Garrett laughed. “Now that is a huge disappointment.”
“I’ve got nothing against Arsenal,” said Harper. “They’re the best team in South London.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah blah fucking Spurs fans. You lot need to get over it.”
They walked back through the museum and out onto the main road. The temperature had dipped and Harper pulled his scarf tighter and tucked it in his coat.“So until next time,” said Garrett, taking his mobile from his pocket and checking his messages.
“Next time,” said Harper.
Garrett suddenly looked paler as he stared at his phone. “I don’t believe it,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
“What?” said Harper. “Have they lost already?”
“He’s dead.”
“Who?”
“Andre Katusev.”
- Chapter 14 -
Inside Job
“I just don’t understand how you get past a small army of Foreign Legion mercenaries,” said Russell, as he drove back up the road towards Stanmore Hall.
“Looks like they’ve got half the Kent force up there,” said Cohen.
“Let’s face it, no one would want to miss this.”
An officer in plain clothes waved them round the side of the house as they approached. “I’m DC Burrows,” he said, as they both got out of the car and flashed their badges. “You’re from the Met right?”
“Yeah, we interviewed the guy a couple of times on a connected homicide. We don’t want to get in your way, but it would help if we can have a look around.”
“Be my guest. Its sounds like you’ve got more of a steer on what’s going on with this guy anyway. We don’t get too many dead Russian oligarchs in this part of the world.”
“You know you’ve got a reporter running around with a long lens in those woods?” said Cohen.
Burrows looked off towards the trees. “What? Shit. Jonno! Si! There’s some fucking reporter in the woods, get down there and get his camera off him.” The two uniformed officers jumped into their car and screeched down the path towards the trees. Cohen and Russell watched the car disappear from view and headed up towards the front door. There were two white tents on the grass in front of the house and the top of a third was just visible on the roof. A larger tent covered the lobby area. Forensics walked in and out, busily filing evidence and shipping it to the vans outside. Cohen pulled back the white flap and saw three legionnaires side-by-side on the floor, all dead, all with a single bullet in the forehead.
“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.”
- Chapter 15 -
Kramer’s
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.