Mr Petrie had a very self-satisfied look on his face as he strode purposefully towards the Kempinski by the River Moika embankment. Since he was in St Petersburg, there was no way he was going to miss the Sweetheart Abbey school choir’s historic concert and although he didn’t have much time for Dr Jones’ past efforts, there was a feeling of pride in what he saw and heard.
Although the concert had already started when he arrived, he stood at the back and remained enthralled throughout. As the audience rose to its feet for the finale to give a standing ovation, he seized the moment to slip out unseen, almost bumping in to Yury Barsukov who was walking back down the aisle. Once outside, he turned left and headed for the nearby Italian Bridge pedestrian crossing over the Griboedov Canal.
As he walked over the single span bridge, he began whistling the Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond and put his gloved hands in his pockets for extra insulation against the cold. He stopped momentarily and pulled out a pen. Looking at it for a few seconds, he pressed a button and it emitted a powerful red laser dot as the beam hit the path in front of him. He chuckled out loud. Mr Petrie just loved it when plans came together and this one had worked perfectly.
Yury would have been shocked to know that the sniper he crept up on had already been immobilised by the history master. The assassin made an easy target for the Russian’s knives because he was suffering from an advanced state of paralysis brought about by a poison dart. He could still breathe, but only just and would fall into a coma within hours, not that it would matter by then in any case, Mr Petrie mused.
The assassin had accepted a contract to kill Duncan Dewar and was planning to shoot the schoolboy as he arrived at the church. Earlier that day, he had collected a set of instructions from a safety deposit box in the rental apartment block opposite the world famous church. After reading the instructions, he accessed the roof via an internal fire escape and picked the best position from where he could target the boy.
Mr Petrie had also accessed the roof but he used an internal staircase from a restaurant below. He lay in wait patiently despite the sub-zero temperatures for the hired killer to arrive. Then, using a blowpipe barely the size of a straw, he fired a tiny poisoned dart into the assassin’s neck causing instant paralysis.
The dart had been laced with a deadly snake venom provided by Merrick. She had handed him two darts from her laboratory as he prepared for the trip and when he asked: “Why two?”
Eyebrows arched, she said: “You might miss and want to use the other on yourself! Failure is not really an option, is it?” Merrick was indeed one scary woman, he reflected at the time.
He walked over to his target and set about him like a crime scene investigator by gathering all incriminating evidence. As an extra measure, he used the dead man’s mobile phone and took a photograph of the assassin’s face, profile shot and ears. He then used a mobile electronic scanner to take palm and fingerprints.
It was only when he stretched out the man’s right hand, any guilt he felt about his actions disappeared as there, clutched between his middle and forefinger, was a photograph of Duncan Dewar. If confirmation was needed that the boy was the intended target; here was the proof.
Opening his battered briefcase, Mr Petrie pulled out an oblong metal case the shape of a large letterbox and not much deeper. Using his own unique palm print pressed against an electronic window, the box flap opened and emitted a sapphire blue glare. He then quickly uploaded the contents he’d taken and, in layman’s terms, was posting the data to an electronic portal in Merrick’s laboratory.
Seconds later, a waiting skelwark, alerted by a high-pitched bleep of its arrival, removed a passport, flight tickets and documents from the portal while another began processing the data from the mobile fingerprint monitor. The Skelwarks instantly began a global search of all the known criminal, intelligence and military databases. Mr Petrie knew by the time he reached his room in the Kempinski, he would be in possession of the available information he needed.
Before he left the rooftop, he went to the edge and, using a red laser pen, tried to attract the attention of the Volkov security team but they were in deep conversation. Mr Petrie started to look around and saw another man emerge from the church and light up a cigarette, so he pointed the laser down towards his feet. It did the trick. He’d caught Yuri Barsukov’s attention, and so would let the Russian mafia deliver justice to the roof top assassin in their own way.
By the time Mr Petrie stepped into the hotel lift, he saw Dr Jones arrive with his kilted choir much to the curiosity and amusement of the New Year’s Eve revellers gathering there that night. After some gentle coaxing and the promise of free midnight feast from the night manager, the choir was persuaded to give one more rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ before retiring to the eighth floor.
To the delight of those present, the boys sang the chorus in Russian. They’d rehearsed it often enough but Mr Jones didn’t think it was pitch or word perfect for the concert but, now that the pressure was off, he gave the choir a free rein and, to his amazement and delight, they delivered.
“Boys you were magnificent, all of you. For those of you who want to go, I will escort you to the Volkov’s party and while there may be some partaking of alcohol by guests, remember it is not for you. I want everyone accounted for and back on the eighth floor by 12:15 and if you still have the energy, we can tuck into this midnight feast.”
Anticipating Dr Jones alcohol ban, Svetlana had already arranged to keep the choir out of temptation’s way by providing an adjoining room with soft drinks, snacks and some computer games.
A pyramid-shaped glass mountain offering a choice of plain or pink vintage champagne formed the centrepiece on a table near the entrance where Svetlana and Viktor stood to welcome their arriving guests. “Ah, Svetlana, you look so gorgeous,” oozed Yury Barsukov’s wife Olga. “Tonight was incredible. You must tell me about this Scottish school. Maybe I will send my boys.” Svetlana kept a fixed grin on her face to mask her disapproval at the very idea the uncultured Barsukov’s could send their children to Sweetheart.
After Viktor greeted his guests, he walked over to Yury and said: “Follow me.” The pair went outside the function room and stood against the rails overlooking the pitched glass ceiling of the Kempinski foyer. “So did you get bored with the concert? I noticed you leave after only ten minutes.”
Yury smiled and replied: "You should be grateful I am more alert than your own security. You do know there was a hired gun on the rooftop opposite, don’t you?
Viktor tried not to look surprised and said: “Continue.” Yury enthusiastically regaled him with the events that had unfolded outside the church and how he located the assassin. He could not fail to be impressed, although listened with an expression bordering on mild disinterest.
“I don’t mind telling you, Viktor, it brought back the old days. I didn’t realise just how much I’d missed the feeling of pure adrenalin racing through my veins. Watching my stocks and shares perform on the MOEX isn’t as much fun. By the way I’m feeling rather naked now,” he said, lifting up trouser leg to reveal two empty knife sheaths.
“So who was this unfortunate assassin, then?” he asked. Yury looked furtively around and said: “I’m not sure. He didn’t look Russian, more European but the thing is he carried no documents, only this key for a room in the apartment block below.” After giving the key to Viktor, he added: “I’ve no idea what’s in the room. I had to hurry back for the concert, you know.”
Viktor called over one of his security men and whispered instructions in his ear before giving him the key. He then turned to Yury and put his hand on his shoulder: “I will not forget this Yury. By the way, have your American contacts come back to you?”
Yury shook his head, adding: "All I know is that some British government scientists were developing a top secret energy programme and they turned rogue against the state.
"They hid their invention and somehow it is all linked to one of the boys in your choir. I think the Yanks are irate that their English poodles had been holding out on them and, as usual, we Russians get the blame. If we’re not hacking in to their computers and rigging their elections, they accuse us of destabilising their economies and laundering dirty money.
“If we did everything they said we did, we’d be ruling the world.” Viktor laughed and slapped Yury’s back. He then walked over to the side room where the choirboys were being entertained with mind-bending card tricks by Vlad and Sergei.
He looked at Willie Carmichael who was wearing a baseball cap backwards, no doubt to hide his bald patch. Carmichael was born on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, although his parents came from Edinburgh where they’d cornered a sizeable part of the market on renewable energy. ‘A bunch of wind farms was hardly going to destabilise the Middle East,’ he mused. Then he looked at Duncan Dewar, another ginger-haired boy.
“Duncan, come over here!” shouted Viktor. “I want to congratulate you again on a stunning performance. A pity your parents couldn’t be here, but we will make sure they get a recording. In fact we could download and send it to them tonight.”
Duncan Dewar looked quizzically at Viktor and said: “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you knew. I’m an orphan and my parents died when I was a baby.”
Viktor feigned surprise and said: “I had no idea. I’m terribly sorry. That must be really painful for you, being all on your own.”
The boy nodded sadly and said: “At least I still have my grandfather, over there,” he said, pointing at Gordon Buie through the open door and into the next room.
“Can I ask you something? What happened to your parents? Do you remember anything about them at all?”
Again Duncan looked sad and hunched his shoulders: "Sometimes I think I remember my mother but I wonder if it’s because the picture I have in my head is like the photograph I have of her at home. She was beautiful and kind, and that’s where I get my colour from as my father was blond. They were killed in a car accident in Scotland and somehow, I survived.
“I feel very sad because I’m sure they would have been proud if they had heard me tonight,” he added. Viktor looked down at the boy and said: “I’m sure they would have been proud. Did they sing? Exactly what did they do?”
Again Duncan hunched his shoulders: “I don’t know where I got my voice from as I don’t think either of them sang. I don’t think they had the time. Grandad said they worked very hard on space travel and other projects like that. They were both scientists and I think that’s why I love science so much.”
Viktor patted him on the head and said: “In the spring, you must come back to Russia and join me and the boys to the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City. I bet you would love looking around there.” Duncan nodded enthusiastically. He’d heard about the facility named after the first man in space.
Andrei walked up and grabbed Duncan in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. “So papa, you’ve met Duncan, then? He’s the little shrimp with the big voice and we are all very proud of him.”
Viktor laughed and said: “Put him down. We were just making plans for the spring vacation. I’ll let him tell you all about it.” He then walked back in to the main room to rejoin the adult guests but was still left pondering about the Sweetheart Abbey pupil.
Meanwhile, in a small balcony room, Mr Petrie sat back in his armchair as an organised fireworks display marking the arrival of the New Year lit up the St Petersburg skyline. The intelligence file sent from Merrick revealed the dead man was a former member of a top-secret covert action group from the DGSE, France’s top-secret military intelligence agency. He had left his elite unit under a cloud and began working as a ‘freelance operator’ for US intelligence in the Middle East.
Pascal Bernard’s CV made grim reading. The thirty-year-old excelled in his deadly trade after honing his skills in Iraq where he ran a covert assassination team for a US contractor. However, he had also accepted work from several major crime syndicates operating out of South America, Western Europe and the Baltic states as well as a couple of Arab royals; in other words, his only loyalty appeared to be with the highest bidder at the time.
The last sizeable deposit to his Swiss account was made days earlier and came from an equally secretive account in the Cayman Islands but the Cayman account was tracked back to another account in Switzerland, belonging to the corporate entertainment account of a major oil producing company with investments in Iraq, Saudi and Kuwait oil.
The same account was used to buy first-class flights from Bernard’s home in Nice to St Petersburg and pay for the rented apartment. Both the French passport and driving licence were top quality fakes in the name of Leo Dubois and the Kalashnikov VSV-338 sniper rifle was reported stolen from a Russian military base in Crimea a few months earlier.
The kid leather wallet removed from his pocket contained currency in euros, rubles and dollars and only one platinum credit card also in the name of Leo Dubois.
Mr Petrie’s head was spinning at the enormity of the so-called players involved and realised that Duncan Dewar would never be safe as long as he walked around with the RFID chip in his neck. His parents had unwittingly condemned their son to death by inserting the chip under his skin. Their intention was to remove it as soon as they were in a safer environment but their premature deaths brought all their future plans to an abrupt end.
But the other mystery was who had alerted such dark forces to come together to target the boy? It could only be someone close to Duncan, possibly someone at Sweetheart Abbey School. Opening his briefcase, he pulled out a mirror the size of a tablet and pressed the right-hand corner. Within seconds, he was staring into the face of Merrick. "Duncan Dewar’s secret was safe until it became known he had an implant in his neck. The first hint was at the hospital when an X-Ray located an alien object about the size of a rice grain underneath his skin.
"On the second occasion, he was passing through the airport security scanner at the VIP section of Edinburgh Airport when all in the immediate vicinity knew he had a metal fragment of some sort in his neck. I believe someone has had Duncan under surveillance for years, gambling on the chance that one day he might lead them to the Infinity Cell.
“We need to check and crosscheck all communications. There has to be an electronic trail that will lead us to the individual or organisation which would rather kill him off than see his parent’s work resurrected.”
Merrick nodded: “In other words, you want my team to search through an electronic haystack looking for a needle which may or may not be there?”
Petrie sighed: “I know, it is hopeless but we have to try. I’m not sure when the next kidnap or assassination attempt is going to be made on the lad, but it is now a question of ‘when’ and not ‘if’. Keeping one step ahead is taking as much time and energy as a needle hunt.”
Merrick snapped back: “Consider it done. Keep the channel links open. Oh, and Mr Petrie…”
The history master looked and said: “Yes?”
“Happy New Year to you.”
The screen went blank and an amused look crossed Mr Petrie’s face: “Did I just see Merrick smile?”
Back at the Volkov’s party one of Viktor’s security team handed his boss and envelope. He whispered: “The room was clean, although the guy did leave a photocopy of a French passport at the desk. It’s in the name of Leo Dubois of Nice but who knows if that is fake or genuine and I’ve no idea where the original is. Who do you think he was sent to kill?” Viktor just shrugged and walked away.
***