‘I thought the English police were the best, but it appears they are not. I may have to re-evaluate my time in your country. It may be that Russia is a safer place for me.’
Isaac knew this was rhetoric on Ivanov’s part and that this incident would be breaking news in the media: a prominent and respected Russian businessman, the intended victim of a brazen assassination attempt, the second since the man had returned to England, the first since the football team he owned had won the FA Cup.
‘Our investigation has been thwarted by a wall of silence. Mr Ivanov, who took these shots?’
‘I am a powerful man, and in Russia, powerful men have powerful enemies.’
‘Are you saying that the attempts are orchestrated from Russia?’
‘I have said no such thing. Do not try to trick me with your English language. I am suitably fluent not to fall for such tricks. In Russia, business is sometimes conducted with a gun, but here in England, I thought it was not.’
‘It is not an Englishman who shot you, and you know this. It was either a Romanian or a Russian. We are aware of your connections in Russia, of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva.’
‘I am a legitimate businessman who abides by the law and the ethics of the country that I operate in.’
‘Are you saying that the Bratva is legitimate?’
‘It is you that mention the Bratva, not I. And may I remind you that I am an influential man, and any aspersions that I am in some way guilty of any crime are slanderous, and I will ensure that your superiors are informed of what you are saying.’
Isaac knew that once the words ‘influential’, and ‘I have friends in high places’ were mentioned, then the person saying the words was rattled, and they were guilty.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I will go and check on your previous room,’ Isaac said. ‘What will you do about this second assassination attempt?’
‘I will rely on the British police to apprehend who is responsible and to bring them to justice.’
Both Isaac and Larry knew that the man would not.
Upstairs, in the room previously occupied by Ivanov, Gordon Windsor was busy, as were three of his colleagues. Outside, along the corridor, some of the other patients in the adjoining rooms were being moved. It was a crime scene, and it was neither as quiet as it should be nor as hygienic. A middle-aged woman from the hospital administration made herself known to Isaac, expressed her concern at what had happened, and asked how long it would be before the police were finished and that it was a hospital for the ill, and not there for a police training exercise.
Isaac soothed the woman, ensured her that all efforts would be made to keep the disruption to a minimum, but a man had almost been shot in the hospital, and that had to take precedence. After ten minutes of his best diplomacy, the woman left.
Isaac and Larry kitted up in coveralls, gloves, overshoes, and entered Ivanov’s previous room.
‘Not a good record,’ Windsor said. He was looking out of the window at a building across the road.
‘The police or the assassin?’
‘Both. You’ll be hauled over the coals on this one. The man was in our protective custody this time.’
Isaac did not respond. He knew that Windsor was correct. Stanislav Ivanov had been provided police protection. It was not so much an oversight, more a realisation that it was the first time that a bullet had been fired into a hospital, and this time, the point of the bullet’s departure could be clearly seen, an open window no more than fifty yards distance.
‘We’ve got people over there?’ Larry asked. ‘It was only luck that Ivanov moved to one side in his bed at the right time.’
‘The shooter’s been sloppy this time. We found some prints.’
‘Larry, get over there,’ Isaac said. ‘Find out what you can and make an arrest. If you don’t, we’re in for a rough time.’
***
Two days after the second attempt on Ivanov’s life, the man checked himself out of St Mary’s Hospital and returned to his home in Bayswater. However, this time Gennady Peskov ensured that the security provided was the best possible, no more low-grade thugs from Russia, other than a core group of four personally chosen by Peskov. A private English security company were to patrol outside the house; they were not armed, not even with pepper spray or tasers, a result of stringent English laws restricting the carrying and use of weapons, and although Peskov thought it foolish, Ivanov could not agree. With the money being paid, and the incorruptibility of the men employed, he knew that he was safer with men who regarded security as a profession, not just a chance to carry a gun and act important.
Peskov and his chosen four, fellow villagers back in Russia, had an arsenal of weapons in the house, although when they left the building they ensured that only two of them would discreetly carry guns. In the event of a gun being used, that person would be whisked out of England before the authorities could question him.
Ivanov sat in his favourite chair, his wife nearby.
‘I want to stay in England,’ the wife said. She was holding her husband’s hand, but not with the attendant affection that would be assumed, but then, Ivanov knew that didn’t exist. They had married young and had had three children. One of them, the only daughter, was a doctor in Moscow, and she used her mother’s maiden name, and never mentioned that she was the child of Stanislav Ivanov. The two sons, one was killed in a shootout in St Petersburg,
