Killers Assassins and Spies

Chapter One

Arrival of an Assassin

Recent years have witnessed the suspicious deaths of Russian oligarchs resident in the United Kingdom. Subsequent investigations showed some had been murdered on the orders of shadowy figures in Moscow. Operation Backfire was established by British Intelligence to deal with the latest threat.

The cruise-ferry MV Bretagne departed the French port of Saint-Malo on schedule at 20:30 hours for the English south coast port of Portsmouth. An assassin, a trained killer, posing as a passenger was on board. The overnight sailing from the north coast of Brittany port takes approximately eleven hours and was scheduled to berth at the port of Portsmouth at 07:45 hours. It was a calm, slightly chilly early autumn evening with a clear blue darkening sky.

Prior to the departure, a dark green coloured Land Rover Defender truck was one of the last vehicles to drive onto the garage deck and park. In accordance with regulated safety procedures the driver applied the handbrake, placed it in first gear and, on exiting, locked the vehicle. He was unaccompanied. During the voyage, access to the garage deck was prohibited. A large sign on the bulkhead at the rear of the garage deck welcomed passengers on board Brittany Ferries ship MV Bretagne, stating it has the capacity to take 1,980 passengers and 580 vehicles.

It was late October, and the busy holiday season had concluded. The driver observed that the garage deck is less than half full of vehicles. Holding his backpack in his left hand, he followed the signs to the exit and climbed the stairs to Deck Seven. He entered the lounge area and made himself comfortable in a reclining seat, picking up a discarded Telegraph newspaper as he did so. For the next hour he continued to read the newspaper but made frequent discreet glances around the lounge area observing other passengers.

The man’s UK passport gave his name as Paul Raymond Fisher, forty years of age. He was of slim build with a suntanned complexion. His unkempt, longish hair had been bleached by the sun and matched his thick untrimmed beard. He was casually dressed, wearing a well-worn Barbour jacket and jeans with military style tan desert boots which were similarly well-worn. Tied loosely around his neck he sported a cotton Shemagh scarf in an olive green and black coloured checkered pattern. His appearance was of a man who had spent the summer relaxing, travelling and enjoying the outdoor life.

Picking up his backpack he left the lounge area and took a slow deliberate stroll around the ship visiting the various decks and public areas as if looking for someone in particular. As midnight approached, he returned to the lounge area on Deck Seven. He occupied a reclining seat nearer to the all-night self-service restaurant. By now the more affluent travellers had taken to their night cabins.

Those remaining in the lounge, who had purchased a budget ticket without the luxury of a night cabin, were making themselves comfortable to spend the night on the reclining seats. Some tucked themselves into sleeping bags, whilst others just covered themselves with a jacket for added warmth. The lounge was to be Fisher’s accommodation for the night.

By now the lounge lights have been dimmed creating a quiet, calm atmosphere. Some passengers slept or lay silently viewing the content on their iPads or iPhones. Fisher appeared restless. He strolled across to the self-service restaurant, selected a round of sandwiches and a mug of black coffee which he placed on a tray and paid for at the cash desk.

Exiting the self-service area, he stood for a moment looking around as if deciding where to sit before walking to a nearby table, which was already occupied by one man.

Good morning, may I share your table? asked Fisher in a polite manner.

The man looked up, nodded but did not speak. Fisher sat down opposite and continued: Earlier this evening I noted you studying a map of London. Is that your destination?

Again, the man just nodded but no words. Fisher pointed to the man’s waxed canvas and leather backpack, on the seat next to him. The front flap had an embroidered patch depicting the flag of Poland. Are you Polish?

This time the man made eye contact and spoke: Yes, I am from Poland. I am visiting my Polish friends who work in London. He appeared willing to engage in further conversation.

He had the appearance of a man who had been travelling on the road for several days. His casual clothes, particularly his dirty, open-neck shirt, were crumpled and in need of a wash. He was about thirty-five years of age, of medium stature with a fit physique. A man who would handle himself well in a fight, thought Fisher.

Fisher held his hand out across the table.

My name is Paul. I’ve just spent the summer bumming around Spain. Now it’s back to England to find a job. I’m a qualified schoolteacher who decided to take a year’s break from teaching to recharge my batteries.

The Polish man accepted the handshake, responding with a firm grip.

I am Aleksander. Aleksander Kozlowski and a plumber by trade. I am hoping to find work for the Winter in the UK and earn some good money to send back home to my family.

The two men continued talking and getting to know each other. They agreed to get some sleep on the reclining seats and then meet up again at 06:00 hours for an early breakfast before the ship docked at 07:45 hours. Fisher complimented Aleksander on his excellent command of the English language. He responded by explaining that whilst a student he spent several summer holidays touring the UK and was particularly fond of Scotland.

Over a cooked English breakfast Fisher explained that, for the next few days, he had arranged to stay at a friend’s weekend cottage just a few miles from the port of Portsmouth in the small village of Bosham. He added that Aleksander was welcome to stay for a couple of days, which he gratefully accepted.

The ship docked on time. Together, in Fisher’s Defender truck, the two men cleared Customs via the green ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel and began the onward journey to Bosham. The small, detached cottage was located in its own grounds, on the outskirts of Bosham village, in the pleasant rural West Sussex countryside.

During the journey there is little conversation between the two men. Fisher made several attempts to engage with Aleksander, pointing out places of interest, but received minimal response. The man seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. Arriving at the cottage Fisher allocated Aleksander his own bedroom and pointed out the facilities. Although polite, the man remained reserved in his manner and showed little interest to engage in conversation.

Early morning on the second day of his stay, Aleksander was seen by Fisher standing at the far end of the back garden speaking on his mobile phone. On returning to the kitchen, he said he wished to visit a friend in London and would catch a train from the nearby railway station in Chichester. Fisher suggested they swap telephone numbers so they can keep in touch but, strangely, the offer was declined. Nevertheless, Fisher gave him a lift in his truck to the station.

Later the same evening, Aleksander returned to the cottage, having caught a taxi from Chichester Station. The two men sat in front of the wood burning open fire sharing a bottle of red wine, but there was not much conversation. Aleksander acknowledged he had met up with his friend in London but, strangely, was reluctant to talk about it. He was in a quiet reflective mood.

It was approaching midnight and the fire was burning itself out. Fisher decided it was time for bed. Aleksander had already indicated he would be departing in the morning to seek work in London.

Fisher’s mobile iPhone unexpectedly rang which, at that late hour, took him by surprise. He took it from his breast shirt pocket, saying Hello and listened.

Is this some kind of late-night joke? He enquired speaking into the iPhone, with an element of annoyance, but continued to listen.

Suddenly the outside of the cottage, both back and front, was lit up by what appeared to be powerful searchlights.

What the hell. It’s the police. The cottage is surrounded. They say they’re armed. We’ve got two minutes to leave the house with our hands over our heads.

Before Fisher had finished the sentence, Aleksander instinctively pulled a concealed handgun from inside his jacket and, in an aggressive stance, clasped the gun with both hands pointing it towards the front door. This was clearly not the reaction of a humble Polish plumber, but that of a well-trained professional military man. However, Fisher did not seem particularly surprised by this revelation.

Fisher immediately identified the weapon as a GSh-18 9mm semi-automatic pistol used by Russian elite special forces for close combat fighting. It was capable of holding an eighteen-round magazine with bullets that can pierce body armour. Similarly, this was not the knowledge you would expect from an ordinary schoolteacher! Life is full of surprises.

Fisher shouted to Aleksander.

What the fuck are you doing. Keep holding that gun and they’ll surely kill you.

He moved towards the nearby basket of logs and lifted a couple.

"Aleksander, quickly, hide your gun under these logs. He did what Fisher had directed.

Fisher opened the front door. With hands over their heads, they slowly and cautiously walked out into the glaring lights and stopped. From behind the glare of a searchlight, instructions were shouted for both men to lay prostrate on the ground with their hands spread out in front of them. This they did.

Several hooded and heavily armed individuals rushed forward. Without any degree of finesse, the two suspects were searched, rolled over and handcuffed. They were manhandled into a nearby van with blacked-out side and rear windows. The two remained guarded, and in silence, as other members of the arrest team searched the cottage.

The journey took about ninety minutes before the vehicle arrived at a gated and high security location. Once the vehicle had driven through the open gates it stopped and then reversed. Both men were roughly manhandled out of the vehicle and hurriedly taken into a custody suite complex. It appeared to be the rear entrance to a large, red, brick-built police station. Fisher assumed it was within the Metropolitan Police area but had no idea of the actual location.

Each prisoner was presented to the custody sergeant who was seated behind a large desk. One of the escorting team placed on the desk the passports of Fisher and Kozlowski. These had obviously been seized when the cottage had been searched. The custody sergeant examined each and compared the photographs with the two men. Without asking for confirmation, he entered the details onto a desktop computer.

In an adjoining room both men were photographed. Their fingerprints were taken, and DNA mouth swabs obtained. Throughout the process no words were exchanged or spoken by the arresting team of officers. Kozlowski was then taken away.

Fisher was placed into a small cell. The door was slammed shut and locked. He was in solitude staring at four blank walls. The handcuffs remained in place. Throughout, no explanation had been forthcoming. The only lighting was from a small, frosted window situated above the door which reflected light from the corridor. The furniture consisted of a wooden bed fixed to the floor with a basic, plastic-covered mattress to sleep on. No blankets were supplied. In the corner was located a stainless-steel toilet without a seat. The place was eerily quiet. There did not appear to be any other prisoners within the complex.

Fisher sat on the mattress, in silence and in near darkness, contemplating his fate. The cell was cold. After two hours the cell door was unlocked and opened. A large unsmiling figure of an overweight, middle-aged man stood in the doorway. With his right index finger, he gesticulated to Fisher to follow him into a nearby interview room.

He pointed to a chair chained to the floor: Sit down.

In front of Fisher was a metal table secured to the floor. The man sat down in a chair opposite Fisher and placed a buff-coloured folder on the table. A younger man, possibly junior in rank, sat on a chair away from the table holding a notepad and pen.

I’m detective sergeant Graham Moore, and you are in deep shit right up to your neck. So, if you want to see freedom anytime soon you’d better cooperate.

DS Moore was a man only two years away from retirement. He had spent much of his police career as a detective on the Robbery Squad dealing with some of the most violent and ruthless criminals in the UK. Perhaps the experience had helped contribute to his warped character. He saw bad and evil in everyone. His flushed patchy complexion indicated he was a man who regularly consumed alcohol to excess. A bitter and obnoxious man with few friends. Because of his frequent conflict with senior colleagues, he had recently been removed from his beloved Robbery Squad and temporarily assigned to divisional CID.

Your friend has been identified as a Russian national sent to the UK on an assassination mission and you, my friend, are his little helper, said the detective with a large element of sarcasm.

Fisher responded. I know nothing about that. I simply met him two days ago on the Saint-Malo to Portsmouth ferry and gave him accommodation. He said he was from Poland seeking work as a plumber in the UK. He was due to leave for London in the morning. I can’t help you with any more information.

Bullshit. You’ll have to do better than that. Your likelihood of freedom is fast disappearing, and we’ll throw away the key. One last chance to save your bacon.

Fisher remained calm. He was not going to be intimidated. He remained polite but positive with his reply:

Sergeant Moore, you have not actually explained to me the reason for my arrest. In fact, you have not formally told me I have been arrested. Neither have you cautioned me, advised me of my rights to consult with a solicitor and, since I am being formally interviewed, why is this not being recorded on the tape machine sitting on this table?

The sergeant’s anger was clearly apparent in the reddening of his face.

So, you think you know your rights. That suggests to me you have been in nick before. Have previous convictions, do you?

Turning to his colleague he continued: Constable, get me a cup of coffee and shut the door behind you.

Once the door was closed, the sergeant stood up and punched Fisher a heavy blow to the left side of his face. The force caused him to fall backwards with the chair hitting the ground. That’s my caution. You lump of shit.

Fisher remained on the ground, dazed by the force of the punch. His left cheek was red and swollen. He was still wearing the handcuffs and, thus, unable to defend himself. Further punches were delivered.

The sergeant’s anger was still much in evidence. He grabbed Fisher by the scruff of his neck, pulled him to his feet and forcefully marched him back to the cell. Still holding him by the neck, he forced Fisher’s head into the toilet bowl and flushed it. He then left the cell slamming the door behind him. Fisher staggered to his feet, dripping wet, to lay on the mattress. He spent the night cold, wet and alone.

Early next morning he was taken from his cell to the reception area where Kozlowski was already standing by the custody sergeant’s desk. On seeing the swelling of Fisher’s left cheek, and still wet hair, he was about to ask what had happened. Fisher shook his head and mouthed No.

The custody sergeant explained that both men are being remanded in custody pending further police investigation. Having been arrested under the Terrorism Act they can be held for up to fourteen days without charge. They were to be sent to separate detention centres. Each was then escorted from the complex.

Chapter Two

The Review

The Security Service (MI5) is the United Kingdom’s domestic counter-intelligence and security agency, directed to protect British parliamentary democracy and interests. It deals with counter-terrorism and espionage within the UK and is responsible to the Secretary of State for the Home Office. The Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) is the foreign intelligence service of the United Kingdom, tasked mainly with covert overseas operations in the collection and analysis of human intelligence. The agency is directly accountable to the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs.

It was now a week on from the arrest and detention of Fisher and Kozlowski. British Intelligence had been busy undertaking much research and investigation into the case.

Friday afternoon, at 14:00 hours, an intelligence debrief was convened in the regal splendour of a secure conference room within the confines of Whitehall. Representatives attended from the intelligence agencies (MI5 and MI6), the Military, the Police (including detective sergeant Graham Moore), the Home Office and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

With all representatives seated around the circular conference table, and the meeting about to commence, a lone man quietly entered the room by a side door. He sat in a chair away from the rest of the group and with a discreet nod acknowledged the Chair. He observed the proceedings and took notes, writing in a leather-bound notebook balanced on his knee, but did not actively participate. He was slim, clean shaven and smartly dressed in a well-tailored navy-blue pinstripe suit: displaying the confidence of a professional man at ease in these surroundings.

The Chair was from MI5. In accordance with protocol for such intelligence meetings, the representatives acknowledged the agencies they represent but were not asked to publicly introduce themselves by name.