Avenue of Thieves Page 3

  Two hundred yards back the CA team sedan was also picking up speed. It overtook the vehicle with Dimitri, passing so close he could see the panicked faces of the men inside.

  It continued onto the bridge as the other cars around it did their best to get out of the way. As it came up on the smashed section of guard rail, it, too, fish-tailed, the back of the vehicle sliding out.

  The engine roared afresh, the tires smoking as they spun for a second before it accelerated through the gap.

  It took off from the edge of the bridge and hurtled into the air, landing almost flush on top of the first sedan, and pushing it under the green-black water of the canal.

  McLennan aimed his handgun square at the dashboard display of the Cadillac. If they couldn’t stop whoever or whatever had taken control, he might be able to disable it before they also went over the edge of the bridge.

  As he began to squeeze the trigger of his Glock, the car came to a stop. The engine shut off.

  McLennan climbed over the seat into the back. He started to reach for the door handle, but his employer was one step ahead of him.

  Dimitri yanked open the rear passenger door, ready to get the hell out of the death trap. As he put one foot out, he glanced at the dash display. A message flashed on it in Cyrillic letters.

  McLennan looked back too, following Dimitri’s gaze.

  “What does it say?” he asked Dimitri.

  Dimitri didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled his foot back inside the car, and closed the door as his bodyguard looked at him like he was crazy.

  “Sir, we need to exit this vehicle.”

  Finally, Dimitri looked at him. “Believe me, if they’d wanted me down there,” he said, with a nod in the direction of the water below, “that’s where I’d be.”

  The pickup truck nudged its way slowly through the jam of vehicles that had come to a stop on the bridge. There was the distant noise of sirens and the smell of burning rubber.

  People had exited their vehicles and were staring in horror at the two black Cadillac sedans sinking slowly. Some had run to either end of the bridge so they could find a way down to the water below and lend assistance.

  Looking up at the truck’s dashboard, two of the three screens had gone dark. Only the third remained live.

  Reaching down, Alexei snapped the laptop shut, steadied his hands on the wheel, and sped away from the carnage.

  Mission completed.

  6

  Four days later

  Manhattan’s Upper East Side

  Ryan Lock and Ty Johnson shouldered their way through the pack of assembled media gathered behind the crowd control barriers at either end of the block. Two blue and white Ford Fusion police responder sedans were parked nose to nose behind the steel hook barriers. Beyond the vehicles there was a row of more traditional wooden sawhorse barriers.

  The six-feet-four-inches tall, 240-pound Marine veteran curled his lip in a show of vague disgust at the shiny new patrol cars as he and Lock approached a patrol officer.

  “Cops driving hybrids,” said Ty.

  “Hey, at least they’re American,” said Lock, showing the cop his ID, which was then checked off a list of authorized visitors.

  “Give me an old-school gas guzzler any day,” said Ty.

  “With leopard-skin seats and a booming sound system that can rearrange internal organs from a hundred yards?” said Lock, referencing his partner’s purple 1966 Lincoln Continental.

  Ty was many things. Capable, loyal, as tough as old boots, but shy and unassuming would never appear on any list of his personal qualities. Lock, who’d served in the British Royal Military Police’s elite Close Protection Unit, was the classic gray man, who liked to blend into the background. It made them a strange, but also strangely effective, team in the world of high-end close protection.

  The cop returned Lock’s ID with a brusque “Thank you.”

  “Exactly,” said Ty, digging out his California driver’s license and handing it to the cop, who scanned it and waved them both through to the next security check, this one manned by private security personnel who were employed, at least for the time being, by Dimitri Semenov.

  Ty turned around to take another look at the patrol cars. “What do you think, Ryan? Level Two?”

  “Sure hope not,” said Lock, as they made their way onto the block of multimillion-dollar brownstones.

  The level referred to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration’s levels of driver assistance technology. They ran all the way from Level 0, cars like Ty’s beloved Continental, all the way to Level 5 vehicles, which could drive all by themselves.

  The two Cadillac sedans that had been remotely piloted off the bridge and into the Shinnecock canal were Level 2, partially autonomous automobiles that could control functions like steering and acceleration. They were designed to require what was called ‘driver engagement’, something the hacker had overridden.

  Besides killing three bodyguards, two had drowned, and one had died from head trauma, the incident had led to a multibillion-dollar product recall, and a level of security on this particular Manhattan block that was usually reserved for the serving president whose own residence, Trump Tower, was only a stone’s throw away. Like many other wealthy Russians, an apartment in Trump Tower had been one of Dimitri’s first real-estate purchases when he first relocated to the United States.

  From his pre-meeting research, Lock knew these weren’t the first of Dimitri’s security people to meet a violent end. Over the years more than two dozen people tasked with protecting his life had paid the ultimate price. Most had been killed while the billionaire was back in Russia. Like Mexico, Iraq and Afghanistan, Russia could be a dangerous place to work in high-end security.

  This latest incident had been, as far as Lock was aware, the first time Dimitri Semenov had been targeted on American soil. No arrests had been made. A description of a possible suspect who’d been driving a pickup truck had been issued but so far he hadn’t been identified, never mind located.

  The list of people with a motive to kill or harm Dimitri was a long one. You didn’t amass such a vast fortune in such a short time without making your share of enemies. Even those who had inherited huge fortunes had a target on their back. With wealth came violence, or the threat of it. Then there were the run-of-the-mill kidnappers, extortionists and con artists.

  An elderly woman walking a tiny dog hustled past them, muttering under her breath.

  “Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous,” she said, loud enough that Ryan and Ty could catch it.

  “Guess the neighbors aren’t happy,” said Ty.

  Lock stopped and turned back to take in the circus they’d just navigated. “Can’t blame them really, can you? What do you think a house on this block goes for?”

  Ty shrugged. “Three, four million.”

  Lock smiled. “Yeah, twenty years ago maybe.”

  It was an accepted fact that the Upper East Side, unlike other parts of the island, was where the old money resided. It was quiet, unobtrusive, and that was how the inhabitants liked it, a place to enjoy one’s wealth in relative peace, or as peaceful as Manhattan got.

  “It’ll settle down in a few days,” Lock observed.

  That was, no doubt, part of why they their former client had contacted them. The NPYD would up patrols but they weren’t going to maintain this level of security indefinitely.

  The period immediately after an attempted assassination or terrorist attack was usually safe. Security was ramped up, and visibly so. It was when things quietened down that you had to worry.

  They reached the steps that led up to the front door. Two uniformed patrol officers flanked either side of the steps, looking bored.

  “Ryan Lock and Ty Johnson, here to see Mr. Semenov.”

  One officer checked their IDs again while his partner announced their arrival via his radio.

  They were nodded through and climbed the short flight of stone steps. The door opened before they could knock, a
nd they were ushered inside by one of the private security team, who directed them toward an airport-style scanner.

  “Talk about locking the barn door,” said Ty, unimpressed.

  They emptied their pockets into separate gray plastic trays, which were then put through an X-ray scanner, and were patted down by another member of the private security. Finally they were allowed into the main hallway.

  The residential security was on point. But guarding a residence was one of the easier aspects of close protection work. Especially during a period of heightened risk. And nothing heightened the attention of focus like the death of your colleagues.

  It also explained the stare-downs they’d been getting from the security detail since they’d walked in. The Circuit, as it was known, was a small world, and Lock and Ty were well known within it, if not exactly well loved. Being called upon to review and possibly oversee someone’s else’s operation was hardly likely to change that.

  The company currently tasked with keeping Dimitri and his family safe was Blackfall Group, Inc. Along with the likes of Olive and Armor Group, Blackfall was one of the largest suppliers of private military contractors and high-end private security operators in the world. They recruited mainly former members of the American and British military, including ex-special forces, and had offices in London, New York, Moscow, Frankfurt and Paris, as well as hot spots like Baghdad and Kabul. They were generally well regarded. Lock respected their work and the people they employed.

  Lock had asked that immediately after he sat down with Dimitri he meet with the head of the security detail, who would take him through the existing arrangements, and get an idea of what had gone wrong back in the Hamptons. He already had an excellent idea of what that was, but he wanted to assess how honest and open they were prepared to be with him. That would be a good indicator of how well he’d be able to work with them.

  The serving head of the team, Neil McLennan, came with an exemplary record. He had been the designated bodyguard on the fateful day. Lock had spoken with a few people who knew McLennan well. To a person they described him as capable and loyal. One had even said that if there was one person he would trust with his life it would be McLennan.

  The only negative he’d heard was a report about an incident in Iraq when McLennan had allegedly been involved in the death of an Iraqi prisoner during an escape attempt. The suggestion was that, rather than risk his men chasing after the man, McLennan had given them the go-ahead to shoot him. An investigation had cleared everyone involved and the person who had made the allegation was said to have fallen out with McLennan over a separate matter.

  What concerned Lock more was that, from what he had already gathered, there had been nothing in place to prevent the car McLennan and Semenov were in from being driven off the bridge. Or, if the remote carjackers had wanted to, for it to be driven at top speed into a concrete pillar or any other solid object along that route.

  The truth was that McLennan hadn’t saved his principal’s life. Whoever had unleashed all this mayhem had done that.

  The cops knew it, the FBI knew it, Dimitri surely knew it, and so would McLennan.

  A personal assistant appeared. She was early forties, close to six feet tall, with cropped blonde hair and laser-like blue eyes.

  “Madeline Marshowsky,” she said, shaking their hands. “Let me show you into the drawing room.”

  She led them down a mahogany-paneled hallway and into a large room at the front of the property. Bookcases lined the walls. Couches had been pushed back to make way for three desks strewn with papers and computers.

  Dimitri Semenov sat at the largest of the desks, peering at several monitors over the top of half-moon reading glasses. He looked more handsome college professor than Russian oligarch. He also, Lock noted, had the appearance of a man who was running on fumes, with dark bags under his eyes and gaunt pinched cheeks.

  He looked up at the two assistants manning the other desks and dismissed them with a curt “That’ll be all for now.”

  He pushed back his office chair, rose and stretched. “I’m working from home for the time being,” he said, with an airy wave at the chaos. “It’s easier.”

  Lock and Ty walked over to him. He greeted them both warmly, clasping their hands in turn. “Thank you for coming all this way.”

  “Of course,” said Lock.

  Dimitri clapped his hands together. “Madeline, can you arrange for someone to bring us coffee?” He turned his attention back to Lock and Ty. “Have you eaten? I can have the housekeeper make you anything you’d like.”

  “Coffee would be great,” said Lock.

  He could see Ty thinking about it. He rarely passed up any opportunity to eat. But protocol won out this time.

  “Coffee’s fine,” said Ty.

  The assistant exited, closing the door behind her. Dimitri waved them to one of the couches. “Sit. Sit.”

  One of the things that had struck Lock when working for people from Dimitri’s part of the world was how hospitable they were. Rich clients could be hard work, but any Russians he had worked for were the opposite of the grim, unsmiling people presented in the western media during the Cold War.

  They sat and Dimitri perched on the edge of another couch, hands clasped together.

  “So,” said Lock, leading it off. “Tell me what you’d like us to do.”

  “Review my current security arrangements, obviously.”

  When they’d been contacted Lock had patiently explained that he wasn’t in a position to take over such a large operation. Finding, vetting and putting in place such a team would take weeks if not months. Demand for good people was high. Plus, from his initial assessment, Lock believed that the current team were solid. They’d screwed up somewhere along the line, but that could happen, even with the very best will in the world.

  “We can absolutely do that,” Lock told him. “If you’d like we can also try to ascertain how to prevent a reoccurrence and look at any other possible areas of concern.”

  “I doubt there will be a reoccurrence of that particular problem,” said Dimitri. “But, yes, testing the current arrangements would be helpful.”

  The room fell silent. Lock sensed an ‘and’ coming.

  “You’ve both signed the NDA my attorney prepared?” asked Dimitri.

  NDAs, or non-disclosure agreements, were standard for anyone working with or for high-net-worth individuals. Despite sections of the media trying to paint these agreements as somehow sinister, and indicators of possible bad behavior, the truth was different. Wealthy people and celebrities were as entitled to their privacy as anyone else. There was a voracious appetite for gossip about them. Hence the need to ensure discretion.

  Additionally, the people they employed, such as assistants and housekeepers were often privy to the smallest details of their personal as well as their business lives. And with that access came security issues. Knowing the school a child attended, how they got there, and the name of their teacher would be information that was highly prized by potential kidnappers. And that was only one example.

  “Yes, they’re all signed off,” said Lock.

  Dimitri sank back into the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s good. It’s been a very stressful time and the media love nothing more than to speculate.”

  “I can imagine,” said Lock.

  Dimitri leaned forward again. “Your solemn word that what I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room?”

  Both men nodded.

  “I can’t just stay here like a sitting duck waiting for these people to try again.”

  Lock noted “these people” but didn’t say anything. It suggested that Dimitri Semenov had a good idea who had been behind this.

  “I need someone who’s prepared to be proactive.”

  Lock stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure he liked where this might be going.

  “I need you to find the people who arranged this, and I need you to eliminate them.”

  7

  It
wasn’t the first time Lock had heard that type of request from a client. People whose lives were under threat were understandably emotional. He didn’t take it too seriously. At the same time it was important that he make clear what the boundaries were.

  There was also the possibility that it was a test. A way of Dimitri working out where the line existed for them.

  “Mr. Semenov,” he began.

  “Please, call me Dimitri.”

  Lock took a breath. “Okay, Dimitri. We’re in the business of protecting human life, not taking it.”

  Dimitri smiled. “Are you sure about that? I don’t wish to be rude, but your track record might suggest otherwise.”

  That was a fair point. Lock and Ty had both killed people, both while serving in the military and sanctioned to do so by the government, and while working privately.

  “I’ve used lethal force when I’ve had no other option,” said Lock, aware that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. “What you would be asking is very different, and it’s not something we could agree to.”

  Lock looked over at Ty for his response.

  Ty played dumb. “What were we talking about there? I didn’t hear a word of that.”

  “I expected that to be your answer,” said Dimitri, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t about to give up on his request.

  “Listen, let’s take a step back, shall we?” said Lock.

  Dimitri nodded.

  “We’re aware you’ve always faced a certain level of threat, but when did it ramp up, and why?” said Lock.

  Dimitri rose from his seat and paced across to his desk and back as he spoke. “It’s been a long time coming. Things are different back home. The agreement before was that people like me would be left alone as long as we didn’t interfere in politics.”

  From his work with wealthy Russian clients, Lock knew exactly what he was talking about. The Russian government resented the wealth of the oligarchs, as those who had built vast fortunes after the fall of Communism had come to be known. The Russian state in general, and one man in particular, Vladimir Putin, saw them as having taken advantage of a chaotic situation to acquire things that weren’t theirs.