The Mercedes driver was still lying on the front seat, unconscious. It was fair to assume no other car had been by, or, if one had, it had kept going.
Zhilev inspected the damage to his car. The back wheel was buckled and unusable. Changing the wheel would not be a cure. The Mercedes was also inoperable, not that he would have used it anyway.
There was no choice but to walk, a decision he accepted without a second thought.
He took his walking boots from the car, sat on the bumper and pulled them on, stowing his shoes in the backpack.
He pulled his pack on to his back, hoisted the large, heavy bag out of the boot, looped an arm through the carrying straps and hung it from his shoulder. It felt comfortable enough to walk with and he lowered it back down on to the road along with the backpack. He looked at the mess of cars and bodies. If he was going to ensure his security he would have to clean up before leaving.
He went to the driver’s door of the Volvo, took the brake off, leaned his shoulder into the doorframe and, with a powerful shove, moved the old car forward. As it got going, he turned the wheel and steered it across the road and towards the lip of the hill. He increased his speed to get it up the slight rise on the edge of the road and then its nose suddenly dipped and carried on under its own momentum. Zhilev stepped away and watched his car trundle down the steep slope, picking up speed, then crunch heavily into the pine trees, coming to an abrupt stop a few metres into the wood. It could not be seen by anyone driving by in a car. Someone in a lorry or coach might see it perhaps, or a passer-by. There was nothing he could do about it now anyway and it would have to do.
He walked over to the Turk with the broken skull and knelt by him.The man looked dead. Zhilev prodded him in the chest and to his astonishment, he murmured. Zhilev never ceased to be impressed with the resilience of the human body.The man was probably a vegetable since there were tiny bits of his brain leaking from the crack in his skull, yet it was possible he might live, a chance he could not take. He was not following his own operational procedures for leaving witnesses behind as much as those of the Spetsnaz, and, since he was imposing those operating standards on himself, he could not divert from them. It had been a long time since he had killed a man, and never this cold blooded.
Zhilev reached for the man’s jacket collar with both hands and placed his fingers inside, the knuckles against the man’s neck directly below the ears, as if he was going to punch him from both sides simultaneously. With his thumbs outside the collar, he gripped the shirt strongly and twisted his wrists inwards forcing the knuckles of both index fingers deep into the neck using the collar as leverage. The move clamped shut the carotid arteries that fed blood from the heart to the brain thus depriving it of oxygen, which would lead to a speedy death. As soon as he applied pressure, the man began to choke and wriggle. Zhilev increased it further, his knuckles sinking deeper into the man’s neck. The Turk’s struggle intensified, his eyes opening in horror and his hands coming up to take hold of Zhilev’s. Within seconds the Turk’s eyes rolled back into his head, his tongue slid out of his mouth and his hands dropped to his sides.
Zhilev kept the choke on for a little longer, to make sure, before releasing him.
He got to his feet to look at his handiwork. It was a strange experience taking a life in that way, but he felt no remorse. He had rid the world of one more piece of scum. Zhilev urged himself to get on with it and, taking hold of the man’s feet, dragged him around to the side of the car and, with some effort, rolled him on to the back seat. Zhilev took a moment to catch his breath and glanced at the driver lying across the front seats; the man was conscious and staring up at him.
The Turk guessed his partner was dead and knew he was next. He tried to get his arms and legs to move to pull himself out of the seat, and he might have managed it if he had all day to try. When Zhilev put a hand on him and held him down on to the seat, he gave up the effort knowing it was hopeless.
Zhilev leaned over and put his hands inside the Turk’s collar as before. The Turk did not struggle. It was pointless against this powerful man. He stared into Zhilev’s eyes and Zhilev stared back as he twisted his wrists and clamped the Turk’s carotid artery. Like his comrade, he struggled for a few seconds, an involuntary reaction caused by oxygen deprivation, then it was all over.
Zhilev climbed out of the car, closed the doors, leaned in through the driver’s window and pushed it to the edge. It rolled down the hill as gracefully as the Volvo, penetrating only a little further into the wood.
He took his map from his pocket and studied it. He had been heading for Marmaris, a good-sized seaport some thirty kilometres away, and he decided it was still his best bet. It would add another day to the planning if he did not come across an alternative mode of transport, but that was not a major concern as long as he was not on anyone’s list of wanted persons, which he was positive he was not. As regards the recent incident, with the efficiency of the Turkish authorities, or lack of it, the cars could be discovered five minutes after he was gone and it would still take days, perhaps weeks, before the deaths could be linked to the man from Riga and any kind of manhunt organised. By that time he would be wanted in connection with a far more serious event.
He pulled a flat, transparent-plastic prismatic compass from a pocket and laid it over the map, placing the edge so that it formed a line from where he was standing across country to Marmaris. He turned the dial of the compass until it lined up with the north pointer on the map, pocketed the map and, holding the compass steady, orientated his body until the needle settled in its box. He looked directly ahead, in the direction the compass was pointing, and found the furthest object on the horizon, so he could walk towards it without constantly checking his compass.
He pulled on his backpack, picked up the heavy bag and was about to set off when he stopped and patted his breast pocket quickly as if he had forgotten something. His eyes darted to the rock where he had sat and ate his bread and honey. On it was the photograph of him and Vladimir. He walked over, picked it up, studied it for a moment, then placed it in the plastic bag with the others and pocketed it safely by his breast. He set off, leaving the road after a few metres and headed across country, trying to think what else Vladimir and he had done during that day.
In many ways this journey across country on foot carrying all he needed to complete the operation was quite satisfying. It had the feel of a real operation: weight on his back, map in pocket, compass hanging from his neck, blood on his hands and the objective within reach. The travelling part of the mission, the approach phase, was half over and, but for a handful of Turkish highwaymen, the trail behind him was clean.
As he trudged on the Mediterranean came into full view, filling the horizon and stretching as far as the eye could see. Somewhere between the furthest hills and the water, out of sight, was the harbour of Marmaris where he would get a boat and leave the land behind. How he longed to be at sea once more, a phase of the journey he had delighted in planning.
The ground gradually began to drop away. He was 880 metres above the sea, according to the map, which meant the journey was practically all downhill, and a rough estimation would have him on the outskirts of the town soon after first light as long as he had no more than four hours’ rest. He wanted a complete day at the seaside town to carry out his next phase, reasoning he would be able to rest all he wanted when at sea. A good hearty meal on arrival, then to work. There was plenty of time. He suddenly felt very pleased with himself, a delayed euphoria after his victory in battle, made all the more pleasing because he had taken on three assailants and destroyed them without so much as a nick to himself. He was pressing on relentlessly, victoriously, and in complete control. And why not? He was Spetsnaz and, as long as he stuck to his plan, unbeatable.
Stratton sat in the departure lounge of Heathrow’s second terminal, his feet stretched out in front of him, reading his Knights Templar book with a small backpack on the seat beside him. He sighed and looked up across the crowded hall unable to concentrate. Nearly two weeks had passed since the Thetford Forest incident but he was still feeling niggled by its outcome, specifically his failure to protect Gabriel. Sumners had indeed been angry, mainly because of how it reflected on him personally. Gabriel had been diagnosed with a severe concussion and forced to remain in a hospital until further notice, and Stratton had been sent back to Poole without another word on his immediate future. Asking for another assignment was obviously out of the question, and, after complete silence from London, once again Stratton began to give up hope of getting another call to return to work for MI6. Deep down he now realised it was what he wanted to do, despite the plethora of negatives. It was the most exciting game in town and even though some of the jobs, such as the remote-viewer gig, were boring and others unsavoury, there were always many good assignments as compensation.What annoyed Stratton was how unreasonable Sumners had been. He knew what a dead-end job looking after Gabriel was and how far removed from Stratton’s particular skills. And Gabriel had not died.
Stratton urged himself to calm down and accept it was over. He was at the airport waiting for a flight to
