The Russian Doll (Ben Sign Book 3) Read online

  When they reached the village, the captain was the first to unleash hell. He tossed a grenade at a group of women who were clustered together around a well and were beating dust out of their homes’ rugs. The grenade exploded. So did the women.

  All of the Alpha men opened fire, except Pavlov.

  Men, women, and children were running haphazardly while screaming. Some of them fell to the ground, injured or dead. Others sought cover in their houses or behind walls. Where they hid didn’t matter to Alpha. They torched buildings, burning occupants alive, shot people in the head, despatched wounded villagers who were lying on the ground, killed their goats and sheep, and grabbed an elderly man who they assumed was the village elder and hanged him with a length of climbing rope.

  It was a massacre. What Petrov was seeing was a set of images that would were being branded onto his brain and would stay with him for the rest of his life. He wanted no part of this slaughter. And he wanted it to stop. He ran to a house that hadn’t been torched. Other Alpha men were oblivious to him. They were smiling, just focused on their quarry, shooting and killing like madmen. Petrov went to the top floor of the house. He was alone in there. He guessed the people who lived here were already dead on the street below. He raised his rifle and aimed it at his captain.

  The captain was moving further down the central path in the village. Petrov was in no doubt that he was either a madman, a psychopath, a sociopath, or any other label one could apply to a sick fuck. The captain hurled another grenade, this time at a bunch of kids. Petrov counted. One, two, three, four. The grenade would go off in two more seconds. All of Alpha’s grenades had been primed for a six second detonation. There was nothing Petrov could do to save the kids. But, he could try to make this end. He counted two more seconds, the grenade went off, obliterating the children, Petrov pulled his trigger, the captain’s head was turned into mush.

  Petrov ran out of the house, screaming, “Sniper! Sniper!”

  The Alpha men stopped in their tracks then darted for cover.

  Petrov grabbed the dead captain under his shoulders and dragged him back toward the escarpment. The other Alpha men scanned windows and other places with their rifles as Petrov stayed out in the open and continued hauling the captain’s limp body. The Alpha team thought it was the bravest thing they’d ever seen.

  One of them shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

  The Special Forces men retreated, their job done. Most of the village was ablaze. At least forty people were dead.

  They reached Petrov and the captain four hundred yards up the escarpment. The captain was on Petrov’s shoulder. Petrov was breathing fast, struggling up the hill towards the Russian border.

  One of the men put his hand on Petrov’s arm. The man was a highly experienced operative. “We’ll carry him from here. What you did was incredible. You should be dead. I’m going to recommend you for the Gold Star Medal.” It was the highest award that could be bestowed upon a Russian, and was also known as Hero of the Russian Federation. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get it. We were never here. The captain’s body will be disposed of by us. So, if it’s impossible for you to get a medal, know that Alpha can picture that medal on your chest.”

  They took the body off Petrov’s shoulder and hauled him up the hill. Petrov spent a moment catching his breath, bent over, his hands on his knees. He looked back at the village. It was a sight no man should have seen. He turned and followed his colleagues towards the border.

  Before they got there the captain’s body was burned until it was a crispy and molten carcass. It was then tossed into a pond, weighed down by rocks. It was the kind of burial they all expected. They left him there and escaped to Russia.

  Three months’ later Natalia Asina was in the kitchen as she watched her older brother take a walk along a remote footpath alongside the clifftop close to the cottage he’d bought for his parents. The cottage was ten miles west of St. Petersburg – far away from the hurly burly of city life; close enough to long distance city rail and airplane hubs. Natalia was twenty three, a brunette, fluent in English and French, had no boyfriend or any meaningful friends for that matter, was career-driven, had recently graduated from St. Petersburg State University with a degree in politics, and had passed the gruelling selection process to join the SVR, the successor to the KGB. In one week, she’d be moving to Moscow to start her training.

  Her parents had paid for her education.

  Petrov had paid for the cottage.

  The timing of both events had been awful. Her parents had used up every last penny to give their daughter a better life. Petrov had hoped to give his parents a retirement home. But, their father keeled over a year ago with a heart attack. He was dead before he hit the ground. Their mother had contracted pneumonia. If she’d had any money left she could have paid for hospital care and drugs. She was broke, mentally and physically. She died on her bed, Petrov and Natalia by her side.

  Natalia had made a pledge to herself that she would repay the debt to her family. Petrov was all she had now. He couldn’t last forever in the army. She’d look after him when she could. And if he had any future money problems, she’d help him out.

  Something was wrong with Petrov since he’d been granted a four week holiday before he was required to return to Moscow. He seemed distant, forced himself to smile but in doing so had a grin that looked like a cracked porcelain vase, would never talk about his work, and he drank vodka day and night. When he was sleeping in the two bedroom house, Natalia could hear him from her room. He’d shout out noises that had no meaning, with one exception: several times every night he’d yell, “This is wrong! Stop it! Stop!”

  Natalia watched him from the kitchen window. After walking over a slight rise in the footpath, he disappeared from view. She was cooking beef stroganoff for dinner, with plenty of potatoes on the side. She hoped the carbohydrates would soak up the alcohol in Petrov’s system. He’d never been a big drinker before. And since he’d joined the army he’d been a fitness fanatic. Now, there was something wrong with his state of mind. But, she had to tread gently with him. Petrov was her intellectual equal, they’d been extremely close as children, never judged each other, and always helped each other and their parents. Maybe that was because the family had grown up in poverty. Or maybe it was simply because they loved each other unconditionally. The last thing Natalia wanted was to cause an argument with her brother.

  The only reason she knew he worked in Spetsnaz was because it was mentioned to her by her vetting officer, as part of her recruitment into the SVR. She never told Petrov that she knew which unit he worked in. It didn’t seem relevant. He’d tell her himself, if he wanted to, she’d reasoned. She was proud of him before he joined the army; proud of him when he joined the army so she could go to university; proud of him now. But she was worried. Something was troubling him.

  She went upstairs to use the bathroom. She was not the prying type, though that would have to change when she became a spy. Petrov’s bedroom door was ajar. She didn’t want to go in there, but something was telling her that she should. She entered. His bedroom was a mess – bed sheets and blanket twisted into a shape that resembled a coiled python; sweat stains on the bottom sheet; soiled clothes strewn on the floor; empty vodka bottles on a bedside cabinet; the rest of his clean clothes unpacked, within his open suitcase. This was so unlike him. He was always previously meticulous, even before he joined the army. Growing up with parents in a one bedroom flat typically induced almost OCD-like behaviour. It had to be that way – every inch of space had to be accounted for and kept functional and clean.

  She closed the door, used the bathroom, and returned downstairs. He needed her, she decided. But how could she help him if she didn’t know what was wrong? She knew that Spetsnaz Alpha was an extremely tough gig. They were the most elite special forces that Russia had to offer; always first in and last out. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that Petrov had been to the Crimea. But the Russian government was still denying
any involvement in the Ukraine crisis. She wouldn’t know what happened in the Crimean Peninsula until she joined the SVR. Even then, it might take months, even years, before she was granted clearance to know the truth.

  The stroganoff was slowly simmering. The potatoes were boiling. There was nothing more she could do until she served dinner in thirty minutes. She decided to venture out and meet her brother. She put on her walking boots and a coat and leisurely followed the coastal footpath. Though it was cold, the air was still and the sky was clear. She glanced back at the cottage. Petrov had chosen well when he purchased the property. It would have been idyllic for their parents. Mum and dad loved the sound of sea, the smell of heathland, solitude, peace. It broke her heart that her parents didn’t live long enough to enjoy their new home. She carried on walking, going over the rise where she’d last seen Petrov, and following the route down on the other side. That’s when she stopped. Petrov was sitting on the edge of a cliff. The drop beyond was eighty yards. Ragged rocks were on the beach below.

  She forced a smile and walked to him. “Brother, dear. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

  He looked at her. His expression was odd. It seemed to Natalia that he didn’t recognise her. He had crimson bags under his bloodshot eyes, his face was pasty, his hands were white as they gripped tufts of grass where he was sitting. His legs were dangling over the edge of the cliff.

  “Why don’t you come back to the house? It’s getting cold out here and the sun will be going down soon.” Natalia tried to sound jovial and matter-of-fact, though internally she was scared. “Come on Petrov. I know you’re a tough guy, and all that, but even you can get ill if you’re not on the move.”

  Petrov opened his mouth. No words came out.

  Natalia frowned. “What is it? Are you drunk?”

  Petrov shook his head. He spoke. “No amount of drink can make me drunk.”

  She crouched beside him and placed her hand on his hand. “I’ve heard that the downtime is always the worst for soldiers like you. Maybe you shouldn’t have come here. It might have been better if you’d stayed in Moscow and gone out for a few beers with your army friends.”

  Petrov shook his head. “They’re not my friends.”

  In a gentle voice, Natalia replied, “Oh come on. You love their company. You once told me that no one understands a soldier as well as another soldier.”

  He bowed his head. “I was wrong.” He looked at the sea and inhaled deeply. “I wish you well in your new career. But know this: one day you’ll realise you’re working for a bunch of barbarians. They think they’re clever. They’re not. They’re inhibited by a necessary bloodlust that’s determined by a need to exert power on others, both domestically and overseas. That’s Russia’s Achilles heel. Elections are rigged. We don’t care. All we want is the tough man in power. He gives us what we want, even if there’s a trail of blood behind him.”

  “Petrov. You’re not making sense. Maybe it’s the vodka talking.”

  Petrov sniggered. “Vodka. It’s my medicine. But it doesn’t work. Nothing works. Not fucking walks up here, not the quiet, not noise, not company, not books, not TV, not bullshit newspapers, not food, not fucking life itself!”

  Natalia’s smile vanished. All attempts at trying to convey a calm persona evaporated. She took his arm and tried to pull him to his feet. “Back to the house; food; I don’t mind if you drink; sleep; tomorrow’s another day.”

  Petrov pushed her away, with sufficient force to cause her to fall onto her back a few yards away from him. He shouted, “Three months ago my unit was sent into the Crimea. It was a top secret mission. The Russian president was the brains behind our task. But, I didn’t know what the task was, until it was too late. The Alpha men with me slaughtered a village. I wouldn’t help them. So I killed my captain and pretended it was done by someone else. A fucking village of innocent people! The idea was to make it look like the Ukrainian forces had done the job. That way there’s more support for the rebels. And Russia gets what it wants.” His voice became quieter. “I watched kids… you know, kids, turned into a million pieces; old people trying to hobble to their homes, but getting sprayed with automatic gunfire in the back; men acting as human shields to protect their families, but all of them getting wasted; people burning to death. The fucking fire. Smell of burning flesh. Screaming. Gunfire all the time. Bangs. And all because of a fucking chess move by the Russian government.” Anger was in his voice as he added, “Go and work for the Russians. Do their bidding. But know this: you’ll be working for a bunch of psychopaths who don’t care about you or anyone else. They sent me to slaughter people. Why? Why would they do that?”

  He turned to face the sea.

  Natalia screamed.

  Petrov launched himself off the cliff.

  His body smacked the rocks below.

  He was broken and dead.

  CHAPTER 1

  Modern day.

  It was late summer and early evening in London. Tourists remained in the capital, either staying overnight in hotels or intending to catch the last train out of the metropolis and head home or to cheaper accommodation. Their presence doubled the population of London to sixteen million. After a day of sightseeing, they were now seeking relaxation – going to west end theatres, dining in Soho or elsewhere, strolling along the River Thames embankment, riding the London Eye so they could see the city from on high as the sun went down, having a few pints of beer or glasses of wine in alfresco bars or pubs, sitting on pleasure cruisers, or taking their kids to Leicester Square so they could enjoy illuminated fun fare rides. Londoners eschewed most of these activities in favour of heading to various parts of the city so they could be at home, though some of them had a couple of post-work drinks with their colleagues before jumping on a tube. All Londoners know that the city is actually a multitude of villages, glued together at the hip while retaining their autonomy. A north Londoner rarely knows much about south London, and vice versa. Ditto east versus west versus the centre. And even within those zones, the diversity is incredible – different cultures, classes, property prices, shops, restaurants, history, dialect, crime-levels, types of crime, and jobs. London is not a melting pot, as it’s often described. It’s a series of different identities that are held together by a spider web of interconnecting transportation links. And it’s also one of the loneliest places in the world. Tourists come and go and mean nothing to Londoners beyond the fact that visitors clog up streets and encourage tacky street vendors to set up their stalls. Residents might occasionally socialise together, but for the most part they scurry to their bolt holes at the first opportunity when they’ve completed their day job, like rats darting in every direction after they’ve fed on a tasty carcass. A person could live in a part of London all his or her life and not know anything about a residential street that was only four roads away. Everyone under the age of forty should live in London at least once; everyone over the age of forty should move out.

  Not everyone complied with that mantra.

  Ben Sign was forty nine years old and lived on the top floor flat of a converted Edwardian terraced house in south London’s West Square, in Southwark. He was a former senior MI6 officer, tipped to be the next chief until he resigned because he refused to buy-in to the backstabbing power-hungry nature of those who wished to get to the top in Whitehall. A year ago, he’d set up a private detective consultancy. His business partner was Tom Knutsen, fourteen years his junior, a former Metropolitan Police undercover operative. There were two bedrooms in the West Square flat. Sign slept in one of them; Knutsen the other. Sign was a widower. Knutsen was to be married, but his fiancée was murdered. They knew all about loss and grief. West Square was their base of operations. It was also the location where the two men, with wholly different in backgrounds and outlooks, could keep each other company, eat good food, put the world to rights while sipping a post-dinner Calvados, walk the streets of London, and challenge each other’s way of thinking. They were two lonely men who’d been given a sec
ond chance at finding true friendship. And that’s what they were: colleagues and friends. Nothing more; nothing less.

  Sign was tall, slender, had clipped brown and grey hair that was singed at the ends by a barber in St. James’s in order to produce a perfect cut, spoke with an aristocratic accent, and bought his suits and casual attire in Saville Row. And yet, he was from humble origins. His father was once a merchant navy officer, always travelling, before becoming an academic. His mother raised him with very little money. His brilliant mind was his way out of his modest but loving upbringing. He got sponsored to go to Oxford University, gained a double first class degree in politics, philosophy, and economics, and was tapped on the shoulder to join MI6. He was regarded as the most successful spy of his generation. Now, out of MI6, he still had a hotline to the prime minister, foreign secretary, defence secretary, home secretary, Met police chief, and heads of MI6 and MI5. They weren’t going to ignore his talent. If they had a problem they and their officers couldn’t solve, they’d call Sign.

  For the most part, Knutsen was different, though, like Sign, he had a good intellect and had gained a first at Exeter University before joining the police. While he didn’t possess Sign’s brilliance, he complimented the former spy master very well. And that was why Sign had chosen him to be his business partner, over and above a number of other candidates from the intelligence agencies, police, and special forces. Knutsen had energy, could mingle with folks from all walks of life, had the advantage of not being as posh as Sign, could run a hundred metres in ten seconds flat, and was still young enough to not overthink the consequences of putting a bullet in a man’s skull. He was an expert marksman and a dab hand at unarmed combat. So was Sign. But Sign had inflicted and seen too much death and destruction in his career. These days he preferred to think; not maim or kill.

  Knutsen was nearly as tall as Sign. He had short blonde hair, an athletic physique, spoke with a working class London accent even though he grew up in the West Country, and owned one suit that he’d bought at a discount price in Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street. He knew London like the back of his hand – years of infiltrating ruthless gangs will grant a cop that knowledge – but didn’t have Sign’s grasp of the world, nor his ability to deduce the solution to seemingly intractable problems from the comfort of his chair. Sign was his mentor, there was no doubt. Knutsen didn’t feel awkward about that. He was bright enough to realise that there was so much he could learn from the former spook. He also realised that a lifetime spent with Sign would barely scratch the surface of Sign’s brain. That didn’t matter. Knutsen was here for not only companionship; he was also here for the ride. It is rare for a man to be in the presence of brilliance. That said, Sign could be a cantankerous so and so at times. At home, Sign had his strengths. He was a superb cook, meticulous with his ablutions and keeping the flat clean and tidy, for the most part polite, and could regale Knutsen with mind-blowing tales about his past exploits. It was never boring living with Sign. But, Sign also had a propensity to irritability when their only cases were mundane – investigating potential infidelity, financial fraud, the vetting of potential employees, and the like. Sign hated work that didn’t flex his intellect. He grew morose and snappy when he didn’t have a job that made his head hurt.