Going Rogue, page 24
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘I’m starving, Borat,’ Buster said.
‘You’re always hungry.’
‘It’s my stacked and hench physique, mate. Unlike your skinny pencil-neck rig, I need to eat regularly. Come on, we must be able to grab something in the hotel bar, even at this terrible hour.’
The hotel bar was small and almost deserted save for the receptionist, who clearly doubled as the barman. ‘What I can get for you, gentlemen?’ he asked in heavily accented English.
‘Two beers. And do you have any food?’ Tom asked.
‘Only pizza or burger. I’m sorry but chef go home. I fix for you.’ he said, smiling widely with crooked-toothed pride at his own versatility.
‘Great. Two beers and two pizzas, please, Leon,’ Tom said, reading the man’s name badge and returning his smile.
The barman deposited two bottles of beer and two glasses on the bar counter. ‘I go fix pizza now, sirs. Only ten minutes.’ He disappeared through a door behind the bar.
‘He’s a chirpy chappy,’ Buster said as they sat down in a small booth, sipping at the cold and refreshing beers.
‘So what next?’ Buster asked, yawning.
‘Eat and get our heads down. Decent night’s kip and then we start tomorrow. I want to make sure we have everything we need so we may need to make a few purchases tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough. Make like tourists in Lviv. Look, mate, I understand why we’re here and I agree with you. There is no way that McEwan deserves to be out and about living the high life. But I don’t want any mission creep. We are here for him and him only. Okay?’
Tom paused as Leon placed two flaccid-looking pizzas in front of them, waiting for the barman to disappear out of earshot before answering. ‘What about Zelenko? Does he deserve to be let off scot-free?’
‘No, he doesn’t. But he is a well-protected oligarch and there’s just the two of us, with no weapons, in a foreign country with a questionable human rights history. We get McEwan, persuade him to come over the border with us, and that’s us done.’
‘Fair enough. I’m sure we will manage.’
‘We still have to physically get him over the border. Now that’s either by driving him over and into Poland, which involves border guards and vehicle searches, or we ditch the car and sneak him over one of the unpatrolled bits like people traffickers. Both present a whole load of potential issues that may be, shall we say, “unpredictable”.’ Buster mimed quotation marks with his fingers.
‘Look, until we get eyes on him and see how he’s protected, I don’t know. But we’re good at this, Buster. We’re improvisers; we used to improvise all the time in much worse situations than this.’
‘True. But in those situations we were there at the orders of the government, with weapons, communications, and backup. Here it’s just me and you going to grab a mass-murdering terrorist who, I assume, is going to be a little uncooperative. Not only that but we have to get him over the border without landing ourselves in a Ukrainian jail.’ Buster spoke earnestly, his jocular demeanour having taken a backseat for once.
Tom nodded seriously. ‘Look, the truth is that my main intention was to deal with this situation in a more simple and final way; but you seem hell-bent on stopping me. You could go home and I could still go down that route.’
‘Mate, I’m not letting that happen for all sorts of ethical reasons, but mostly because I care about you. Not like that, though: you’re far too ugly.’ A slight smile crept onto Buster’s meaty face.
‘And I love you for it, mate, but one thing is non-negotiable: McEwan will not be allowed to keep on living the way he is now. Either your way or, if that is not possible, my way. I have to do what’s right, Buster. I have to do what Cameron would say is right, and that does not include letting McEwan carry on as if nothing happened.’ Tom’s face was set with a grim determination that Buster knew only too well.
43
Tom and Buster sat at the edge of the small lake tucked into a forested area at the western edge of the Yavorivskyi National Park. After breakfast in a coffee shop close to the hotel they had bought some food supplies and, collecting their fishing tackle, had headed to the lake. They had paid for a day’s pass at the far south edge of the lake at a small gamekeeper’s hut at the entrance to the car park. Being midweek, the lake was not busy, just a handful of fellow fishermen all casting in looking for the big, elusive common carp that would be lurking in the lake’s weed beds.
Tom and Buster only had fairly basic fishing rods and tackle but, as catching fish wasn’t the purpose of the trip, they didn’t see it as much of an issue. Both were confirmed trout and salmon fishermen with little grip of the intricacies of carp fishing, but as this was primarily a carp lake, they were short of options. They had visited a fishing tackle shop in Lviv and purchased the basics including a small bucket of carp pellets; if passing fishermen decided to be friendly, they didn’t want to stand out by using the wrong kit. Both were dressed in non-military issue camouflage clothing that had also been purchased from the Lviv fishing tackle shop. The shopkeeper had assured them it was the most common type used at most of the carp lakes. Tom wore a plain olive-green baseball cap, Buster a camouflaged, brimmed hat.
Once they were set up, Tom pulled out his binoculars from his tackle box and looked across the lake at the dacha some four hundred metres across the water’s expanse. ‘It’s a big place. It’s got a jetty and a small boat moored. Nice place McEwan has landed himself in,’ Tom said, passing the binoculars to Buster.
‘Very nice, mate. From what I can see this is the rear of the place and the map seemed to show a small road from the other side. There is a big bi-fold door that looks like it leads to a kitchen. Hang on, someone is coming out.’ Buster paused a second, playing with the binocular’s magnification. ‘It’s not McEwan. It’s a big bastard who seems to be having a fag.’
‘Show me,’ Tom said.
Buster passed him the binoculars and he took in the scene as the stocky man smoked, stood on a deck, seemingly looking across the lake at them. Tom noted the man’s blocky, muscled frame, spectacles and cropped hair as he tossed the cigarette into the lake, turned and walked back to the kitchen with an uncomfortable gait made more obvious by a pronounced limp. Scanning the rest of the property and grounds, Tom said, ‘It’s a big place, mate. The gardens are huge and it looks like it has a walled boundary. There is a pick-up truck parked at the side.’
‘Any alarm boxes obvious?’
‘Not that I can see.’
There was movement once more from the bi-fold door and another figure came out onto the deck and stretched. Tom focused the binoculars on the new arrival, taking in the lean, whip-like build, close-cropped silver-grey hair and moustache, the steel-rimmed glasses framing ice-blue eyes.
Major Andrew McEwan.
He seemed to stare the four hundred metres across the lake right at Tom. Not taking his eyes from the binoculars, Tom said, ‘He’s here. The bastard is right across there now.’
‘Show me,’ Buster said, taking the binoculars back.
Holding them to his eyes Buster said quietly, ‘Hello you little fucker. Enjoy the luxury while you can. Right, he’s here. What next, mate?’
‘We carry on fishing and see if anyone else is around or if any visitors arrive. Then we do the same tomorrow and, if nothing has changed, we’ll take him tomorrow evening.’
*
Tom and Buster stayed at the lake until late afternoon, fully comfortable that their cover was tight. What could be more normal than two men, clad in fishing clothing, fishing on a lake used by fishermen?
McEwan had fished a little himself periodically, occasionally joined by the other, bigger man who would stand and speak to him. Other than that, no one had arrived or left all day. The weather had been warm and sunny all day and McEwan and his companion had sat outside and eaten at a table on the deck; it had seemed from the body language that the bigger man was the cook and, to some degree, servant.
At about 5pm Tom said, ‘I’ve seen enough, let’s go back to the hotel.’
‘Do we need to look at the front of the property to see how we’re going to get in?’
Tom paused, thinking. Then, ‘I don’t think so. Not at the moment, anyway. It looks really quiet and I can’t see any way to approach the front on a recce without attracting attention, especially in daylight. I may be able to get my hands on some aerial footage that is better than the Google Map images.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve some phone calls I want to make to maybe make our objective a little more… straightforward.’
‘Are you gonna tell me to who?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why?’
‘They might be shy.’
‘Is this the kind of help that possibly made a load of Serbians disappear off the face of the Earth last year?’
‘No.’
‘Liar.’
‘Buster, no. Just don’t ask. I don’t know if they will be able to help, anyway. I just want to know a little more about the border.’
‘Whatever. I don’t care. I could strangle a beer; let’s go back. I don’t think there’s much more to learn today.’ Buster stood and stretched. ‘I don’t mind a bit of fishing, but this is boring.'
*
About an hour later, Tom and Buster arrived back at the hotel. They had taken a slightly circuitous route back, driving past the dacha’s approach road which was marked by a sign in Cyrillic that Tom couldn’t decipher. They slowed but didn’t stop. From what they could see, the road was a metalled, single track and, from the map, it didn’t seem to lead anywhere else other than the dacha.
Both men walked into the hotel bar and ordered beers from Leon who, it seemed, rarely went home.
They sat in the same booth as the previous evening and were both having their first sips of the beer when they became aware that they were not alone. They looked up to see a tall, elegant-looking man stood by their table, appraising them coolly. He was dressed in a well-fitted grey suit and wore a pastel tie with a matching pocket square. His bearing was unmistakably military, and he had an air of confidence that was detectable in his deep, brown eyes.
‘Gentlemen, may I join you?’ he said in a cultured accent with just a trace of Yorkshire detectable.
‘Sorry, who are you?’ Buster asked.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”,’ the man said with a smile and sat down next to Buster. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colin Southby from the British Embassy in Kyiv.’ He extended his hand to Tom, who shook it briefly. To Buster, he just nodded. Southby then placed a card bearing his photo on the table; Tom recognised it as a British Diplomatic Identity document.
Tom picked it up and examined it; he’d seen a good few diplomatic embassy passes in his time and it certainly looked and felt genuine. It was clear that this guy was a spook of some kind and, considering that they were in a foreign country, Tom assumed that he was from the Secret Intelligence Service: often referred to as MI6. Contrary to popular belief, no MI6 operative actually walked around with a badge announcing that they were a member of the SIS, so they usually carried embassy ID documents.
‘What can we do for you?’ Tom said guardedly and, he had to admit, with a little alarm. How had the spooks got on to them?
‘Let me be frank, gentlemen. We know that you are travelling using false identities. We know your true identities and we know why you are here. Or, at least, we are pretty sure we do, which is why my paymasters despatched me from Kyiv to come and have a friendly chat with you.’
Tom and Buster looked at each other but said nothing.
Southby sighed just a little, a half-smile on his face. ‘Perhaps if I tell you what we know, it may assist in your decision to engage with me. Or not. You, my friend, are Tom Novak, ex-SRR, ex-Royal Marine, current Metropolitan Police.’ He looked pointedly at Tom who still said nothing. Turning to Buster he said, ‘Detective Constable Peter Rhymes, known as Buster for obvious reasons. Also ex-SRR, ex-Parachute Regiment, and also now Metropolitan Police. You both entered Ukraine yesterday by road from Poland on false passports that you, presumably, held onto after your SRR days. Now do I have your attention?
‘You do,’ said Tom.
‘Rapt attention, mate,’ said Buster.
‘Good. Look, we think we know why you are here and, I have to confess, it is causing some at the embassy a little concern. Would you like me to elaborate or would it be more time efficient if you told me the reason?’ He spoke in a laconic style but displayed none of the arrogance that Tom had found amongst some Foreign Office types in the past.
‘I’d like you to elaborate,’ Tom said flatly, not wanting to give anything away.
Southby’s eyes twinkled, just a little. ‘You have been investigating a far-right terror group pretentiously called the Aryan Defence Front, who committed the recent atrocities in London, including ordering the murder of an undercover police officer in cold blood. You are both members of a covert unit known as Covert Policing Advice or something tedious. You managed to avert more terror strikes by arresting the main members of the group—those you didn’t gun down, that is—and locating the outstanding Semtex. How am I doing so far?’ His tone remained friendly, but also had a confident undertone: understandable given that he seemed to be holding all the cards.
‘You have our interest,’ Tom replied.
‘Right. Everything was going swimmingly until Major McEwan was broken out of a prisoner transport vehicle, resulting in the death of a further six police officers.’
Tom did not reply immediately, instead staring flatly at the man before turning his gaze on Buster, who merely shrugged with resignation.
‘Okay then,’ Tom said in a non-committal tone. ‘Why are you here? I assume you want something?’
‘Look, chaps. There are two reasons why you are here; both of which, we think, are not sanctioned in any way, shape or form by your department. Either you are here to kill Major McEwan, or you are here to return him to the UK by some illegal method so that he can face justice back in good old Blighty.’
‘Okay?’ said Tom.
‘Right. So my Ukrainian hosts want me to pass a message on to you both. One of your options is desirable whilst the other, most certainly, is not. The new president is trying hard to extend his influence and get a grip on corruption in the country, which has been made difficult by elements in the military who have a degree of political clout. The president is unhappy that McEwan is being shielded by certain Ukrainians who wield a significant amount of power that he would like to mitigate. They have received an extradition request from Great Britain but are unable to accede to this formal request, as to do so is likely to cause significant unrest. It will certainly cause a stand-off between the state-sanctioned law enforcement agencies and certain rogue elements that are being promulgated and funded by a certain wealthy businessman. With me so far?’
‘How did you know we were here?’ Buster asked.
‘Come, now. We are many things, but stupid is not one of them. We have been monitoring the activities of Zelenko and McEwan: our hosts are very uncomfortable with the activities they have been undertaking, as well as their potential to embarrass the new president. The president genuinely wants to break the corrupt money men’s hold on Ukraine. When McEwan was broken out and you two disappeared on leave it wasn’t a big leap. Also, when your ex-SRR passports flagged up on the scanner at the border it didn’t take a genius to join the dots.
‘Look, I will be brutally honest with you, gents. Our hosts will not be too unhappy if McEwan disappears out of Ukraine, hopefully voluntarily. However, killing him on Ukrainian territory will have highly unwelcome consequences at a difficult time for the president, who is genuinely trying to get a grip of the country. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal,’ Tom replied unemotionally.
‘He’s not allowed to kill anyone, geezer. That’s why I’m here; I’m his travelling conscience,’ Buster added.
Southby didn’t laugh, but a trace of amusement was detectable in his eyes. ‘Yes, Mr Novak, you do come with something of a reputation. And I understand that you may have one or two allies to avail yourself of. Now, how are you planning to get McEwan over the border?’
‘Persuasion. I can be very persuasive,’ Tom said, not looking at Southby.
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘I will get him over the border covertly by some method,’ Tom said, aware that he really didn’t have much of a plan.
‘That is a very big risk, Mr Novak. The border is well guarded on both sides of the fence by frequent patrols, helicopters with thermal imaging, and no-go zones. It has historically been a major smuggling route into the EU, so the Polish and Ukrainians police it with vigour You may be able to slip through but I wouldn’t take the risk, if I were you. The consequences of capture are grave. Ukrainian prisons are not pleasant, I understand.’ Despite his even and conversational tone, there was no mistaking the seriousness underneath.
‘Do you have a suggestion?’ Tom asked
‘If he won’t go voluntarily, which I think we can assume he won’t, then I have a contact who may be able to assist. He has the ability to get personnel and goods across the border. It is his primary source of income. He is a reliable sort. Would you like me to make an introduction? He owes me a few favours and, in my business, favours are currency.’
Tom and Buster exchanged a look. Such was their friendship and understanding that they were able to make an instant decision based on that look.
‘How do we contact him?’
‘Give me your number and I will ask him to meet with you.’ Southby handed over a small, leatherbound notebook and pen. Tom scribbled a number inside the book and slid it back across the table.
‘Expect a call from him soon,’ Southby said, pocketing the book and pen. ‘He is Polish and travels across the border daily as part of his business. He is reliable and can be trusted.’
