The lay-out of the yacht imprinted on his mind, he moved along the deck until he reached an open hatch, and then went down the companionway. Below decks, he made his way to the main stateroom in the stern. After listening for a couple of minutes, he eased open the door. It wasn’t locked; on his own yacht, surrounded by his security team, Zakharov obviously felt he had nothing to fear. The room was littered with empty champagne bottles and discarded clothes. Lines of cocaine were still laid out on the glass-topped dressing table, with a bag of the white powder spilling across the glass, and there seemed to be powdery traces of cocaine on every flat surface.
Zakharov had passed out and lay snoring, naked on the silk sheets of the super-king-size bed while three naked young women lay around the cabin, two on the bed, the other sprawled across the floor. Monotok knew that Zakharov always plied his women with gamma-hydroxybutyrate, GHB, the date rape drug. That way they neither remembered nor complained about whatever he did to them. They were close to unconsciousness and would be feeling no pain.
Monotok leaned his spear gun by the door and slid his knife back into its scabbard. He reached for a waterproof pouch on his belt and quietly popped it open. He took out a syringe, eased off the cap and bent down over the woman on the floor. He didn’t bother looking for a vein, the liquid Valium was just as effective when it was injected into muscle. With this combined with the GHB already in their bloodstream, the girls would be out for hours. He put the empty syringe back into the pouch and repeated the process with the two girls on the bed before lifting them up and placing them on the floor.
He took four lengths of cord from the pouch and used it to carefully tie Zakharov’s wrists and ankles to the bed, then took out a roll of duct tape and used his teeth to bite off a piece. He climbed on to the bed and straddled Zakharov, shoving the tape over his mouth and winding it around his face several times. Only then did Zakharov start to wake up, but it was too late. He was bound and gagged. As the oligarch struggled, Monotok walked slowly around the bed, tightening the cords, until Zakharov was spreadeagled like a stranded starfish.
Monotok sat down on the edge of the bed and stared down at Zakharov. ‘Do you know me, Oleg?’ he asked in Russian. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’
Zakharov tried to speak but the duct tape made it impossible.
Monotok smiled and patted him on the cheek. ‘You don’t need to say anything, my fat little friend,’ he said. ‘In fact, I don’t want you to say anything. There is nothing you can say that will be of any interest to me. And you will only embarrass yourself by threatening me or offering me money or begging me to spare your life. All I need you to do is to nod or shake your head.’ His massive hand reached for Zakharov’s throat and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Now, do you understand me?’
Monotok released his grip on the man’s throat and he nodded, quickly. Monotok smiled and patted him on the cheek again. ‘That’s a good little fat man,’ he said. ‘So, do you recognise me?’
Zakharov shook his head.
‘And does the name Kirill Luchenko mean anything to you?’
Zakharov shook his head again.
‘Well, by the time I have finished that name will mean something to you. What about my father? Mark Luchenko?’
Another shake of his head. More frantic this time.
‘Or my mother? Misha?’
Zakharov stared fearfully at Monotok, and then shook his head.
Monotok smiled sadly. ‘How quickly you forget,’ he said. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. I’ve killed a lot of people and in most cases I never got to know their names. I was in Chechnya, killing for our masters. And there wasn’t time to ask for names. But when I did know their names, I remembered. I still remember. I don’t see how you can take a life and not show the respect to at least remember the life you have taken.’ He patted Zakharov on the cheek again. ‘You will remember me, my little fat friend. But not for long. I’m going to explain to you who my parents were and who I am and how what you did made me the man I am. You will understand who I am and why I am going to kill you. Then I will take your life. But at least I will do you the courtesy of remembering your name. So now, let’s get started. I’m going to tell you a story, about a nine-year-old boy.’
Monotok spoke for the next ten minutes, his voice barely above a whisper. From time to time he patted Zakharov’s face and once he gripped his cheek tightly between his thumb and forefinger. As he spoke, Zakharov struggled to free himself, but his efforts were futile. Eventually he gave up and tears rolled down his cheeks. When Monotok finished talking and pulled out the syringe, Zakharov’s bowels emptied and he soiled the bed.
Monotok reached over with his left hand and squeezed the oligarch’s throat until his face went purple and his heels were drumming on the mattress. When Zakharov’s veins were fully engorged, Monotok plunged the needle into the carotid artery and injected the entire contents of the syringe, then released his grip on Zakharov’s throat. The girls had been injected with concentrated Valium, ensuring a deep dreamless sleep. But the syringe Monotok used on Zakharov contained a concentrated cocaine solution. Zakharov died quickly, but painfully, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hatred.
Once Zakharov had stopped breathing, Monotok pulled off the duct tape and undid the cords around his wrists and ankles. He picked up his spear gun, slipped out of the cabin and moved back along the deck, silently passing the point where the crewmen were still taking turns with the now unconscious young woman. He climbed back down to the water, collapsed the pole and swam away into the night.
Shepherd arrived at Grechko’s house at 6.30. He wound down the window of his X5 and waved at the CCTV camera and the metal gate immediately rolled back. Max Barsky, the young Ukrainian, was in the gatehouse, and he waved through the window as Shepherd drove by.
The doors to the garage were already up and Shepherd drove down to the car parking area. He left the X5 next to Grechko’s Bentley, which they would be using to drive to Northolt airfield. He took with him a kitbag containing his running gear – most of his day was spent in the control centre and he had decided that he was going to start exercising every day. The gym was available twenty-four hours a day but he had never been a fan of exercise equipment or weights.
He walked over to the control centre, pressed his thumb against the sensor and tapped in his four-digit code before pushing the door open. Mikhail Ulyashin was sitting in front of the screens, his aluminium crutches next to him on the floor. Ulyashin nodded and pointed at the connecting door. Shepherd pushed it open. Alina Podolski was making coffee and she looked over at Shepherd and raised one eyebrow. ‘Splash of milk and no sugar,’ he said in answer to her unspoken question. He dropped his bag by the wall and sat down at the end of the table, facing Popov. Alexei Dudko, Boris Volkov and Grigory Sokolov were already seated. Dudko was munching on a banana and Sokolov was eating a yoghurt with a plastic spoon.
Podolski put mugs down in front of Popov and Shepherd and then went back to the coffee maker for her own cup. She sat down. Like the rest of the bodyguards she had a small notepad and a pen in front of her.