stood quickly, his nervousness edging up a notch. The man quickly but efficiently patted him down before taking up a position in front of the glass doors, his arms folded in front of him. It was only at that point that McEwan recognised the bodyguard as Igor, who he had seen in the central London club when he met Zelenko, all those months ago.
There was a brief silence, punctuated only by the unfeasibly loud ticking of the wall clock, whilst Igor scanned the area outside the doors.
McEwan stood as Zelenko strode alone into the kitchen wearing a broad smile. ‘My dear Major. It is so good to see you once more. I must apologise for my absence these last few days, but I have been impossibly busy with important matters. I trust Piotr has been looking after you well?’ He embraced McEwan in greeting.
‘Yes. Everything has been wonderful, Mr Zelenko, and thank you for your hospitality.’
‘Of course, of course. The least I could do for you after the sacrifices that you have made for our organisation.’ He beamed a brilliant smile, his cruel eyes twinkling as he sat at the kitchen table. ‘I understand that you are working hard in your Ukrainian lessons. Daria tells me that you are a willing student.’
‘It’s harder than I thought, but I am making progress. She is a very good teacher.’
‘Well, you must be wondering what plans we have? Now of course, the authorities in Britain have caused us to have to alter our plans somewhat. It hasn’t been an ideal situation, but nonetheless we will be proceeding with our objective and I have a need for someone with your skills, Major. We are still resolute in our plans but have had to alter the timeline and area of operation.’
McEwan paused before speaking. ‘Mr Zelenko, I had no idea that undercover police had infiltrated our organisation. Vidmar had vouched for Joost and he seemed like such a good candidate. I can only apologise for what happened.’ His voice cracked just a touch in fear.
‘Major, please. It was regrettable but there will always be casualties in a war, and the activities you engaged in have had the desired effect. It has announced to the world that the white race is to be feared and your incursions have struck a fear into the Muslims and Jews that has been noted throughout the world. This has been just a setback, no more. We will cease operations in Britain for the time being as something more pressing has come up closer to home.’ He paused to take a sip of the coffee that Piotr had wordlessly placed before him.
‘What do you need from me, sir?’
‘Major, you are a man of the world and you keep up with global events, yes?’
‘Of course, sir.’ McEwan was intrigued.
‘You will have noticed that the Ukraine has a new president, who has a vision for the country that is not shared by right-thinking people?’
‘Well, yes. I read that he is supposed to be a reforming president and that he wants to tackle corruption and rid Ukraine of what he regards as its neo-Nazi influences.’
‘Pah!’ Zelenko spat, his eyes ablaze with fury. ‘The man is a clown. He is making a mockery of my country. What do you know of the Azov Battalion?’
McEwan paused once again. He had heard of the Azov Battalion, as had many people with his particular world view. Azov was a paramilitary force that had arisen in 2014, formed by a white nationalist. They had deep roots in extreme football “Ultras” and had fought alongside Ukrainian paratroopers against pro-Russian separatists; as a result they had been brought within the general Ukrainian armed forces, viewed by many Ukrainians as true heroes and patriots. They also had a fearsome reputation as violent neo-Nazi thugs who wielded enormous power within the military and had managed to resist any reform. Their symbolism was steeped in Nazi ideology and there were rumours of terrible human rights abuses against civilian populations. They were also one of the only units in Ukraine to have welcomed foreign fighters into their ranks.
