Wendy knew that whoever had pulled the trigger would receive punishment. The answer to who would administer it remained unknown. With the British legal system, the man would be afforded the benefit of a fair trial. With Ivanov’s cohorts, the man would be condemned and killed with little formality.
Wendy left the woman and returned to Larry. ‘She’ll not tell us much,’ she said.
‘Ivanov’s wife. She would regard us as no more than insects to squash underfoot.’
‘Not if she wants to stay in this country. Ivanov wants to be here, so does she, but why? He doesn’t need to be in London to run his organisation.’
‘Ivanov doesn’t feel as secure as he did before. He wants out, he wants England and a peaceful life.’
‘Peaceful to men such as Ivanov is subjective,’ Wendy said.
Chapter 19
Nicolae Cojocaru sat back in his chair; he was a contented man. On one side of him, a bottle of whisky; on the other, mounted on the wall, a flat-screen television tuned to a news channel. The breaking news, the shooting of Stanislav Ivanov, the latest report from the hospital stating that the man’s chances were not good. A brief synopsis followed of the man’s career. How, at the age of ten, he had been abandoned in the height of winter, surviving by sleeping in heated basements when he could find them, underneath stacks of cardboard when he couldn’t. How he had been taken in by an orphanage and had educated himself, taking every opportunity to better himself, eventually leaving university with two degrees. After that the television report became sketchy. There was mention of the ending of communism with Gorbachev, the rise of the oligarchs, Ivanov being one of the most prominent. Cojocaru knew that most of the story of the man’s past was not true, having been put out there by a loyal employee. Cojocaru wondered how long before the veneer started to crack and the truth was revealed.
Becali sat in another chair. ‘A great day,’ he said. He lifted his glass of whisky in the air, a salute that the worst was over.
‘It will be when they take him out of there in his coffin.’
‘There is no question of his death.’
‘That is what you said before.’
‘They’ll not give up on him that easily, but it was a good shot, I’ll vouch for it.’
‘On this, Ion, I trust you. What of the three West Indians?’
‘They have left the house.’
‘Good. Give them a bellyful of food and drink, a few women, and it’s as easy as leading a camel to water.’
‘With Ivanov gone, they’ll go back to what they were before. Will you honour your agreement with them?’
‘What agreement?’
‘To deal with them in a more consultative manner in the future; to fight the Russian threat together.’
‘Ion, still so naïve. No wonder you were starving in Bucharest. I never made any agreement, only suggestions. Are we ready for what happens?’
‘The weapons are here, and Ivanov’s people are ready to start shipping the extra quantities of drugs. Are you sure about this?’
‘I am sure. What Ivanov planned, we will implement.’
‘The Russians have agreed?’
‘Whoever killed Ivanov has done them a service. They are very grateful.’
‘They must never know.’
‘Not from me, they won’t. What now for you, Ion?’
‘Today, I intend to celebrate. Tomorrow, day one of what has been agreed. It has all worked out better than could have been expected.’
‘As long as Ivanov stays dead.’
‘His bodyguards?’
‘Some have disappeared, the others have been told to not indulge in reprisals. And besides, they don’t know who was responsible.’
‘Does it matter to them?’
‘No, but without Ivanov and the Tverskoyskaya Bratva giving them clear instructions, they’ll hold back.’
‘Let’s hope the man’s dead, for all our sakes,’ Becali said.
‘I can feel it in my bones,’ Cojocaru said. ‘He’s dead, and for once, I will join you in your celebration.’
***
As fast as Eurostar was, it wasn’t fast enough for Isaac. As the train was pulling into St Pancras Station, he was off and running; Oscar Braxton, not such a fit man, struggled to keep up with him. In the taxi, Isaac caught his breath; Braxton tried to look at ease, but his face was red, and he was gasping for breath.
At St Mary’s Hospital, the two men soon found Larry and Wendy. Updates on Ivanov’s condition were slow in coming. Braxton, his tie still undone after loosening it in the taxi, contacted his department. Serious and Organised Crime, New Scotland Yard, had more clout than Homicide, Challis Street. He spoke to his commander who phoned the hospital’s director of communications.
‘There’ll be a power struggle in Russia, survival of the fittest,’ Braxton said to Isaac.
‘Deaths?’
‘It’s probable, but it’ll be internal and in Russia. It’s not our concern. What’s happening here is, though.’
Ten minutes later, a surgeon came out from the operating theatre.
‘I’m Brian Forsythe, you’ll need an update on the patient,’ the surgeon, a man in his fifties, greying at the temples and as tall as Isaac, said.
‘You’re aware of who the man is?’ Isaac replied.
‘Not that it matters, but yes.’
‘He’s still alive?’ Larry asked. A blunt question, he knew, but he had spent enough times in hospital to know that the surgeon would feel the need to give a description of the effect of the bullet entering a man’s skull, the prognosis, how long he may or may not live, the difficulties in stemming the internal bleeding, and so on.
‘It’s important,’ Isaac said.
‘The patient is still alive. There was internal bleeding in the brain, fracturing of the skull. His survival is still dependent on a number of factors. We’ve put him into a medically-induced coma.’
‘How long for?’
