A. Zander - Moscow City

“Bad choice of car,” said Nikolaev as the black Range Rover rolled up alongside him. Garrett stood still and said nothing. The back window rolled down and a man with a balaclava pointed a pistol towards his face.

“Why are you running English?” said Nikolaev. “You have something to hide?”

“Probably not as much as you people,” said Garrett.

“I know who you are,” said Nikolaev. “You’re the mother fucker that wrote that book about Chechnya. I served in Chechnya and you know what I think? I think you don’t know shit.”

Garrett puffed his chest out as much as he could. “Do you know how bad it will look for you when I write a story saying you pointed a gun at a British reporter?”

“You think you can intimidate me?!” shouted Nikolaev, his face reddening and the veins in his neck protruding. “You think having a pen means you’re invincible? Look where you are. There’s nothing here to protect you. We’ll end you like we ended that traitor Katusev.”

Garrett said nothing and Nikolaev sensed the fear in his face.

“The bodyguard did a nice job for us. Shame he had to go too.”

“I’ve got no argument with you,” said Garrett.

“That’s what you think. What were you doing with the Vitsins?”

“I’m a reporter. I was working on a story. That’s my job.”

“So that’s the way it’s going to be with you? Well, I’ve got a better story for your newspaper. It involves you, dying, face down in the mud in Kazakhstan. Do you think they’d like a story like that?”

Nikolaev looked at his men and laughed. Garrett said nothing.

“Do you think they would?” he repeated, as the smile dripped from his face.

A bullet hit Garrett’s windpipe and a red stream squirted into one of the muddy puddles. The blood poured over his fingers and he dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering.

“I think they would,” said Nikolaev. “I think they would….”

The mechanized shutters of the Sofia restaurant rose upwards and folded away into the shop front. A waitress milled around inside, setting the tables ready for the lunchtime trade. Russell wiped the sweat from his clammy hands on his trouser leg. Cohen took in the faces of the rest of his team. They were watching him, trying to control the adrenaline, waiting for the signal.

“The man we want to speak to is dangerous,” said Cohen. “He’s killed civilians and he’s killed police. It doesn’t make any difference to him.”

He looked around for their reactions, testing whether the nerves were holding. “But he’s also a close associate of our missing murder suspects, so we need to locate him and we need him to cooperate. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

The van burst into life. The eight coppers jumped out of the back and ran towards the door. Cohen and Russell fell in behind them. The front door was locked so they wasted no time sticking a boot on it. The waitress screamed in Bulgarian as they piled into the dining area, smashing glasses and knocking over chairs.

“Where’s Draganov?” shouted Russell. “Where the fuck is he?”

The waitress carried on screaming as the officers spread out and checked the side rooms. Cohen and Russell followed two of the team upstairs. They kicked in the first bedroom door. Two groggy, semi-naked women, lifted their heads, only partly registering what was going on. Drug paraphernalia littered the floor and used condoms were stuffed in a bucket in the corner. The second door opened and a spindly man in black jogging bottoms and no shirt stood in the doorway.

“What the fuck are you pigs doing to my restaurant?”

Russell steamed forward and pushed him back into the bedroom. The man cracked his head on the bedframe and let out a small grunt as he fell onto his side and held his head in his hands. Cohen signalled to the uniforms to leave and walked in behind Russell, closing the bedroom door.

“We’d like a chat Dimitar,” said Cohen.

“You can’t do this,” said Draganov, rubbing his head furiously where he struck the bed. “I’ve got rights.”

Russell grabbed his hair and rained a flurry of heavy punches down on the side of his head. “You’ve got fuck all today son. Now answer the man’s questions.”

“I don’t know anything, I’m just a restaurant owner!”

Cohen sat down in an armchair. “Where are Leonid Ashansky and Yuri Gershov?”

“I don’t know, I swear.”

Russell rammed Draganov’s arm up his back until he heard a crack. “Aaagh. You’re fucking crazy! You broke my arm.”

“We aren’t messing around Dimitar. You might want to search your little brain for some answers, because I have no problem with letting DC Russell here break your legs too.” Draganov cried out again as Russell twisted his arm to maximize the pain from the break.

“Look, okay, okay, just let go of my arm.” Russell eased off and Draganov doubled over in pain.

“Where are they?” said Cohen.

“The word is they are back in Russia. There was an exchange near Talinn.”

“An exchange? An exchange between who?”

“Between the Russians and your MI6.” Draganov smirked. “I thought you fucking pigs were supposed to know what happens to your own prisoners. You two must be real fucking plants. Kept in the dark and fed shit.” He started to laugh and Russell gave him a dig to the guts.

“Why did the Russians want them back?”

“That’s the wrong question DS Cohen.”

“What’s the right question?”

“You should ask why your spooks wanted to get them out of the country.”

“What are you talking about?”

Draganov wiped some blood from his lip. “You think a guy like the Prince just comes to London and sets up his organization without talking to your government first? He works for fucking MI6.”

“Ashansky?”

“Yeah, Ashansky. He runs a few guns for them and provides assassins when they don’t want to get their hands dirty. In return, they let him enjoy the bright lights of London without anyone bothering him. It’s beautiful man.”

“Is that what happened with Cavendish?”

“What, that fucking scientist guy and his friends? Word is your spooks got Ashansky to send Gershov over there to find out some information about some genius Russian kid that disappeared.”

“So why the fuck did Gershov kill them?”

Dragonov let out a squeaky giggle. “Have you met Yuri?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He’s known for going a little too far sometimes. You know, the type of far where people get fucked up.”

A hundred different thoughts flashed through Cohen’s head. “So MI6 sent their own people to Russia to get captured on purpose? To facilitate the exchange.”

“Exactly,” replied Dragonov. “And they come back with some nice information on what the Russians know and don’t know too. Now can you get out of my fucking restaurant please before I call the police.” This time Draganov burst into a fit of laughter at his own joke. “Oh, and you should probably buy a new suit.”

“What would I need a new suit for?” said Cohen, standing up and walking towards the door.

“For the funeral.”

“What funeral? What are you talking about?”

“For the piece of shit undercover cop that put Ashansky in Belmarsh in the first place. Wherever he is, he’s finished.”

The gypsy cab pulled into the side of the road. Harper jumped into the passenger seat and stuffed all the money he had left into the driver’s hand. He tried Garrett’s number again, but this time there was no answer. As they approached the hotel, he opened the door and darted across the road down towards the entrance. He walked through the double doors into the reception and stopped, fixed to the spot. The normally bustling lobby was reduced to a few men scattered around the outside and the staff had disappeared from the reception desk. He took a few steps forward and stopped again.