“Then, providing Yevtushenko remains off the radar, there is no bad news.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on the table while staring at Tibor. “I guess that’s not the issue, is it Tibor.”
“Nope.”
Marcus turned to his colleagues. “We never had the chance to brief Yevtushenko to cleanse his place of any evidence that he’d had contact with us. And my God, Yevtushenko’s tradecraft’s so poor that he would have needed that briefing.”
Lawrence’s mind was racing. “The FSB or SVR would have searched his home; maybe there’s nothing to find or they took anything remotely interesting.”
“Maybe, providing they knew what was interesting.”
More silence.
Damien suggested, “We could send Miss Petrova another note saying that Cochrane’s heading over to Yevtushenko’s home. That should prompt the private boys to get him there.”
Tibor shook his head. “The source says she’s now cooperating with British Intelligence.”
“Shit! That means he’s seen our note to her.”
“He has, and though he’s got no knowledge of us he’s smelled the whiff of our business cover operation against Yevtushenko.”
Lawrence said angrily, “We can’t allow Cochrane to get anywhere near us.”
Tibor smiled. “Of course not.”
With deliberation, Marcus asked, “So how can we turn this impending disaster into excellent news?”
Tibor folded his arms. “I’ve got an idea.”
His colleagues were motionless.
“Yevtushenko’s property is almost certainly going to have some kind of police presence, but I reckon it’s going to be minimal. . couple of cops, not much more. And they’ll be there just to make sure the house isn’t contaminated after the security services searched it when Yevtushenko disappeared.”
“Cochrane will easily get past them.”
Tibor held up his hand. “Thankfully, he will.” He pointed at Marcus. “Have you still got Valerii and his men on your payroll?”
Marcus nodded.
“Good. So, I’m thinking you put a few of them around Yevtushenko’s property-at distance and with long-range scopes, but in positions that ensure they’ve got every inch of the property’s exterior covered.”
“A hit? That could lead back to us.”
“Let’s make it a bit more subtle. Valerii spots Cochrane enter the property and then immediately makes an anonymous call to the cops saying he’s a concerned passerby who’s seen an armed man smash into the house.”
Lawrence smiled, “Armed man? That’s good. Suggests he’s not a petty criminal who can be dealt with by the cops guarding the place. Instead, and given the significance of the property, it suggests he’s an IO. The cops will take that break-in very seriously.”
“And will immediately deploy in numbers to grab him.”
“Though Cochrane will resist capture.”
“And as a result, there will be a fight.” Tibor drummed his hands against the wall. “We do need to be subtle, but we can’t allow Cochrane to escape. If he gets out of range of the cops, he’ll run into Valerii’s ring of steel. And they’ll use Russian police sidearms to gun him down.”
Seventeen
At 1330 hours the following day, Will was walking through the arrivals section of Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. Dressed in a business suit and overcoat, he’d entered Russia using a passport that was in the name of Christopher Jones and contained a multi-entry visa for business trips into the country. In his wallet and attache case he had documentation to support his identity, including bank and business cards, a smart phone and laptop crammed with data showing he was a self-employed headhunter specializing in sourcing executives for the oil and gas industry, and a legitimate letter from a Moscow-based office-leasing agency saying that his meeting with them was confirmed for 3:30 P.M. this afternoon and that they’d be delighted if he decided to set up a subsidiary branch of his business in their premises.
Aside from his passport, so far none of this documentation had been needed, as he was not questioned by the airport’s immigration or customs officers.
He moved to the Avis desk, gave his car reservation details to a female employee, and was supplied keys and instructions to locate his prebooked E-class Mercedes sedan. Ninety minutes later, he was heading northwest out of the center of Moscow. As he did so, he recalled that the last time he was in the city, he, Roger, Laith, and three Russian assets had been chasing an extremely dangerous man, culminating in the hostile escaping and most of the team being captured and tortured by soldiers. Then, Russia had been on the brink of war with the United States. Now the city looked busy, yet normal and peaceful.
Within one hour, he was on the outskirts of the city, driving through suburbia. Soon thereafter he was moving through countryside. He estimated it would take him forty minutes to reach the man who was going to give him the equipment he needed before going to Yevtushenko’s house. Maybe today he could find out what was going on. Or maybe not. He hated the feeling of not being in control, though he was resolute that he would get to the truth.
The six Russian men were by the back of the SUV, finishing getting dressed in their white arctic clothing. They were in a deserted area of woodland sixty miles north of Moscow.
After donning his balaclava and pulling his jacket hood over it, Valerii looked at his colleagues. “Four miles on foot to the valley; then we split up and move to our positions. Understood?”
The men nodded.
Checking that his Bushnell PowerView 20x50 surveillance binoculars were firmly in place within his jacket, Valerii added, “Do it exactly as we planned.”
Yesterday the men had reconnoitered the valley containing Yevtushenko’s isolated house. They’d chosen three locations that collectively would give the team complete coverage of the property’s exterior from distances ranging between four hundred and six hundred yards. And they’d chosen two backup locations for each angle of observation, in case they needed to move because Will Cochrane was approaching the house on a route that was too close to their positions. The men would be in two-man teams: one to watch the house, the other to watch their backs. All of them were armed with MP-443 handguns, the standard issue firearm carried by police officers in this part of Russia, though Valerii had instructed them that they were only to use them if it looked likely that Will would escape the police. But if it came to that, they’d know what to do. They were former Spetsnaz operatives-experts in concealment and surveillance, long-range marksmanship, endurance, and close-quarters combat. As their commanding officer, Valerii had led the men on numerous successful missions. Now he commanded them in far more dubious, illegal, and very profitable operations.
“It’s crucial he’s in the building before we call it in.”
One of the men asked, “What should we do if the cops open fire on us?”
Valerii pulled out his handgun, checked its workings, and shrugged. “Don’t do anything to them until Cochrane’s dead. After that, you can do what you like.”
Will stopped his vehicle in what was technically a farmstead, though it was rather more a junkyard. Around him were corrugated iron huts, three cars that were resting on bricks and had no wheels, a barn whose timber had completely rotted away down one side, a small house that retained sturdy walls but had no roof, bits of mangled and unrecognizable machinery, and a trailer. Beyond the farmstead was uninhabited forest. He got out of the car and stood on snow-covered ground.
A middle-aged man-medium height, ruffled jet black hair, a handlebar moustache, numerous old scars on his face-emerged from the trailer. He was wearing oil-stained blue overalls and was holding a double-barreled shotgun in one hand.
Will looked around before calling out in Russian, “Good to see you again, Arman.”