The bodyguards were disturbed with the change in the man, the result of his decision to stay in England on a permanent basis, his belief that England was safe.
On the pavement Ivanov stopped once again to talk to a group of schoolchildren, not that they knew who the man was, other than he was wealthy and influential. He asked them about their lessons, and what smartphones they used, and were they on Facebook. The guards attempted to hurry him along, careful not to touch his person.
From a window on the upper floor of a block of flats one street away, another man watched the scene. He opened the window, confident that with distance came protection. He took aim with the rifle set on a tripod, its telescopic sight tested many times for accuracy. He loaded one bullet into the rifle and pulled the trigger. He then left the room, the rifle still in position. He had no need of the weapon again, no need to gloat over his handiwork, only to feel a wave of relief surge over him.
The bullet’s target lay motionless on the footpath, the schoolchildren screaming in horror, the bodyguards unable to comprehend the scene, conscious of their fate if the man died, and even if he didn’t, they were guilty of negligence.
An ambulance arrived five minutes later, a medic stabilising Ivanov before putting him in the back of the vehicle and transporting him to the nearest hospital, the Rolls Royce following as well as two other cars.
The first that Homicide heard of the shooting was a phone call from Isaac. ‘I’m with Oscar Braxton. Get over to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. Ivanov’s been shot.’
Both Wendy and Larry were familiar with the place, as it was on Praed Street, just up from Paddington Station.
‘We’re heading back on Eurostar. We’ll come to the hospital on arrival. Expect a media circus there.’
‘Buckley and Briganti’s murderer?’
‘That’s still ongoing. Stanislav Ivanov is the key, and if he dies, there’ll be no Russian incursion into England. But if he survives, you can imagine the consequences.’
‘Revenge?’
‘And lots of it. The man is not the “forgive and turn the other cheek” kind of person. Whoever shot him must have known this.’
‘Who? Any suspicions?’
‘Not yet. Find out where the shot was taken from. No stone unturned on this one. I’ll phone DCS Goddard. He’s bound to have Commissioner Davies onto him soon enough.’
‘Caddick?’
‘God help us if he appears,’ Isaac said. ‘Got to go, taxi to the station. See you in a few hours.’
***
Not far away, Devon Harris met with Claude Bateman; Jeremy Miller was on his way. Everyone, including Cojocaru, the West Indians, the police, knew that whatever happened, a day of reckoning was coming when the opposing forces would be lined up against each other, either to come to an agreement or to fight.
At St Mary’s, the police were attempting to keep the media at bay, setting up an area across the road, and bringing in metal barriers. At the entrance to the hospital, two uniforms stood, backed up by a patrol car.
Larry waved his warrant card at the uniforms. They let him and Wendy through after a call from DCS Goddard to tell them that the man in the operating theatre was part of a homicide investigation. The uniforms, nervous due to the importance of the man inside, had only been doing their duty, Isaac knew that. A high-profile patient, and forged identification papers, easy enough to come by, could have been used by the media, or by the assassin if the man showed up to check on his work.
‘I need an update,’ Larry said to the lady at the desk outside the operating theatre.
‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a doctor to see you.’
Across the room, an elegantly dressed woman.
‘Mrs Ivanov, I’m Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Homicide. Could I take a few minutes of your time?’
‘Why? What has my Stanislav done? We intended to come and live in England but after this? Such a good man.’
Wendy could have said because he was a thug who controlled the most powerful criminal gang in Russia, the Tverskoyskaya Bratva, a man who killed and tortured people without a care, a man who had a couple of high-class women at his place in Bayswater, while, she, the wife, lived in Richmond in a mansion. Wendy could see a hardness in the woman’s face and realised that she would not have cared about the negatives, only the positives – the man was rich and generous, and he left her alone.
‘Have you received any updates on his condition?’
‘They told me to prepare for the worst,’ Elena Ivanov said. At her side sat another woman of a similar age, although not as well-dressed. She held the other's arm in a sign of friendship.
‘We will need to question him.’
‘Not Stanislav. He does not answer to anyone.’
‘This is not Russia. Here in this country, the police have the right to question. With citizenship comes responsibility. It is important that we find out who shot your husband and to bring that person to justice.’
‘He will talk to you if he
