The Hit Back Series (order from chaos)

Chapter four

Chapter four

“Revenge is sweet and not fattening.” — Alfred Hitchcock.

Buckingham palace posed gloriously against the azure skyline of Westminster, London. Right at the ‘Public eye’ was the rectangular façade of her large East front, with its enclosed balcony; directly facing the mall, where crowds of joyous spectators were massed, awaiting the arrival of the Russian PM, who was due to pay the monarch a stately visit at her residence. From across the East front stood the bath, stone-faced West, which equally looked out on the thirty-nine acres long garden, where the Queen’s only surviving Corgi was frolicking.

He cursed under his breath as he shuffled along with the rainbowed circus company, down the marbled hall of the palace. He felt stupid if for anything, being in the company of these oddly dressed people, and having to apply this much pound of makeover on himself. It was the grossest and dumbest thing he’s had to do and will stand so for many years, he made a mental resolution of that. Also, there was no mistaking the edginess in his gait, as they passed by several liveried Queen’s guards, manning alcoves and archways.

He so much wanted to bolt for the exit door but had decided against that, since he had done nothing wrong, save for slipping and merging well with the troupe when no one else had noticed. And besides, he had nothing to hide, nothing but a nosegay of flowers, cloakedly hidden in his outfit. Just flowers and nothing more.

Having the schematic plan of the palace burning bright in his head, like the glow of an ember, he snuck away from the company at a turn, hiding in a recess at the sound of approaching feet.

Just as the echoing feet of the presumable guard died down at the end of the corridor, he took a sneak peek out of the recess, just to be sure no one else was coming, before creeping along the walls, in a journey that would take him to his destination.

The door opened a crack with a click, baring the room to the invasion of a thin slanted ray of light. Not too long after, a head poked through the gap in the door, peering owlishly at the small room. After much hesitation, the figure dashed into the room, shutting the door behind him soundlessly as his footsteps.

He stopped at the center of the room, scanning for what would be his only trophy in his objectives. And quite lucky for him, he found his sought-after prize gently laid on a stool, strewn with other items.

He made smoothly toward it. His mouth quirked in a smile like a child would at the sight of a chocolate bar.

Knowing he had one shot at this to make all his efforts count, he swiftly retrieved the nosegay from within his clothing, thereby deflating his overtly big stomach which was otherwise a ruse, and swapped it with the one on the top the stool.

“Mingh, do you read?” A voice squeaked through the comm. in his ear. “You’ve got to get your ass moving now! The palace is literally crawling with MI6 and MI5 agents.” The voice added with much urgency.

He acted on cue as soon as possible, padded out of the room in brisk, urgent strides, and sealed the door as he did earlier.

Coincidentally, two giggling teenage girls assumed in a white, flaring gown scurried into the room, while he slipped away down the other end of the corridor. Once inside, the girls took no time as they snagged the flowers off the stool, and hurried their way out of the room.

“That was close call, you know?” he breathed into the comm. Making down the big hall in long, hurried strides.

“What?” A voice blasted through the comm.

“Those little girls of course.”

“What about them, Mingh?”

“I think it’s in your right to give me a heads-up that they were that close.” He said, sounding irritated.

“Two little girls? They were the least of your troubles, man.” The voice chuckled hard from the other end. “And the bouquet?”

“I got them flowers delivered.” He said on a final note, never daring a look behind his shoulders as he disappeared at a turn.

Siren wails split the air, as did the hysterical shouts of crowds, who waved the motorcade of the Russian Prime Minister as they filed past in a stream.

The motorcade all came to a screeching stop by a curb. And this was followed up with the observance of security protocols by his security details, who poured out of the sleek, dark SUVs. After much delay owing much to security observance more than anything, the Russian PM climbed out of his ride to the cheers of the crowds, who went all-out screaming their lungs.

Primly dressed in a slick, blue blazer, which stood in contrast with his black pants, sunglasses, and loafers; the red-flush cheeked man gave the crowds a sunny smile, accompanied by a vibrant wave.

It was the PM’s first time here in the Queen’s land, and to say he was in love with the English people and their ways would be an understatement. In fact, he had developed a natural affinity for them. His beaming countenance as he waved the crowds can very much attest to this.

To honor the PM’s arrival at the Queen’s residence, troops of mounted Queen’s guards pranced down the cobbled road of the mall. In quick succession came the march of the foot guards, and a short ballet dance from a group of ten Cherubim-garbed teens.

The PM watched the eye-catching display as it played out from under the roof of an umbrella, held by one of his burly, bodymen, to shade him from the fine spray of the summer drizzle.

After much wait, a golden-haired teenage girl waltzed toward him with flowers in her hands. But was urged to a stop a few feet away from him, by one of his dark-suited, earpieced aides.

“Let her, please.” He said in a thick Russian accent, motioning the girl to come over to him.

Seizing the moment, the girl walked over to him with a smile plastered across her small face, dipped her head in curtsy, and handed him the nosegay.

“Thank you, young miss.” He mumbled with a smile of his own.

At that instance, there was at first a slight shift in the air. Then, time stood still for what seemed like forever—to unfold a shocking scene, as a red light twinkled from within the bunch of flowers, setting off the IED planted therein.

Time played once more, with the shattering sound of explosions, confetti shower of bodily organs, the splatter of curdled blood, and frenzied shrieks of the crowds, now scattered all over the places, for dear life.

In a split second, the mall became destitute of living souls, except for a smattering black-suited agents, who made a final stand within the premises with their weapons drawn. What was left of the gathering was nothing but a nightmarish diorama of several burning, upturned automobiles in the pattering rain and a cawing crow, which flew across the smoky-blue sky.

*****

President Mikhail stood with his head pressed against the pane of one of the three south-facing windows of the Oval Office. Fiddling with a locket that bore a strand of silvery-black hair, he listened to the scratchy voice from the other end of the call, while his gaze lingered on the vista of Virginia.

“Your order, Mr. President.” The grating voice of General Sousa demanded from the other end.

Silence lagged for several minutes from the President’s end, an act which forced him to ask proddingly again. “Are we to engage, Mr. President?”

“General, I think you may need to turn on a TV right now.”

His evasive response came as a shock to the General, who stammered out yet another question. “B-but for w-hat sir?”

“Just do that and we’re cool, General.” He said sternly and hung up the call.

Moments after dropping the call, President Mikhail was left wondering how a smile had managed to creep in on his features, as he stared back at his reflection in the windowpane. A reaction that seemed veritably odd given the circumstances on ground.

*****

Several miles in the District of Columbia, the Army chief of staff sat arms folded to his chest in his swish ergonomic chair, marked with the seal of the United States Army, in his office at the Pentagon. His eyes were squarely fixed on the screen of the flat-screen TV monitor across from him.

“The attack earlier here in Buckingham Palace at the widely famous mall was reported to have claimed the lives of the Russian PM; Mr. Chechev Zhirkov among others.” The slightly built stand-up reporter on screen relayed in live coverage from Buckingham Palace.

Callous as he was, the General’s green eyes bulged in their sockets in reaction to the news, and before he even knew it, his jaw dropped to the floor at the same time he swallowed down the hard lump in his throat. The news was a bad one, one which he had barely expected.

“Mr. Chechev who was on his first tour of the United Kingdom had arrived here to pay the monarch a visit and was confirmed dead on the spot with seven others in an explosion, feared to have resulted from an IED bomb planted in a bouquet given to the Russian PM.”

However, he was back to his cold-hearted self sooner than expected, recovering from the lapse of his disbelief coupled with a slight show of emotions in no time, with his jaw grimly set once more, and his hands now bunched in a fist.

“In other news, the declaration of war on North Korea by the United States had—” He reached for the remote on his desk way too fast, gave the power button on it a quick stab with his finger, and watched as the screen blackened out in time with a hiss.

I have had just about enough, he thought, rising nimbly to his feet in one fluid motion.

For General Sousa, the piece of news was bad enough not because it involved the killing of the Russian PM and other innocent lives. But, rather because, he had been denied the war he so much wanted.

*****

The silence behind the four walls of the meeting room was killing. And it appeared none of the gentlemen assumed in dark, sleek business suits and gently seated on several plush chairs of the room were ready to break the ice. They were all big guns of the Russian Federation government and had been in the spotlight for over a decade, or so.

Through the minatory silence, they all heard the distant footfalls of snappy approaching feet. And were up on their feet before the main door to the room swung open, to allow the passage of the President and his aides.

“You’re right on time, Mr. President.” The tallest of the men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs said on a welcoming note.

The President sidled his way to the high-backed chair and dropped heavily into it. “Let’s get down to business, gentlemen.” He simply said, gesturing for the men to get seated.

“The Prime Minister remains should arrive in Moscow anytime soon, Mr. President.” The white-washed face Minister of Internal Affairs informed.

“What plans have been laid down for his funeral?” President Andriy Zyryanov tossed back a question.

“There’ll be a live broadcast of the funeral at the Cathedral square. And there will be about three-million Russian sympathizers to watch.” He read from the paper before him. “Security will be ensured by the Army, state police department and men from the Russian Air force will be deployed in case of aerial threat. Also, I must add that the UK government had made a promise to fund the PM’s funeral and to have a memorial in his name—”

The Defense Minister gave him little chance to finish off before chiseling in. “Moving on to far-pressing matters, Mr. President; the Brits made it clear in a statement released earlier by their PM, that they had no involvement with Mr. Chechev’s death.”

“And they think we’ll buy their feeble lies?” Minister of Internal Affairs asked, with an obvious edge to his tone.

“I think they’re in their every right to give us a lie, Mr. Gusev.” The President gave an apt response to his question. “And I guess we’re in our own right to weigh every word for a truth or a lie.”

“What I think Mr. President is, the West had f****d with us for quite some time now. And now is our best shot to get back at them.” Mr. Gusev strongly opined.

“I’m with Mr. Gusev on this. I think we’ve got all the indications to go hell-raising now. Heaven as yet sided with us, sir.” The Defense Minister aired out his opinion as he best can without the faintest show of emotion.

“Come to think of it Mr. President, we’ve been at war with the West for as long as we could all remember. I don’t see any sense in it for them to spill the blood of our PM on their own soil.” Minister of Foreign Affairs argued from a far-off light. “What do they stand to gain? Start another World war?”

“To incur our wrath Mr. Ignashevish.” Mr. Gusev countered with a little flare of emotion. “Goddamn it! Open your eyes and see that this is our only chance to give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“I think the Foreign Minister may be right, Mr. Gusev.” President Andriy came out flatly in the heat of the moment. “The world I think is not ready for another war, and I’ll bet the West are in their right mind to know this.”

“So you’ll advised we watched as sitting ducks while they call the shots on who gets to live and die, Mr. President?” The Defense minister asked with his emotions still reined.

The President on the other hand knew this was a tough, tricky question, and did justice to it with par prudence. “What I’ll advice Mr. Lunin is that we wait, not sit on our hands.”

“Well, I think there may yet be a silver lining to the matter on ground,” Mr. Ignashevish got a leash on the room’s attention the instant he said that, and wasted no time in driving home his point. “The death of Mr. Chechev is quite a blessing in disguise if you asked me, as it will avail us leverage against the West. And give us a chance to call as many shots as we wanted.”

“Lemonade out of a lemon? Let’s hear about it.” Mr. Gusev was bubbling with curiosity as he asked that.

“Instead of going on an all-out war with them. Let’s say we cut them a deal they can neither agree to nor decline.”

The attentiveness with which they regarded Mr. Ignashevish afterward was all needed for him to hope what he was about to say was a good idea, and that every reasonable man in the whole of Russia and Crimea would buy it.