Cold Blood (11 page)

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 terrorist 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.

The driver folded his paper and asked, “Where to?”

“Gatwick Airport.”

The cabbie was surprised. “You’d be better off getting a train mate. There’s a direct one from Brighton station. I can take you there if you like?”

Gorodetski had not expected the cabbie to be so helpful. “No, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’m meeting my girlfriend and I’m late.”

“Ah. Gotcha. OK. It’ll cost about forty quid?”

“Worth it if it keeps her happy.” He didn’t understand the word ‘quid’.

The car pulled into the traffic. “Women eh?” commented the driver. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.” Unseen by the driver his passenger squirmed. The driver shook his head and tutted. “So where you from in the States then?”

Gorodetski did not want to enter into conversation but thought that the driver would be more likely to remember a rude American then a polite one. “Boston.”

“Oh yeah? I like their Red Sox. You a fan?” He made eye contact via the rear view mirror.

“When I can catch a game.”

“Yeah; know what you mean. Can’t get it much on our crap telly.” Gorodetski nodded and the driver continued. “If you don’t mind me asking. What you doing here then? On vacation?”

“Kinda. Meeting friends, travelling some.”

“You have a nice one. England is not just London you know. You should get around a bit.”

“I plan to.”

The driver went silent as he negotiated the mini roundabouts by Preston Park then asked, “Mind if I put the radio on mate?”

“Not at all.” He was glad of the diversion and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. The tension and fatigue had finally caught up with him and he began to drift off, his head lolling and tapping the door. Waking with a start he heard the radio news. “…a shooting on an industrial estate in the outskirts of Worthing. At least one man is reported to be dead. The police are believed to be…”

The driver switched stations. “Don’t like the news. Never nuffin good.”

Gorodetski nodded, now wide awake and very alert.

*

Worthing Hospital
,
Worthing
,
West Sussex

The doctor said that he was suffering from shock and may develop post-traumatic stress, have a panic attack or a ‘flash back’. It was true; Dave could not stop shaking and was again sick; however in an attempt to be macho he put this down to his hangover. “I was sick over the receptionist’s chair,” Dave murmured as he sipped his hot sweet tea.

“Dave I wouldn’t be questioning you now unless it was absolutely necessary.” DCI Reed was fifty-five and had a soft round face and tended to put those he questioned at ease. These were enviable traits for the anti-terrorist squad.