A. Zander - Moscow City

“Where’s Katusev,” Cohen asked one of the forensics kneeling down next to the bodies.

“He’s in his gym. Just go down those stairs over there.”

Russell followed Cohen over to a side door and walked down into Katusev’s gymnasium. Another Legionnaire was slumped over a running machine, part of his skull blown off and his eyes still open. A detective beckoned them over to the far corner where more forensics and several uniforms were gathered. Cohen could see Katusev’s cream loafers as he approached, spots of blood staining the material.

“I’m DS Cohen. This is DC Russell. We can do a preliminary ID for you if you want.”

“Please do.”

The group parted to let them get a clearer view of Katusev. His barbell was pinning him to the exercise bench by his neck. His hands were clamped around the metal and he looked like he was still straining to push the weight upwards. A bullet entrance wound sat in the middle of his forehead.

“That’s him,” said Cohen.

“Where’s the eighth bodyguard?” said Russell. “He had a team of eight people guarding him.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said the detective. “You better have a look at this.” The three men walked back up the stairs and into a small room packed with monitors near the back of the house. “You might have noticed the amount of cameras in this place. It’s a bit of an open and shut case really.” The detective pulled up several sharp colour images of the different parts of the property and skipped the tape back to several hours previous. “Give it a few minutes.”

They watched the monitors. The guards sauntered around, looking a little disinterested. Katusev was lifting weights with the guard from the running machine spotting him.

The detective tapped his finger on one of the screens. “This guy, watch.”

They all leant into the screen as a Legionnaire emerged from one of the bedrooms and screwed a silencer onto the end of a pistol. He went to the roof, smiling at his colleague before gunning him down in cold blood. He sneaked back down to the stairway overlooking the lobby and waited for three more of his team to convene just inside the front door. Again, he struck up a conversation before slotting a bullet into each of their heads.

“Did you see his gun jam?” said Russell. “One guy looked like he got a shot off, but nothing happened. He must have tampered with their weapons.”

They watched as the black figure headed outside and continued his killing spree before turning his attention to the gym. The monitor in the bottom left corner showed Katusev wiping his head with a towel before laying back down. As the spotter gave him the bar, the man who had just killed six of his colleagues walked casually into the gym and shouted some encouragement towards Katusev before opening up on the last Legionnaire. The mercenary was hit in the throat and staggered towards the running machine, blood spurting from his neck. Finally, Katusev tried to push the bar back onto its rack, but lost control and squirmed as the metal slammed down on top of him. The killer stood over him, watching as he struggled, and then executed him.

“Cold bastard,” said Russell.

“Have you got any idea where this guy went?” said Cohen.

The detective rolled on the tape a little bit more. The black figure emerged from a shed at the back of the house on a motorbike and drove off towards the woods.

“We need to start tracking him,” said Cohen. “It’s probably a good idea to see if there are any cameras in the nearby villages that might help.”

Cohen and Russell walked back outside and toward their car. The uniforms drove back out of the woods and approached the house. Cohen could see the photographer in the back seat, looking a bit edgy as they pulled up onto the gravel.

“No story for you today then mate,” said Russell, as they pulled him out of the vehicle. The photographer said nothing, instead leaning on the squad car and vomiting onto the floor.

“Jesus,” said Russell. “Is he nervous about getting banged up?”

“He’s had a bit of a shock,” said one of the uniforms, handing the photographer a can of Diet Coke from the front seat. “He’s just stumbled across a corpse in the woods. It was the gunman.”

Dupont Circle’s morning rush was coming to an end as Alpha crossed the road from Massachusetts Avenue and sat down facing the fountain. A few hungover interns scurried through, dressed beyond their years and carrying the ubiquitous Starbucks. A small but enthusiastic group of Tibetans waved a Chinese flag with a cross through the middle and handed out leaflets to passersby. Alpha averted his eyes as a black man with a grey beard wandered from person-to-person, thrusting a paper cup in front of them and asking for change. The man collected seven refusals before he moved on to try his luck downtown.

Washington had changed since the time he called it home. It was more crowded now. There was more government in this town. And more government meant more lobbyists, more lawyers, more reporters, and more entertainment. The role of MI6 liaison had seen some changes too. Relations were more cordial these days. Back then, the stench of Philby still hung around the corridors of Langley, polluting the atmosphere for anyone that followed in his footsteps.

He felt a firm hand squeeze his shoulder and remembered Lonaghan’s habit of never approaching people from the front. “Glad you could make it.” The CIA man’s familiar Boston drawl had faded, but was still detectable. “I’m sorry to drag you all the way out here John. But the higher-ups insisted we have a face-to-face.”

“You know Patricia would never forgive me if I passed on an opportunity for her to go shopping in Georgetown,” said Alpha, standing up and turning to face the man behind him. “Besides, I always like the opportunity to come over here and sniff the air. You never know what you might smell.”

“Very wise my friend, very wise.” Lonaghan walked round the bench and shook Alpha’s hand. “How are you John?”

“I’d be better if we had what we needed.”

“We all would John. Look, let’s walk.”

Alpha followed Tom Lonaghan out of the Circle and they headed up the hill on Connecticut Avenue. Lonaghan dressed in a style that only worked in DC. His raincoat covered a well-fitted grey pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a red cravat. His wide-brimmed hat sat nonchalantly on top of his head, drawing attention away from his face. They walked silently past the rows of bars and crossed Florida. The Washington Hilton loomed up on the right hand side. Presidents probably still keep one eye on the crowds there, he thought. Even long after Reagan. They carried on past Kalorama’s grand stone buildings, a haven for embittered wasps and high earners with a taste for city living. The area was a testament to DC grace. Lonaghan fit the scene.

“This part of the city always makes me feel less claustrophobic,” he said, as they emerged onto the bridge over Rock Creek. “I always try to find a reason to walk over here. Even if it’s out of my way.”

Alpha stayed silent, leaning on the faded green railing and looking out over the trees. A helicopter buzzed through the sky in the distance and a steady stream of traffic swept across the bridge behind them.

“The bosses are getting impatient John,” said Lonaghan, removing his hat for a second to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Alpha stared straight ahead. “I need a bit more time.”

“You convinced me to let you run with this. You know I’ll always back you, but it’s starting to make me look bad. I won’t be able to hold the dogs off for much longer. Langley wants Vitsin found. Fast.”