Cold East
Cold East
Alex Shaw
The clock is ticking. Will Aidan Snow be able to save the world…again?In Ukraine, MI6 operative Aidan Snow rescues a British national held by Russian insurgents.In the United States, a terrorist attack is thwarted by a man who does not exist.In Russia, a notorious Chechen terrorist escapes from the nation's most secure prisonIn Afghanistan, a Red Army soldier long given up for dead delivers a chilling message: Al-Qaeda has an RA-115A.As the connection between these separate events begins to become clearer, MI6 and the CIA must attempt to prevent the world's first act of nuclear terrorism.Aidan Snow faces his biggest challenge yet, and if he fails, thousands will be incinerated.The clock is ticking. And you never know who you can trust.Praise for Alex Shaw:‘Meet Aidan Snow, an ice-cold operative in a red-hot adventure’ Stephen Leather‘Sizzles across the page like a flame on a short fuse!’ Matt Hilton‘A perfect blend of spy fiction and political thriller’ Matt LynnReaders love the Aidan Snow books:‘A superb, pulse-racing read’ Online reviewer‘Exciting and fast-paced’ Online reviewer‘Immensely enjoyable and tightly written’ Online reviewer
About the Author (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
ALEX SHAW spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being headhunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.
Cold Blood, Cold Black and Cold East are commercially published by HarperCollins (HQ Digital) in English and Luzifer Verlag in German.
Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine, Worthing, England and Doha, Qatar. Follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman (https://twitter.com/alexshawhetman?lang=en) or find him on Facebook.
Also by Alex Shaw (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Cold Blood
Cold Black
Cold East
ALEX SHAW
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Alex Shaw 2018
Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008306342
Version: 2018-07-26
Table of Contents
Cover (#uf6a1d144-0ac0-578b-b000-06c722d4a290)
About the Author (#uf1efe2d1-bb5d-50d9-9eff-cad7fe7e457d)
Also by Alex Shaw (#uedada189-c904-50ec-8d6e-b8239c168b6d)
Title Page (#udf34fc8f-5701-582a-ba4b-eb956af9ce4b)
Copyright (#u2657af34-6dda-5447-8c93-b4ead9f2b960)
Dedication (#ue2fb6e56-87d0-5fac-b4b6-7d2d9cbb901a)
Prologue (#u5fb4ae81-2c2d-5c85-85fb-a4c04454afb3)
Chapter 1 (#u0e48ee15-948f-558d-9539-acc2f976ecc5)
Chapter 2 (#u96d031a8-cb3c-5d28-a912-708587141e48)
Chapter 3 (#u55824bef-66ab-5c4d-a672-c878ce79d909)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To my wife Galia, my sons Alexander and Jonathan,
and our family in England and Ukraine
Prologue (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Donetsk Region, Ukraine
‘I can’t see them yet.’
‘They’ll be here soon, he said so.’ Vitaly Blazhevich peered into the distance towards the besieged city of Donetsk. Smoke rose from tower blocks on the outskirts, the result of early-morning shelling by Russian-supplied Grad rockets. The ceasefire agreement between the Ukrainian government and the Russian-backed insurgent organisations of the Donetsk People’s Republic (DNR) and the Lugansk People’s Republic (LNR) had been in operation for several months, yet attacks continued. The men around Blazhevich were a mixture of regular Ukrainian infantry and young, hastily trained members of a volunteer battalion. Despite the cold, the Ukrainians kept their spirits high as they rotated manning the vehicle checkpoint, cooking, and resting. Blazhevich had nothing but respect for the volunteers who, until recently, had been carrying on normal lives as university students, mechanics, bus drivers, doctors, and businessmen. Every now and then the group would spontaneously start singing Ukrainian folk songs or old Soviet tunes in Russian. They were Ukrainian and what mattered to them most was one country, not one language. The checkpoint was to the north of the small town of Marinka and straddled the road towards Donetsk. The adjacent flat fields of fertile black earth had been left barren in the conflict zone. A click away, the road forked and the treeline started.
‘Here.’ Nedilko handed Blazhevich a mug.
‘We should be doing more to help him,’ Blazhevich replied to his SBU colleague before sipping the bitter-tasting army coffee.
‘He likes pretending to be Russian.’
‘That’s true.’
Blazhevich saw movement ahead. He put his drink on the ground, raised his field glasses, and focused on the road. A white Toyota Land Cruiser appeared from the treeline. As it neared, the blue flag and markings of the Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) became visible on its paintwork. The Ukrainian soldiers manned their weapons, ever wary of a surprise attack. The checkpoint had changed hands several times so far; the men were taking no chances.
Nedilko’s phone rang. ‘Hello? OK.’ He pointed at the SUV. ‘It’s him, or at least he’s is in the vehicle.’
‘It’s four-up,’ Blazhevich replied.
Nedilko removed his Glock from its holster. ‘What’s the saying? “Plan for the best, prepare for the worst”?’
‘Something like that.’
As the Land Cruiser came to a halt, just short of the checkpoint, a series of rumbles rolled across the fields. The DNR were shelling again. A thin man, wearing a blue OSCE vest over a grey, three-quarter-length jacket, stepped slowly from the front passenger door. He held his arms aloft as a pair of Ukrainian soldiers advanced, weapons up. The rear door now opened and out climbed an Asian man followed by someone both SBU agents couldn’t mistake: Aidan Snow.
‘“Who Dares Wins”,’ Blazhevich said with a smile.
Snow led the trio towards the checkpoint. The man in the OSCE vest held out his hand to Blazhevich. ‘Gordon Ward, OSCE monitor. You must be from the Security Service of Ukraine?’
‘That’s correct, the SBU,’ Blazhevich confirmed, shaking hands. ‘Things getting busy back there?’
‘Hairy is the word for it. The DNR are systematically violating the ceasefire!’
‘We heard,’ Nedilko stated.
‘Well, here they are, safe and sound.’ Ward turned to Snow. ‘Don’t make a habit of this, will you?’
‘I’ll try not to.’
Ward flashed a swift smile, turned on his heels, and got into the Land Cruiser. The Toyota crabbed across the road before quickly heading back towards Donetsk and the rest of the OSCE monitors.
‘Vitaly Blazhevich, Ivan Nedilko, may I present Mohammed Iqbal,’ Snow said.
‘It’s Mo, to my friends,’ Iqbal added.
Snow was in Ukraine to facilitate the repatriation of Iqbal, a British citizen held captive for several months in Donetsk. Iqbal was one of many foreign students studying medicine at Donetsk University, but unlike the others he had been kidnapped by the DNR, who took exception to the colour of his skin. The news of Iqbal’s plight had come from a bizarre post on the DNR’s ‘VKontakte’ page. They used the Slavic copy of Facebook to inform the Russian-speaking world of their latest proclamations and ‘successes’ against the Ukrainian forces. Via VKontakte, Iqbal had been labelled ‘a black mercenary’ and ‘a spy’ by the self-appointed Prime Minster of the DNR. Iqbal was subjected to intimidation, beatings, and starvation by his captors. It was only after much negotiation that his release had been brokered and an agreement reached to hand him over to the OSCE. At least that was the official story, and the one that made the DNR look like humanitarians, but Snow knew otherwise. He still had the bruises and an empty magazine to prove it.
‘Incoming!’ A shout went up as a shell whistled overhead.
Snow grabbed Iqbal and threw him into the ditch at the side of the road as another shell flew past them to land with a thunderous cacophony further down the road.
‘Bloody twats!’ Iqbal’s Brummie accent grew thicker with his annoyance, as he spat out a mouthful of cold mud.
‘Stay down!’ Snow ordered. He looked up and saw the source of the shells. What he took to be a Russian armoured vehicle, possibly a BMP-2, had appeared from the fork in the road. Too far away to return fire, the Ukrainians took cover as best they could. Still visible, Snow watched the OSCE Land Cruiser skid around the tracked vehicle and take the fork in the other direction. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped. The BMP-2 turned and followed the Toyota towards Donetsk.
‘Nice of them to give you a sendoff,’ Snow said as he pulled Iqbal to his feet.
‘I’d have preferred a box of chocolates.’
Snow smirked. ‘Come on. We need to catch a ride back to Kyiv.’
Chapter 1 (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Morristown, New Jersey, USA
As James East neared Morristown Green, a raw October wind battered his cheeks with icy rain like needles. For a dead man he felt very alive. In winter the snow that covered the park and storefronts lent a Dickensian feel to the otherwise drab, post-revolution architecture; today, however, rain was all anyone was getting. Saturday shoppers traipsed like herds of deer, umbrellas up, searching for bargains. East pulled up his coat collar. It wasn’t the cold he disliked but the wind, which ravenously bit at his exposed flesh. He entered the green along a path that crossed the central square where a group of Latino youths dressed in baggy sweats were sheltering under the trees, smoking and taking snaps of each other. An elderly couple sharing a golfing umbrella joined East as he waited for the lights to change. They were holding hands and had probably been doing so since the Fifties. East felt a pang of jealousy. It had been three years since East had held his girl’s hand; she’d loved him and he had left without a word. They hadn’t spent much time together yet he remembered every second, every flicker of her eyelashes and how she curled her lower lip as she smiled. He closed his eyes briefly and could smell her perfume and feel her head upon his chest. East shivered – it was time to let her go. His eyes snapped open as a car horn sounded. The lights at the crossing had changed to ‘walk’. Back to reality, his reality. The man she knew was dead, he had to be, but James East was very much alive. He crossed the road and entered the discount designer department store. Inside he nodded at the security guard; the man returned his nod solemnly. East undid his jacket, brushed his hand through his wet hair and looked around. To the left stood rows of handbags and on the right the cosmetics counter, where a middle-aged woman was receiving a makeover from an eager teenage assistant with make-up as thick as a circus clown. East moved past more women inspecting bags and reached the menswear section. Aisles of shirts stacked by designer, colour and size were neatly arranged. He selected a size bigger than he needed; he chose not to advertise the fact that he worked out. He took three shirts, no flashy colours, with ties to match, over to the ‘tailoring’ area, which was run by a white-haired man with an Eastern European accent. Much to the assistant’s delight, he picked up a two-piece charcoal suit and entered the fitting room.
*
At the main entrance, Finch, the store security guard, fought to keep his eyes open. To say the former US Marine was bored by his job was an understatement. After ten years in the service of the good old ‘US of A’ he had been invalided out with a derisory disability pension. The irony was that the Navy had deemed him medically unfit to stand guard for long periods of time and therefore no longer suited to active service. Yet here he stood, a security guard in a department store, on his feet for eight hours a day. Where was the logic? Finch stepped outside for a blast of icy wind to wake him up. As he did so the detectors rang. Four men entered the store, while two women with heavy bags exited. Finch sighed and asked the women to step back inside; security tags left on again, he assumed. They moved to the jewellery counter where he started to remove their purchases to be checked one by one.
*
There was a scream and shouts followed by a series of loud staccato cracks. James East locked eyes with the menswear assistant. Both men dropped to the floor; they had heard the sound before – automatic gunfire.
‘Stay down.’ East’s voice was controlled and firm. The elderly assistant bobbed his head in assent and crawled deeper into the dressing rooms. East worked his way, at a crouch, out of the alcove. What greeted him on the shop-floor was shocking. Two men holding Uzi submachine guns stood in the central aisle, firing off rounds indiscriminately at any shopper who dared move. The security guard, white shirt turned crimson, lay sprawled across a collapsed glass counter. Two women had been dropped next to him. As the store fell silent one gunman changed magazines while the second continued to swing his weapon in an exaggerated arc. East noted their actions: uncontrolled, jerky, and amateur. There was a sudden blur of movement as a portly woman ran from behind an overturned display. The gunmen tracked her with their weapons on fully automatic. Rounds spat from the barrels, showering her and the surrounding area. East hugged the floor as rounds impacted against the back wall, hitting fittings and spinning off at obtuse angles.
The woman, eyes wild, was thrown sideways, mid-stride, as white-hot lead tore into her flesh. She came crashing down with a sickening thud on the thinly carpeted shop-floor. Her eyes saw East and her mouth moved; she reached out her hand. ‘Pamageet minya.’ ‘Help me,’ she pleaded in Russian.
‘Nie dveegaisia!’ ‘Stay still,’ East hissed back in the same language. But it was too late. Her hand trembled, fell limp, and her eyes glazed over. East’s jaw tightened – he was going to stop them.
*
There were footsteps on his left by the escalator. Two more gunmen were ascending to the upper floors, one a little ahead of the other. East craned his neck; the first pair now had their backs turned and their weapons pointing away. East moved with speed and stealth towards the disappearing gunman. Reaching the bottom of the escalator he launched himself up, two steps at a time, no longer caring about the noise he made, only the distance he covered. The nearest gunman turned, Uzi held upwards in one hand, the short barrel pointing at the concrete above. His eyes registered East but not before East’s open palm crashed up into the underside of the gunman’s nose, flattening cartilage and breaking bone. As if struck by a sledgehammer the man dropped the Uzi and fell sideways. East grabbed the weapon and squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst ripped through the gunman before burrowing into the side of the escalator.
There was more gunfire from above. East flattened himself against the metal steps and was carried upwards. As his head crested the shop-floor he saw that the fourth gunman, oblivious to his colleague’s demise, had started to spray the room. East raised the Uzi and fired a controlled burst into the back of his target’s head. The man fell instantly, body dead before it had stopped falling. Around him shoppers and staff cowered and wept. Two X-rays down, two more to go. East hit the stop button on the stairs and peered over the side at the ground floor. Save for sobbing, the area was quiet once more as both gunmen again changed magazines. One was silent and had a crazed expression on his face, while the other seemed to be quietly chanting. East had to act; he had to take them out now. He moved down the metal steps, took a deep breath, and then broke cover at the bottom.
The nearest X-ray looked up, eyes wide as East fired. The gunman stumbled backwards as rounds impacted his chest before he crashed into a counter. The second gunman returned fire and charged forward. East pivoted, fell to one knee to lessen his profile, and acquired the target.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ the gunman yelled.
East looked into the man’s eyes and released second pressure on the trigger. The X-ray fell upon him and glass exploded around both men. The X-ray was history, but his momentum took East down with him. East’s head hit the carpet-covered concrete shop-floor with a loud crack and his world went black.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine
Aidan Snow sipped his black coffee as he listened via the internet to the Today programme on Radio 4. The main news of the morning was an explosion at rush hour on the Moscow metro. It had happened at a station Snow knew well, one close to the international school he had attended as an ‘Embassy Brat’ twenty years before. So far the number of fatalities hadn’t been released but Snow knew it would be high. The radio announced that the explosion had been confirmed as an IED and that a Chechen group, the Islamic International Brigade, had claimed responsibility. An expert on Russian security matters from the UCL School of Slavonic and East European Studies had been quickly found and, in heavily accented English, gave his opinion. He explained that the Russian authorities wouldn’t accept that the real Islamic International Brigade had carried out the attack, due to the fact that the FSB had either captured or killed its leaders. Indeed, the leader of the group had been publicly put on trial and was at this very moment serving a full life term in Russia’s most secure prison. The expert went on to say why he thought the bomb had been detonated and who else could be responsible. A splinter or copycat group using the same methods…
Snow clicked off the broadcast and continued to eat his breakfast in silence, even though he had now lost his appetite. Terrorism was senseless: innocent civilians were targeted based solely on the actions of their governments, whom they probably hadn’t voted into power. Yet it was endemic the world over and it sickened him. Saturday had brought reports of a suspected Al-Qaeda attack on shoppers in a New Jersey department store and today it was the turn of commuters in Moscow. Snow shuddered as he imagined the horror created by the detonation and panic among the Muscovites. He pictured the metro station in his mind as he remembered it, with its scrupulously clean floors, advert-free walls, grand architecture, and fur-clad crowds. As a teenager he had frequently explored Moscow by jumping on the metro after school, much to the annoyance of the British Embassy driver. He had sat and listened to the Muscovites, often taking the train to the end of the line into areas that were strictly off the tourist path. In the late Eighties, just before the Soviet Union crumbled, Moscow had been an exciting place. There had been something in the air, a note of dissent those in power had chosen to ignore, to their ultimate cost.
Today, the people in power were jumpy; an attack in one European capital city put all the others on high alert. Moscow, having once again attempted to resurrect the Soviet Empire by illegally annexing Crimea and invading Eastern Ukraine, had made itself target number one. It had no one else to blame, but it was the Russian people who were suffering and not the warmongering cocks in the Kremlin.
The door to the room Snow was camped out in opened and Alistair Vickers entered. He sat heavily in an armchair. ‘You’ve seen the news, I take it?’
‘What next?’
Vickers shrugged. ‘I have no earthly idea, but Jack’s just called for a video conference.’
On cue, Snow’s secure iPhone vibrated to show an incoming email from Jack Patchem, his boss at SIS. It contained just one word: Moscow. ‘We’d better go to your office then.’
Vickers reluctantly dragged himself out of the comfy chair.
*
Several minutes later Patchem spoke without preamble as the video-link started. ‘Terrible news from Russia. The last thing we need is the loony brigade annoying the Kremlin.’
‘Do we know who’s responsible?’ Snow asked as Vickers pushed a plate of custard cream biscuits towards him.
‘Only what the media is saying, but our man on the scene is confirming thirty dead now, some foreigners. The FCO doesn’t know yet if this includes any Brits.’
‘Was there any advance warning of the attack, any increased chatter seen by GCHQ?’ Vickers asked.
‘None, and that’s what’s so worrisome. The only chatter we have is after the event, the usual rhetoric praising the suicide bomber and thanking Allah. Allah the almighty, who invented Semtex!’ There was a pause and Patchem apologised. ‘I know, gentlemen, I know. Call me an Islamophobe, but you understand what I mean. These crazies want to blow us all up in the name of Islam.’
‘Their view of Islam.’
‘Yes, Aidan – you’re right, of course.’ In London, Patchem took a sip of water. ‘Actually, one phrase has come up a few times: “The Hand of Allah”. We don’t have anything on it yet; it could be a new group aligned to Al-Qaeda or IS, or, who knows, perhaps the name of an operation or just a turn of speech.’
‘If it’s the name of a new group, that would back up what the Russians say.’
‘That it’s not the Islamic International Brigade? Aidan, you know as well as I do that the FSB and GRU would never admit some key members of the group might have evaded capture.’
‘I’m surprised the Kremlin isn’t trying to pin it on “Ukrainian Banderite fascists”,’ Vickers said.
‘I had a beer with Bandera’s grandson once. He wasn’t a fascist, he was Canadian,’ Snow replied.
Patchem agreed. The Kremlin had labelled the new Ukrainian government fascists and called the protesters who had ousted the old Moscow-backed President ‘Banderites’ after Stepan Bandera, the Ukrainian wartime nationalist leader who had chosen the Nazis over the Soviet Union. ‘We can’t rule out anyone at this stage.’ Onscreen, Patchem closed his eyes and pinched his nose. ‘Look…’
‘Everything OK, Jack?’
‘What, Alistair? Yes, just not sleeping as much as I should.’ Patchem drank some more water and then cleared his throat. ‘So, Aidan, welcome back and congratulations on “collecting” Mr Iqbal. How is he?’
‘He’s still catching up on his sleep. They kept him chained up in a garage for most of the time, and if he wasn’t chained up he was digging trenches.’
‘Trenches?’ Patchem frowned.
‘Apparently the leader of the DNR is a World War One buff; he loves the idea of trench warfare,’ Vickers added. ‘Which is very odd, when you consider he’s holed up in the middle of an industrial city!’
‘The whole thing is very odd. Alistair, how long until we can get Iqbal back to the UK?’
‘Midweek I’d say. He’s going to be talking to the SBU today; they want a debrief on everything he saw during his time in captivity. They’ll be chatting to Aidan too. It’s all going to be taken down as evidence against the DNR. Of course, I’ll be there to record the session.’
‘Good. Aidan, finish writing up your report, and then, once the SBU are happy, bring Mr Iqbal home. In the meantime, keep a low profile, but have your “grab-bag” and passport handy.’
‘I always do.’
*
New York, USA
The driving rain cut down visibility, which was good for concealment. He lay on the damp concrete under the truck, his left side leaning against the cold steel of the skip. His dark-blue waterproofs kept most of the rain out save for a continuous trickle working its way down into his cuff where it mixed with the sweat on his clammy skin. Lights came on in the timber warehouse as the first workers began to arrive. The business park, however, remained silent. Seven o’clock came and the sky lightened, but the rain did not, continuing to pound on the steel of the skip and the hood of the truck. His view was limited to what he could see directly ahead between the truck and the skip and to his right under the vehicle. If anyone approached on foot he would be blind until they were directly on top of him. His position was far from perfect. He put all thoughts of comfort to one side and continued to await his prey.
He felt rather than saw the first timber shipment arrive. Trucks could appear any time after the transporters had cleared customs at Newhaven port and been offloaded. For this reason the warehouse was always staffed. It was almost 8 a.m. now, and he stretched in an attempt to relieve cramped muscles. His mind started to repeat over and over the words he had been told… the target was the one who had carried out the orders; the target had burnt, torn, and tortured. Inside the overalls he sweated heavier as a white rage engulfed his body. The target would pay for his brother’s murder. A vehicle approached, the distinctive growl of the AMG Mercedes engine competing against the rain. His mind was suddenly clear, focused, his breathing controlled. He craned his neck and saw the driver’s door open. Positive ID. He moved with the speed and grace of a panther, springing up and away from its den. Uzi in his right hand, he narrowed the gap to his prey and hit him with a stiff arm. The target fell back against the hood of the Mercedes and, a split second later, he pulled the trigger. Intense flashes of light illuminated the stormy morning. The target convulsed, lightning bolts impacting his chest and upper body, forcing him into the car. The gunman stopped and looked into the eyes of the target with hatred. ‘Za mayevo Brata,’ he heard himself yell in Russian. ‘This is for my brother…’ He repeated the proclamation as he emptied the remainder of the magazine into a lifeless corpse… the last time he had used an Uzi was… He felt a pain in his temples and a light flashed, the pain increasing as the light got nearer and brighter. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to move, to run away, but his legs wouldn’t work. He tried to raise his hands to protect his eyes, but they wouldn’t work either. All the while, the light got brighter and the pain intensified. His world changed from the blackest of black to a deep red. James East began to hear a voice speaking in a language he did not officially speak. The red gradually lightened and then the voice spoke to him.
‘Can you hear me?’ The Russian was flawless. ‘You are safe; you are no longer in any danger.’
The doctor noted a flickering beneath the patient’s closed eyelids. He spoke again. ‘If you can hear me, can you try to open your eyes?’ A note was thrust into the doctor’s hand. He read it quickly. ‘I need you to give me the name of your next of kin. We must contact your family to say that you are here and safe with us.’
Family? From somewhere inside East’s mind, a light switched on. His mouth opened and several syllables of Russian rolled out.
‘I am sorry, I did not hear that. Can you say it again?’
More Russian. ‘Y menia bull brat…’ ‘I had a brother…’ East began to say in Russian, then stopped. The pain sharpened and the light became white. Suddenly conscious behind closed eyes, East realised his mistake. He started to groan and make unrecognisable sounds.
‘I am sorry, but I do not understand. Can you say that again?’ The doctor moved closer.
East opened his eyes and spoke in English; his throat was dry and his voice raspy, but his Boston accent, the same one he had used for the past three years, was unmistakable. ‘Where am I?’
The two men standing over the bed momentarily seemed surprised before regaining their composure. The doctor spoke first, sticking to Russian. ‘You are in hospital. You were involved in a shooting.’
East blinked, feigning incomprehension. ‘I’m… s… sorry. What did y… you say?’
The doctor began to speak, but the second man touched him on the shoulder and shook his head. He asked in English, ‘What’s your name?’
‘My… my name is James… James East.’
‘Well, Mr East, my name is Mr Casey. As Dr Litvin was attempting to say, you were caught up in a terrorist attack.’
East tried to sit up, but a searing pain behind his eyes blurred his vision.
Dr Litvin placed his hand on his patient’s arm and now also switched to English. ‘Try not to move too quickly; your body has suffered some trauma.’
East closed his eyes; when he opened them again his vision had returned. He assessed the room. It was a standard hospital white. He noted the badge on the doctor’s coat but directed the question to Casey. ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in a hospital in Manhattan, Mr East. You were brought here after the shootings. Do you remember that?’
It was hazy, but he did. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Just over forty-eight hours. You have a concussion.’ The doctor touched his arm reassuringly. ‘You are lucky, Mr East, that it was not more serious.’
‘He must have a thick skull, eh, Doc?’ Casey was jovial.
‘Quite.’
‘Mr East, there are a few questions I would like answered.’
The doctor frowned. ‘If I could have a moment, Mr Casey?’
The doctor stepped outside and folded his arms. He waited for his visitor to join him. ‘While I am more than happy to assist with your investigations, I do not think the patient is medically fit enough to be interrogated.’
Casey raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Doc, no one’s going to be interrogated. I just need to ask him a few questions.’
‘Not today, Mr Casey. He is not going anywhere. You may question Mr East when I deem him to be fit.’
Casey’s expression hardened. ‘I need to question him in the interests of national security.’
‘You came to me because you thought the patient might be a Russian and, indeed, I heard a few words. However, when he regained consciousness, he spoke English, just like you and me.’ Litvin was an immigrant but didn’t let that cloud the issue. ‘I understand that Mr East is not a normal patient; however, he must be treated as one. Remember, it would be me in the firing line if he were to sue the hospital for any complications or malpractice.’
‘Thank you for your candour, Doc.’ Casey decided to push no further.
*
Scanning the room, East realised there was no TV in the corner, just an empty bracket. He tried to sit up again but felt as though a gigantic hand was squeezing his head.
The door opened and Litvin appeared. He smiled as he neared. ‘Mr Casey is a government agent and wanted to interrogate you. I told him you were not well enough. You need to rest.’ Litvin sat in the chair next to East’s bed. ‘Can you remember what happened?’
‘I think so. How many did they kill?’
‘Nine dead, and seventeen others with gunshot injuries. It was a miracle more innocent shoppers didn’t die. Some people are calling you a hero. I, for one, agree with them.’
‘Thanks, I guess.’ Nine! Inwardly East cursed. Why hadn’t he been faster? Why couldn’t he have been by the entrance to stop them?
Litvin seemed to read his mind. ‘I expect you are asking yourself why you couldn’t have saved more people, or shot the terrorists sooner?’ East nodded and Litvin continued. ‘You are suffering from survivor’s guilt, and everyone does. You wonder why you were chosen to live when others died, when others might have been more deserving of life. No one has answers to this, not down here at least. We are not party to the great plan. Tell me, are you a religious man?’
‘No.’
‘I see. I am from Moscow… and you, Mr East?’
‘Boston.’
‘Originally?’ Litvin raised his eyebrows. East didn’t reply, so the doctor continued. ‘Where did you learn your Russian?’
‘I did a course at college. It was either that or Spanish.’
‘You spoke Russian several times while you were sedated.’ In actual fact, it was when the sedation had begun to wear off, but Litvin wasn’t going to admit the anaesthesiologist might have got the dose wrong.
East changed the subject. ‘When can I leave, Doctor?’
‘In about a week or so. There was some swelling to your cerebellum, which is at the base and back of your brain, and is responsible for coordination and balance. The good news is that the scans did not show any obvious damage. Until you regained consciousness, however, we could not be certain. Now you are conscious, you need to undergo further tests.’
East frowned. ‘Why was Mr Casey here?’
‘Mr East, there was a shooting; these things have to be investigated. I think it is best that you rest now. My colleague from the neurological team will be along to check up on you later.’ Litvin rose and left the room. His patient needed rest and, regardless of who the men in suits were, they must let him be.
East closed his eyes. What Litvin had said was true; he wasn’t worthy to live because of the innocent lives he had taken in the past. Any of the nine murdered shoppers had more to offer society than him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Were the painkillers altering his mood, making him morose, or did he really feel this way? He sat in silence. He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he had messed up, and now he had to work on his escape.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_67fdbf0d-2e16-5bcf-bcf6-b4fd2993db3c)
Kabul, Afghanistan
‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.
The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.
Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.
Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.
‘Are you going to the West?’
Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’
‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’
‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’
The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine
Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.
An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.
Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’
‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.
Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’
‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’
Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’
‘You too. How long are you back for?’
‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’
‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’
‘Correct. I’m free this evening and then I’ve got meetings and business lunches until I fly out on Wednesday.’
Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Phew, I’m glad I just teach a few English lessons here and there. No stress and lots of time to drink, smoke, and observe the local wildlife.’
Snow shook his head at the fifty-something Welshman. ‘How’s Ina?’
‘Not bad. She lost her job, though.’ Jones’s wife of sixteen years was a banker – and her husband’s banker.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Eh, but she got a new one with a Canadian investment group. She may have to fly out there next month. I don’t mind, it gives me a chance to rest.’ Jones’s diction was lilting and slow, as always after he’d had a few pints. ‘But great to see you, eh!’
‘You too, Mr Jones.’ Snow became serious. ‘So, how have you been this last year?’
‘Fine. We obviously skipped Crimea this summer and thought for a while of coming back to the UK. But then I saw the house prices. I can’t bloody afford to get on the housing ladder at my age! So we didn’t. Our area was pretty isolated from the violence and unrest, thank Christ. But eh, it’s a shocking business, isn’t it? Who are the Kremlin to say Ukraine can’t join the European Union? Ukrainians are good people who were led by a corrupt president. Russians are good people but… people are people, let them live.’ He waved his hand and then drained the remainder of his beer.
Snow agreed with Jones’s statement, even if the wording was a little off, but he didn’t want to get political or morose. For once all he wanted to do was sink a few drinks, reminisce, and relax. And from the look of it, Jones was several drinks ahead of him. Snow caught the attention of the barmaid, who trotted over with menus.
‘Is this your friend, Michael?’
‘This is Aidan. He used to teach with me.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Snow said in Russian. ‘Two beers, please.’
‘Is Obolon OK?’
‘Fine.’
She smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar with a wiggle that Snow tried but failed to ignore.
‘Service with a smile,’ Jones remarked happily.
‘So, what brings you to this place then?’ Snow asked.
‘One of my students, Vlad, runs it. He’s a good bloke and the beer is so cheap for Kyiv prices!’ Jones was always counting his money. His love of bargains coupled with his love of alcohol had made him an expert on the cheaper watering holes of Ukraine’s capital city.
‘I’m not surprised it’s cheap – it’s in the middle of nowhere.’
‘It’s not far from the metro and if you’re near the metro you’re near everything.’
‘That’s true.’ The beer arrived and Snow held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘You too.’
‘What time does Ina want you home?’
‘Whenever. She doesn’t mind me drinking with you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.’
Snow smacked beer from his lips. ‘I thought she knew me better than that.’
The door opened and a hulking figure ducked his head to enter.
‘He’s a big boy,’ Jones noted, ‘and I thought you were tall.’
‘I am tall. He’s a giant. Do you know him?’
‘No.’ Jones returned his attention to his beer.
The giant, dressed in a tracksuit under a leather box jacket, strode to the bar and, with a booming voice, ordered vodka. He knocked back his drink in one and then demanded a beer.
Snow’s training kicked in as he scanned the bar. The other ten or so customers weren’t making eye contact with the new arrival, especially the table of women Michael had been watching. Two of them discreetly turned their chairs away. The man was dangerous, and by the way people reacted to him, known as being such.
‘Another?’ Jones asked.
‘Silly question.’ Snow winked.
‘Pani!’ Michael called out the Ukrainian word for ‘miss’, also used to mean waitress. ‘Two beers, please.’
The giant turned and leant against the bar, swivelling his large head to stare at them.
Snow involuntarily felt himself tense, ready for action. ‘So, where is this Vlad then?’
‘He’s probably in reception; it’s a family business. His dad owns the hotel; Vlad’s just taken over here and his two sisters work in both. The one at the bar is called Svetlana.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know him?’
Jones sniggered. ‘Not the giant, the barmaid.’
‘Here.’ Svetlana brought the beers. She no longer seemed happy and hurried back to the bar.
Jones took a long swig and then stood. ‘I’m sorry, I need a slash. Bladder can’t keep up with me anymore.’
Snow continued to assess the threat and the giant continued to stare, until another man appeared in the bar. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with ‘Café Bar Standard’ printed on it in burgundy. On seeing the giant, he paused before walking to the bar. Snow watched as the new arrival started to polish glasses as the giant spoke to him.
‘Hokay, Vlad!’ Jones shouted as he emerged from the bathroom a minute later.
Vlad held up a tea towel but said nothing as the giant now glared at Jones.
Jones sat and noticed the expression on Snow’s face. ‘What’s up?’
‘I think the big fella is bad news, Michael.’
‘What, him? He’s just a bloke having a drink. You’ve been away too long.’ Jones produced a new packet of Ukrainian cigarettes from his jacket pocket and fiddled with the polythene wrapper.
‘Maybe.’
A glass smashed at the bar. The giant was pointing at Vlad with his index finger.
‘Shit.’ Snow sighed, getting to his feet. He’d seen enough shakedowns in his time to understand what was happening. ‘Michael, stay in your seat.’
‘What?’ Jones looked up from his cigarettes. ‘Oh, I see.’
Snow placed his empty glass on the counter. Svetlana was sweeping the floor with a dustpan and brush while Vlad stood, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Snow spoke in Russian. ‘Two more beers, please, and…’ He studied the face of the giant. ‘…Whatever you’re having.’
The big man’s heavy forehead furrowed. ‘Vodka.’
Vlad looked between the two men as he pulled the beer and then poured a shot of vodka.
‘Two vodkas.’ The giant grabbed Vlad’s wrist and scowled at Snow. ‘One for you, too, unless you do not want to drink with Victor?’
‘I’d be honoured, Victor,’ Snow said.
With a shaky hand, Vlad placed the glasses on the bar before retreating. Victor took his glass and Snow copied. There was a moment’s hesitation and then both men threw the contents against the backs of their throats. Victor checked Snow’s reaction to the harsh spirit. There was none.
‘Who is your foreign friend?’
Snow shrugged. ‘He’s an English-language teacher.’
‘I have always wanted to learn English.’ Victor’s face became whimsical. ‘So I can tell foreigners to get the fuck out of my country.’
‘That’s a good reason,’ Snow said.
‘I am sick of seeing all these Westerners around Kyiv! They swagger like they own the place, throwing their money about while, in the East, our men without the correct clothing or equipment or weapons die fighting for Ukraine. And what do the foreigners do to help Ukraine? They call the Russian President and tell him he must stop!’ Victor rubbed his face with his palms before placing them on the bar. ‘Another!’
Snow knew Victor was right, but what could he say? He just nodded at Vlad who again quickly poured two shots.
Victor raised his glass. ‘Ukraine.’
‘Ukraine,’ Snow repeated
Victor swivelled his head. ‘I am from Kamyanka; it’s a village to the south of Donetsk. The DNR have destroyed it. And why couldn’t the Ukrainian army defend it? Because they did not have the equipment! Do you understand?’
Snow remained silent; Victor was dealing with some powerful emotions and likely to explode at any moment.
‘I hate foreigners. They sit, drink, shit, and pay to screw our women. That is all.’ Victor looked now at Snow and said mockingly, ‘Thank you for the vodka.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ Snow replied as he collected his beers and moved back to his table.
‘You made friends then?’
‘He’s from the Donbas. He likes me, I’m a nice guy.’
‘That’s because your Russian is too good; ironic, eh?’
‘What’s ironic is that he doesn’t like foreigners, and he thinks you’re foreign.’
‘Well, as an ethnic minority, I am offended! Does he not know about the significant historical links between Wales and Donetsk? Donetsk was founded by a Welshman who opened Ukraine’s first mine and steel works. Ukraine’s first state school was opened in Donetsk, and the first English-language school.’
‘You looked it up?’
‘Of course. Ukrainians like it.’
‘Well, big Victor wants to learn English.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘He wants to learn English so he can tell all us foreigners to eff off.’
‘Make him the Minister for International Relations.’ Jones puffed on a new cigarette.
Snow slurped his beer. ‘Seriously, Michael, he’s trouble, but he’s not sober so his guard’s down. I suspect he’s part of a local protection racket.’
‘Roof insurance.’ Jones used a well-known euphemism. ‘Aye, that’s one thing I thought Maidan got rid of – the crime and corruption. I got stopped by a militia officer the other day who wanted to see my passport. I told him I didn’t carry it around with me for security reasons. So he said I had to pay a fine of $50.’
‘What did you do?’ Snow was sure he’d heard the story before, but now it was updated for modern times.
‘I did nothing. I was walking with Ina. She told him to piss off or she’d report him.’
Snow smiled. ‘You don’t argue with Ina.’
‘Too right. When we got home she did report him.’
There was another crash at the bar and Victor wobbled. He staggered towards Snow and Jones. ‘Teach me.’ His two words of English were slow and slurred. He raised his voice. ‘Teach me!’
Snow got to his feet and held up his palms. ‘OK… OK, have a seat and we can discuss this. We’re not the enemy.’
‘Enemy?’ A grin appeared on Victor’s face. ‘Tell the foreigner to give me his money, and you give me your money. You then can both fuck off.’
‘I’m Welsh,’ Jones said. ‘A Welshman founded Donetsk!’
The giant frowned and, without warning, but with unexpected speed for a man of his size, dropped his shoulders several inches and shot his mammoth right fist out at Snow. Snow instinctively took a step back and, with both arms working at once, his left palm swatted Victor’s arm down while the back of his right fist slammed into the giant’s nose. It was a simple but effective move; no one throwing a punch expected to receive another back before theirs had struck. Victor blinked and retreated a half-step. Snow reversed the momentum of his right fist and struck the man in the jaw. Victor’s legs buckled and he landed on his knees. He had to go down; Snow didn’t want him to be able to fight back, given his size and inherent strength.
‘I am from Oleg. He says you don’t come here anymore. Oleg is in charge here!’
‘Oleg who?’ Victor was dazed.
‘Oleg.’ Snow high-kneed Victor under the chin; his head snapped back, his eyes closed, and he fell. ‘Michael, we’re leaving.’
‘Hokay.’ Jones stood and shrugged at Vlad.
‘Call the militia quickly. Tell them the SBU are on their way.’
Vlad looked at Snow in confusion. ‘SBU?’
‘Yes.’ Snow reached into his pocket, withdrew a $100 bill, and handed it to Vlad. ‘This is for your trouble; any friend of Michael Jones is a friend of mine.’
Michael stared down at Victor. ‘Don’t mess with the SAS.’
Snow grabbed Jones by the sleeve. ‘Time to go.’
Outside, darkness had fallen and they took the path round to the front of the hotel. ‘Who’s Oleg?’
‘There’s always an Oleg.’
Michael pointed down the street. ‘Sviatoshyn metro station is ten minutes that way.’
‘OK, we’ll go back to the centre and drink in a place full of foreigners.’ Snow tapped Jones on the back. ‘Don’t worry – I’m on expenses.’
‘Oh, that’s great. But can you hang on a minute? I need another slash.’
‘Fine.’ Jones walked down the side of the hotel, opened his flies, and urinated into an evergreen shrub. Snow had ceased to be embarrassed by his friend’s antics years before, so took the opportunity to call Blazhevich.
‘Aidan? What’s up?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a problem with a guy in a bar – a giant to be exact. Can you send someone to collect him? I don’t think the local militia would be up to the job.’
He heard the Ukrainian sigh. ‘Where is the giant?’
‘He’s in a hotel on Horenska Street, not far from Sviatoshyn metro.’
‘Was this giant called Victor?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Kyiv really is a small village. He’s known to the SBU, and you were lucky.’
‘Why?’
‘Victor Krilov is a former professional boxer, a good one.’
‘Nice.’
‘Aidan, stay out of trouble. I’ll see you and Mr Iqbal tomorrow, at the debrief.’
*
FBI Field Office, New York
Vince Casey looked up from the computer at FBI Deputy Director Gianni before placing his thick index finger on the laptop screen, the display changing colour under the pressure of his digit. ‘This guy’s a “pro”, no doubt in my mind.’
Gianni stared at the frozen image of the member of the public who had taken down four gunmen.
‘Look again at how he moves.’ Casey clicked and rewound the surveillance tape.
Both men watched as the figure travelled with an economy of movement, without any hesitation or lack of purpose.
‘So who is he?’ Gianni asked.
‘That’s why your Bureau and my Agency are interested.’
Gianni sat back and folded his arms. The speed of the man was impressive, as was the way he had terminated the X-rays. ‘Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’
‘I don’t think it’s any different to yours.’
‘Humour me. Spell it out.’
‘Definitely SF or SF-trained.’
Gianni valued the opinion of the CIA black-ops veteran. In the corridor outside the office they heard footsteps. Both men remained silent from force of habit until the footfall faded away. Gianni leaned forward, dragged his laptop nearer, and tapped the keyboard. He glanced across at his long-time friend from the Agency. ‘The fingerprints come up as belonging to a banker from Boston.’
‘Let me have a look at that?’
‘Sure.’ Gianni pushed the laptop back towards Casey. ‘Just scroll down. All we have is there.’
‘Thanks.’ Casey read the report, although he already knew the basics. James East. Born in Boston, put up for adoption by his mother, no record of a father. Placed in a state orphanage, never adopted. There was a grainy photograph taken from a high-school yearbook, which showed East as a bespectacled, blond-haired teen. How was East’s eyesight now, Casey wondered – he’d better check. He read on. After graduating from high school East travelled to the opposite side of the country to study at UCLA. Upon completion of his degree, he volunteered to teach English for charities in Romania and then Bulgaria before returning to the US several years later.
‘Again, Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’ Gianni asked, deadpan.
‘Again, the same as yours.’
‘Too convenient?’
‘Exactly,’ Casey stated wryly. ‘No family, no ties, out of the US, and then no real job until three years ago when he comes back?’
‘And, as you see, no record of any criminal activity, or military service.’
‘So he’s not one of ours,’ Casey confirmed. His initial thoughts had been that East was a ‘NOC’, an agent with ‘No Official Cover’, a black operative. But his CIA database had thus far come up blank as regards any facial recognition match. In his experience even the blackest of NOCs left some record. He’d continue to search.
‘So what do we have?’ Gianni leant back in his chair and rolled his shoulders.
‘Someone else’s asset?’
‘Perhaps, but we’ve got the local office in Boston digging deeper into his background; if there’s anything fishy, we’ll find it.’
The hard lessons learnt from the 9/11 terror attacks had now been fully implemented; the varying arms of the US intelligence and law enforcement services worked together, transparently and harmoniously. At least that was the official line, but Gianni and Casey did find the activity of their organisations more and more linked. The Bureau’s remit was ‘domestic security’ and the Agency’s the interests of the US abroad; however, each organisation was keen to keep tabs on suspects, wherever they might be.
Gianni continued. ‘We got a court order to open his safety deposit box. There was nothing in it apart from a few thousand dollars in cash. I’ve asked the NSA to look for any recent calls made on the iPhone he was carrying.’
Casey got to his feet and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot in the corner of the room. ‘Whoever Mr East is, he’s got some explaining to do.’
‘Oh, he’ll talk. Hero or not, he’s facing four counts of voluntary manslaughter at the very least.’
‘And how many innocent shoppers did the bad guys get?’
Gianni held up his palms. ‘I know… if it hadn’t been for Mr East we’d have had a full-scale massacre on our hands. The fact still remains, however, that he killed four men. Justice cannot be blind.’
Casey pretended to agree. ‘How did we miss them?’
‘Hey, if we knew that we’d have stopped them ourselves.’
‘Why couldn’t just one of them have lived? At least until we bled him a bit.’
It angered and annoyed Casey that the shooters had appeared from nowhere. The leads from the increased chatter following Bin Laden’s kill/capture even now had them all chasing their tails. And, added to this, new threats from Islamic State to take their fight to the West had, in short, created so much chatter that it had become a shield. ‘The bigger question is, how many more have we missed?’
‘You know as well as I do how much traffic the NSA is looking at, the volume Echelon is sifting. My question is, why attack a store in Morristown, New Jersey? Why not hit the branch opposite Ground Zero?’
Casey had been wondering the same thing and had no answer. Was it random, opportunistic, a mistake, or personal? ‘We may never know.’
‘Yep,’ Gianni agreed. The identities of the four men remained unknown. There had been no IDs found on the bodies and the fingerprints had thrown up fake legends, the origins of which were still being traced. ‘How is Mr East?’
‘Why?’
Gianni gave Casey his no-shit stare. ‘I need to talk to him. Remember, we are in the USA; the rule of law has to be followed, otherwise we’ll be no better than them.’
Casey raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, I’m not farm-fresh, remember? We have laws, and sometimes they bend.’
‘OK.’ Gianni sighed imperceptibly; he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Casey had an agreement with the Commander in Chief that Gianni wasn’t meant to know about. ‘Someday, Vince, you’re not going to get what you want. This isn’t a pissing contest; we’ve both known each other too long for that. East has to be under my watch. I’ll pull my agents back a bit. After you’ve finished talking to him we’ll resume our perimeter and he’s mine. OK? Any intel you get, copy me in.’
‘Thanks, Gino,’ Casey said affably, ‘but I wasn’t asking you for permission.’
Gianni was about to reply when Casey’s Blackberry pinged. Casey retrieved it from his pocket and read the alert. ‘Shit. They’ve hit Moscow again.’
*
SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Vulitsa, Kyiv
The room chosen by the SBU for Iqbal’s debriefing was much more elaborately furnished than any at Vauxhall Cross. The walls were clad in ornate, gilded, hand-painted panels, and the chairs were highly padded and covered in an array of exotic leather. The large table in the middle could hold twenty guests, but today it had seated only five: Mohammed Iqbal and the intelligence officers responsible for his rescue – Aidan Snow, Alistair Vickers, Vitaly Blazhevich, and Ivan Nedilko.
At the start of the meeting Vickers officially presented Blazhevich, who was deputising for Director Dudka, with copies of Iqbal’s and Snow’s statements. It had taken most of the day to meticulously go through these, the SBU being loath to miss anything that could potentially be of use in their ongoing antiterrorist operation against the DNR and possible future international indictments. Photographs of known DNR members were shown in turn to both Iqbal and Snow, and videofits were created of as yet unidentified men. All in all, Iqbal’s illegal incarceration had provided the SBU with valuable Humint (human intelligence) they wouldn’t otherwise have been able to gather.
Blazhevich signalled Nedilko to switch off the digital tape recorder as he closed the folder in front of him. ‘Gentlemen, I think that’s it. We have finished here.’
The official part of the debriefing complete, Snow let out a long sigh. ‘I could murder a beer.’
‘Me too,’ Iqbal said.
Nedilko was confused. ‘But aren’t you a Muslim?’
‘Yes, but some of us do drink, you know.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Vickers stated, ‘we can’t be seen in a bar together. People will wonder who you are, Mo, and then, well, you know how it is.’
‘I see.’ Iqbal had been made to sign the Official Secrets Act, the SIS’s involvement in his rescue being classified and having to remain so.
‘So, your flat it is then, Alistair?’ Snow added quickly, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘Right, votes for Alistair’s place; let’s see a show of hands.’
Vickers pursed his lips as all hands but his own were raised in the air. ‘Very well, my flat it is.’
Blazhevich shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I am going to have to bow out on this occasion. My wife is expecting me home.’
Snow raised his eyebrows but made no further comment – it wasn’t like Blazhevich to pass on a booze-up.
The five men left the conference room and took the steps down to the ground floor. Blazhevich hung back and pulled Snow to one side. ‘By the way, my colleagues took “the giant”, as you called him, into custody. It was the same guy Nedilko and I arrested a year ago.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘He wanted to press charges against the guy from Kharkiv who’d attacked him.’
‘Kharkiv?’
‘He assured us that his attacker was a Russian-speaking Ukrainian.’
‘Looks like my Moscow accent needs a bit of work then?’
‘No, it’s his cauliflower ears. So we’ve charged him with racketeering, for the second time. You do know you were extremely lucky? He was a dangerous individual before, but now that he’s started to rage about the Donbas he’s become completely unhinged.’
‘Then I’m glad you’ve put him away.’
‘So am I, but you did hit him quite hard.’
‘Whoops.’
‘So this used to be the old KGB building then?’ Iqbal asked as he stared at the armed guard manning the reception desk.
‘Yes, and I wouldn’t like to think what happened in the underground levels,’ Vickers replied.
‘What, they’ve got catacombs?’ Iqbal’s eyes widened.
‘No, a basement with cells.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Yeah, they threw me in one once,’ Snow called out, catching up with the others.
‘You were a person of interest, Aidan,’ Blazhevich stated.
‘What do you mean “were”; aren’t I interesting anymore?’
‘Did you meet the ghost?’ Nedilko asked.
‘Ghost?’ Iqbal repeated.
Vickers enjoyed the banter which over the years had formed among the group as the SIS and SBU had been forced to work together. He’d miss it all when he was eventually forced to move on to a new post at a new embassy.
As they reached the door to the street, the guard’s desk phone rang. He answered it and called over to Blazhevich.
‘Hello?’ the SBU officer asked. ‘When? I see. Thank you, Gennady Stepanovich.’
Snow noticed the expression on his colleague’s face was now grave. ‘Bad news?’
‘Yes. That was Dudka. He’s just been informed that another terrorist attack has taken place on the Moscow metro system. They are still counting the dead.’
‘Bastards,’ Snow hissed; it was the height of rush hour in the Russian capital.
Vickers and Snow both felt their phones vibrate. Vickers checked his screen, a secure email. ‘Aidan, we’re needed at the embassy. Vitaly, Ivan – thank you. Mo, you have to come with us.’
Outside, a distinct chill hung in the air as winter tried to replace autumn. The British Embassy on Desyatynna Street was a brisk, five-minute walk away up Volodymyrska Vulitsa and across Sofiyivska Square, and at this time of day an embassy car would take much longer to negotiate the Kyiv traffic. Vickers led the trio through the commuters returning home, with Snow bringing up the rear as ‘tail-end Charlie’. They weren’t expecting any problems, but experience had taught both SIS men to be vigilant. Arriving at the embassy, Mo went to the room assigned to him while Snow joined Vickers in his office, where they called Patchem.
‘Aidan, Alistair, it’s the same modus operandi as before: a suicide bomber on a commuter-packed tube train.’
‘Any warnings this time?’
‘No, Alistair, none. None at all. Whoever is doing this is going to have the full force of the FSB brought down on them from a great height, and rightly so. These are innocent people, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Has anyone claimed responsibility?’
Patchem shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘What are the Russians saying, Jack?’
‘Nothing new, Aidan. If it’s not the same group then it’s a very meticulous copycat, and when I say meticulous, I mean disturbed.’
‘The SBU are now going to start to panic,’ Vickers noted. ‘After all, Kyiv does have a metro system built by the same people, but hopefully not the same enemies.’
‘So,’ Patchem reasoned, ‘if there were to be any attack upon Kyiv it would be a copycat.’
‘Or a false flag,’ said Snow. ‘The Russians getting in an attack and blaming the International Islamic Brigade.’
‘Well, let’s hope none of these scenarios comes true. Alistair, has the debriefing been completed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Aidan, I’d like you to fly back here tomorrow with Mr Iqbal. The DNR have already started to talk about his “negotiated release” on their VKontakte page. I’ve had Neill Plato take it down and put the page offline, but even though he’s a technical whiz, Neill doesn’t know how long it will stay off for. That’s the problem with this social media madness; anyone anywhere can retweet or repost. The last thing we want is a group of tabloid paps waiting for you at Gatwick.’
‘Can’t we fly into Brize Norton?’
‘The simple answer is no. Our Director General has been told in no uncertain terms by the Foreign Secretary that we’ve spent far too much time and resources on Mr Iqbal’s rescue.’
‘I bet he wouldn’t have complained if it was his arse I was saving!’
‘Aidan, I wouldn’t have ordered you to save his pompous arse.’
*
New York, USA
East opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a thin line of light spilling in from under the door. He tentatively sat up and removed the drip from his arm. The medical staff had ‘settled’ him for the night and, bar an emergency, wouldn’t be troubling him for several hours. This was his window, his chance. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the pain that was about to hit him, East swung his legs out of the bed and let his bare feet make contact with the linoleum. He shook as a wave of cold shot around his head before turning into a hot pain at his temples. He opened his eyes and gasped, but managed to grab the metal bedframe and push himself to his feet as the pain moved to the back of his head. He swayed for several seconds and, had the room been illuminated, would have noticed the edges of his vision grey out as he fought to remain conscious.
Once steady, East took a step towards the exit, then another and another, until he was certain he wouldn’t fall. He held his breath as he prized the door open a fraction of an inch. The light blinded him and made him nauseous. He stood stock-still until it passed and his vision adjusted. He opened the door further, looked left, and saw a corridor. Several other doors led off to what he imagined would be rooms like his; further along was a cleaning cart and then double doors at the end. The corridor led on to a junction – he didn’t know what was around the corner. Unable to turn his head with his neck alone, he swivelled his shoulders to the right and saw two empty chairs. Whoever had been guarding his door was gone.
Taking a deep breath, East edged out of his room and towards the cleaning cart. It contained supplies and spare towels. He picked up a towel and held it over his arm, as though he were looking for a shower room, and continued forward. He heard a door open somewhere behind him. He didn’t look back, but continued on, head throbbing as he tried to move faster. Just as he reached the double doors two large men in suits burst through them. Their eyes widened at the sight of the semi-naked man before them, the man they had been told to guard, the man who could not get out of bed. East saw the sidearms on both ‘suits’ and knew instantly they were there to guard him. Doing the only thing he could, he threw the towel. The first man automatically raised his arms to protect his face while the other took a half-step sideways. In the same instant, East moved forward and kicked the second man in the groin. Caught completely off-guard, suit two doubled up and dropped to the floor. Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain in his head, East reversed his momentum and stiff-elbowed the first man’s throat. With both men down, East grabbed the nearest suit’s sidearm and, struggling to remain conscious, pressed it into the man’s forehead. ‘Get up slowly and keep your hands above your head.’
Coughing, the suit pushed himself to his feet as his colleague continued to hold his throbbing genitals. East was about to speak again when a round impacted the door inches above his head, the repeat sounding like thunder in the enclosed space.
‘Put the gun on the floor, Mr East.’
Dizzy, East did as he was told and within seconds the suits had secured him.
Casey approached and holstered his Glock. ‘Very impressive, for a banker from Boston. Perhaps you were in ad-venture capital?’
‘Thanks.’ East’s vision had started to blur.
‘You OK, Beck?’ A grin creased Casey’s face.
‘Yes, Mr Casey, just hurt my pride, that’s all.’ The former Navy SEAL continued to massage his groin.
‘I’d get that seen to.’
‘He’s been asking the nurses to all day,’ Needham, the other suit and a former Delta, croaked.
‘Take Mr East back to his room. I’m gonna call the doc, Mr East, and have him give you a once-over. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
East tried to reply but blacked out.
*
East’s hospital bed had been raised, bringing him to a sitting position. Casey sat in a chair to one side, two manila folders resting on his lap. ‘Who are you, Mr East?’
‘Is that an existential question, Mr Casey?’
‘If you like.’
‘I’m an old soul in a young body.’
‘Cute. Who are you, Mr East?’
‘I’m an investment banker.’
Casey placed a folder on the bed. ‘Your legend is good, almost too perfect. James East from Boston who runs his own start-up investment consultancy based out of Yonkers. You’ve got some great recommendations from current clients, by the way. Where did you receive your combat training?’
East felt his pulse quicken. He was hooked up to monitoring equipment so could do nothing to hide it. ‘I’m a fan of the WWE.’
‘Yeah, that Undertaker.’ Casey didn’t hide his sarcasm. ‘James – I’ll still use that name for the moment – let’s not waste any more time. I know you’re not a banker, and possibly not even an American citizen. Now, I’m no fluent Russian speaker, but I understand enough to realise you probably are. Dr Litvin certainly believes so.’
‘I did a college course.’ East reached for a glass of water on his tray table and sipped.
‘I ran your prints through all our databases. I got one partial match. It was from an unsolved Interpol case. Would you like to take a look?’
‘Sure.’ He tried to stay calm.
‘Here.’ Casey handed him a folder.
East opened the dossier and saw a blurry surveillance photograph of himself at London’s Gatwick Airport. He turned the page to a report on the assassination of a British businessman named Bav Malik. It had several graphic images attached. East sped-read the document without showing any outward signs of emotion. After this came an image taken by a camera in an Austrian restaurant; this one was clearer and showed him wearing glasses and enjoying a drink with a beautiful woman. East felt his pulse race at the sight of her. He turned to another report. It was written in Ukrainian, a language he didn’t speak, and contained images of a second corpse – Jas Malik, Bav Malik’s son. East raised his eyes and saw an odd smile on Casey’s face.
‘I know what you are, but not who you are, James.’
‘What am I, Mr Casey?’
‘I think you are a contract killer. Possibly former Spetsnaz, gone freelance.’
‘Is that the official belief of the FBI?’
‘Did I say I was with the FBI?’
‘You didn’t say who you were with.’
‘Touché! I’m the only one who has this opinion, James. That’s why we’re having this conversation. You did a noble thing; you eliminated an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell – one we missed. You saved the lives of countless civilians.’
‘Do I get a medal?’
‘No medal, James. There are those who want to know more about you, the FBI included, and this file will come to light eventually. Unless I bury or lose it. I could potentially use someone like you, if you are what I think you are. I’m offering you a chance. I can protect you from all of this, the wolves here in the US, and Interpol, but in order to do that I need you to be honest with me. You are not James East. I need to know exactly who you are and what you were doing in New Jersey.’
East made a decision. ‘My name is Sergey Gorodetski, and I was shopping.’
There was a moment of silence as Casey held eye contact with Gorodetski before he replied. ‘The funny thing is, Sergey, I believe you. So, Russian or Russian speaker?’
‘Russian.’
Casey tapped the file with his index finger. ‘And so to this. Why did you assassinate these two British citizens?’
‘What guarantee do I have that you are not taping this? That you will not turn me over to the Feds for rendition to the UK?’
‘That’s a fair point.’ Casey took a Glock 19 from his jacket and placed it on the bedside table. He turned it so the grip was within the Russian’s reach. ‘Here, take it, it’s loaded. You have my trust, Sergey, and I hope I have yours.’
Gorodetski slowly reached for the gun and was surprised to see that Casey didn’t flinch. He aimed the sidearm at the American, felt the weight, and then carefully lowered it. ‘It’s loaded.’
‘I told you it was.’
‘I could have killed you.’
‘You still can, if you want. I’m a good judge of character, Sergey, and I know you won’t. Call me romantic – my ex-wife doesn’t – but I know who you are… on the inside. I can tell. You’re not a stone-cold killer. So enlighten me, ease my confusion, and tell me. Why did you assassinate that father and son, Jas and Bav Malik?’
‘I was of the belief they murdered my brother.’
Casey was surprised. ‘And did they?’
‘No.’ Gorodetski pushed the Glock back. ‘They were innocent. I murdered them. I am a killer. I deserve a bullet to the brain.’
‘I could shoot you, but I won’t. I think I can use you, if you agree.’
‘I agree.’
Casey smirked. ‘Tell me more; treat this as a confession, not to a policeman but to a priest. Why did you believe these two men killed your brother?’
Gorodetski took a breath and recounted what he had been told was the truth. ‘In 1989 my brother, Mikhail, was in the Red Army. His commanding officer said their unit was attacked by Mujahideen outside Kabul. Mikhail was wounded, captured, then tortured before being dismembered. Much later his CO told me he had found two of my brother’s killers. They were living respectable lives with British passports.’
‘Did you find the real murderer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Mikhail’s commanding officer.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Empty.’
‘I see.’
‘I was fooled, but that is no excuse. I executed two innocent men. There is not a night that goes by without me seeing their faces.’
‘We all make mistakes, Sergey – just ask my wife.’ Gorodetski scanned his fingers for a ring. There was none. ‘Exactly. Some mistakes are big, some small, and some monumental. I can give you a second chance, which no one else can; a chance to make a difference. Not many get that.’
‘Why should I believe you? You have thousands of SEALs or Delta or Rangers or Activity guys to choose from.’
‘Good question. I’m Agency. What I do, Sergey, is black – blacker than black. You could call it “Cold Black” – global counterterrorism. There are only four other men who know I have you, and one of those you kicked in the nuts. I get to choose my men, use Agency resources, and not get questioned. However, and this is where you come in, regardless of what you read in the press or see on WikiLeaks, we do not have unlimited resources – human or otherwise. In short, when the Cold War ended our threat radar was moved to point at the Middle East. Langley didn’t see a need for Soviet speakers, let alone native Russian-speaking operatives. But then Russia invaded Georgia, and then they annexed Crimea, and then they shot down a passenger jet while invading Eastern Ukraine. Langley made a mistake and I had a problem. I was thinking about how I could fix it when you appeared.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t go getting any grandiose ideas; it was coincidence not serendipity. Are you a patriot?’
‘To Russia?’
‘Who else?’
‘The people, yes. The country, perhaps. The Kremlin? No.’
‘That’s very good to hear, if you mean it. I need to assess you and, even if, after that, you were to pass, you’d be strictly on probation. Make a mistake or step out of line and this file gets updated and sent along with you on a one-way ticket to London. Or, failing that, perhaps I throw you in the nearest river; it all depends on whether I’ve had a bad day or not.’
Gorodetski allowed himself a half-smile. ‘You should work at the Army recruiting office.’
‘Who said I didn’t? Here is your first test – an act of good faith you could call it.’ Casey picked up the file containing the information on ‘James East’. ‘I need something for the FBI to, how can I put this, ease your transition into my custody and persuade me I’m not making a mistake with you.’
‘I understand.’
Casey tapped the file. ‘Who was responsible for your legend?’
Gorodetski frowned. ‘Responsible?’
‘Where did you get your false identity from?’
Gorodetski paused for a beat before he spoke. ‘Tim Bull. He’s a high-school science teacher in Miami and an old KGB asset.’
‘And he’s gone freelance?’
‘For the right price. He doesn’t like the current Russian President.’
‘Who does?’ Casey shrugged. ‘I’m going to need everything you have on him.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It wasn’t a request, Sergey.’
*
Sol-Iletsk, Russia
Penal colony No. 6 in the Urals town of Sol-Iletsk was known as ‘Black Dolphin’ and officially classified as a ‘final destination’ prison. It was one of five Russian facilities where criminals sentenced to death were held, but by far the most ominous. Inmates unlucky enough to be sent there had no chance of escape and, unofficially, no hope of parole. The Black Dolphin’s seven hundred inmates represented Russia’s most brutal criminals and included murderers, cannibals, rapists, paedophiles, and terrorists. One of the seven hundred was a Chechen, Aslan Kishiev. Sentenced to full life imprisonment for his part in terrorist attacks on Russian civilian targets, he was nicknamed ‘mini-Laden’. Kishiev had been the de-facto leader of the Islamic International Brigade ever since its founder, Shamil Basayev, had been killed in 2006. Kishiev had continued the jihad against Russia until he was finally betrayed by a close friend. Outraged at the manner in which he had been captured, at his trial Kishiev had openly vowed revenge by offering a bounty for the informer’s head. This, however, had only added to the charges levelled against him. To mock Kishiev further, the Prosecutor General ensured the weasel gave evidence no more than ten feet away from where he stood. Found guilty on all twenty-three breaches of the Russian penal code, which included murder, torture, hostage-taking, illegal arms trading, terrorism, and armed rebellion, he had then learnt of his fate. Kishiev would live out the rest of his days at the notorious Black Dolphin, where he would be monitored twenty-four hours a day, forced to sleep with bright overhead lights switched on, and, from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. every day, forbidden to sit on his bed. He would be liable to be checked every fifteen minutes by a passing guard and would live in complete isolation from the outside world. The Prosecutor General closed proceedings by stating that Kishiev would not be a martyr, he would simply be ‘forgotten’.
It had been a bitterly cold February afternoon in 2011 when Kishiev had arrived at his new home. Blindfolded with a black hood, he and the other new arrivals were made to walk from the prison truck to their cells, past a line of guard dogs barking viciously in their ears. Unable to see even his own feet, he had no idea if the dogs were on leads or if they would attack without warning. Once in his cell, a fifteen-day ‘educational introduction’ to his new life at Black Dolphin, a life that had been described as ‘death in instalments’, commenced. Each of the inmates of Black Dolphin had killed an average of five people; Kishiev, many more. The exact number of deaths his group were responsible for had never been truly calculated. He had been treated as a terrorist, but Kishiev saw himself as a soldier for Allah, a believer whose pacifist soul had been torn away, destroyed when his lands and faith had been mercilessly attacked by Russia. But as a terrorist, he had been thrown in with the worst filth Russia had to offer. He was forced to share a four-and-a-half-metre-square cell with a man from Murmansk convicted of cannibalism, a crime he hadn’t known still existed. Locked away in a cell within a cell, behind three sets of steel doors, it was a bleak, isolated, and hopeless existence.
As the roll call started for cell #174, both convicts adopted the ‘position’. Bending double they approached their inner cell door backwards, arms out to their sides with palms upturned, heads tilted up with their eyes closed and mouths open. The position made it impossible to move with any speed or launch an attack. It also made them look ridiculous. The prisoners in turn stated their full names, before two guards took a prisoner each and handcuffed them. Once done, each inmate was grabbed by the neck and pushed out into the corridor. They were then made to stand in a stress position holding their handcuffed arms above their heads, leaning forward with their foreheads against the wall. Kishiev heard two more guards enter his cell to commence the daily search and check protocol, while, no more than a metre away, he could feel the hot breath of an Alsatian pulling at its lead. Eyes shut until ordered to open them, Kishiev’s day had started again.
The man in charge of Black Dolphin, Lieutenant Guard Grigori Zontov, stood with his men outside Kishiev’s cell. It was exactly 6 a.m. It was his routine; he insisted on being present for morning inspection and roll call. Today, however, was not normal: they had a visitor. To be more specific, Kishiev had a visitor, something that was unheard of. A man from the FSB awaited them in Zontov’s office. The visitor had orders, from the Russian President no less, that he be granted immediate access to the Chechen.
‘Cell 174 at ease.’ Zontov studied the human detritus before him with unhidden disgust.
‘Yes, sir,’ Kishiev and Rasatkin, the cannibal, replied in unison. It was an order to open their eyes, but not to relax the stress position.
‘Do you have any forbidden items?’
‘No, sir.’ Without being ordered to, the men opened their jaws and stuck out their tongues while their mouths were searched for any concealed items.
Zontov had no sympathy for the pathetic pair of animals in front of him; to call them humans made his tongue curl. When the search of the cell was completed, he ordered ‘Convict Rasatkin’ back inside while his men placed a black hood over Kishiev’s head. As he was taken under the arms and led away, Zontov felt no need to inform the Chechen of the reason why he was now being separated from the other inmates. After five minutes of twists and turns, in silence except for the heavy breathing of the guard dog at his heels, the hood was removed. Kishiev squinted and, to his surprise, found he was in an office. Zontov quickly closed the blinds and switched on the light; he didn’t want his prisoner to have any idea where the office was located in the prison or to see the daylight outside.
The man at the table dismissed Zontov in a cursory manner. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’
‘I must stay here; it is what the regulations state.’
‘You will leave the room now, Lieutenant Guard Zontov. This is what I state.’
Zontov bristled. It was his office, his prison, his command. But the man sitting in his chair, at his desk, had a letter which carried the presidential seal. ‘Very well.’
Kishiev showed no outward sign of emotion but inside praised Allah as he started to realise his insurance policy might have been banked.
The man facing him wore an expensive suit and had a Moscow accent. ‘I had hoped you were already dead, Kishiev.’
The Chechen’s eyes burnt with hatred as he recognised the man seated behind the desk. It was the same FSB officer who had liquidated his brother Chechens and carried out a personal crusade against him. ‘Strelkov.’
‘There has been an explosion on the Moscow metro system. Many Russians have been killed and a further number wounded. Your group has claimed responsibility.’
Kishiev noticed a calendar on the wall with a red indicator showing the date. ‘That is because they are responsible.’
‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’
‘This is only the first. There will be a further attack tomorrow and then again in three days.’
‘You will give me the details of the planned attacks in order for them to be halted.’
‘No.’
‘I do not think that you quite understand my position, Kishiev. I report directly to the Director of the FSB.’
‘And I take my direction from Allah, peace be upon Him.’ Strelkov’s rank and title meant nothing to him. What was important was what he could offer.
Strelkov’s nostrils flared above his neat moustache. ‘You will give me the information I want or face the consequences.’
‘Shoot me.’ Death would be a welcome release from the monotony of his current existence.
‘I knew you would be unreasonable,’ Strelkov stated smoothly. ‘We are holding your wife and child. Unless I get the information I require their lives will become very uncomfortable.’
Rage flashed across Kishiev’s eyes, then fear tugged at his chest. His family had been hidden, had been living well away from Chechnya in Abkhazia. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Strelkov held up a photograph of a woman and young girl standing with two masked FSB commandos. ‘We found them in Sukhumi, enjoying the sea air.’
Kishiev’s jaw hardened. ‘I shall never leave this place or see them again, so I must accept that they are dead to me.’
‘If you would like to see them dead that can be arranged. Shall I bring you another photograph showing just that?’ He raised his voice. ‘Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for the death of your wife, of your own daughter?’
Kishiev noticed a vein in Strelkov’s neck throb. ‘What do I get if I speak?’
‘A guarantee that your family will not be harmed.’
Kishiev shook his head slowly. ‘No. What you will do is release me from here and reunite me with my family.’
‘That is not possible. Now tell me about the next attack.’
‘Those are my terms.’
‘You are in no position to demand terms!’
‘Then the attacks will take place, and the Great Sheik Al-Mujahid will hear of them and declare me a true warrior for Islam. He will proclaim that, even though I am in your most secure prison, I am still waging jihad, that I cannot be stopped! Allahu Akbar!’
Strelkov’s sneer returned. ‘By “Great Sheik” I take it you mean “Bin Laden”?’
‘He who is all powerful, the Lion Sheik. The infidels tremble at his name.’
‘Your Lion Sheik became a lamb to the slaughter. Bin Laden was captured by the Americans on the 2nd of May 2011. They executed him and tossed his body into the sea.’
Kishiev felt his jaw slacken and his mouth drop open. He had spent more than a decade training in Afghanistan, meeting and conversing with Bin Laden freely on several occasions. As a highly placed commander of an Al-Qaeda affiliated group, he was one of the few who had been privy to discussions on planning. ‘You are lying. The Americans will never find the Sheik. He is a great warrior and moves as the wind.’
‘He was living in Abbottabad, Pakistan. He was not living like a warrior, but like an old woman.’
There was a silence. Kishiev tried to read Strelkov’s face. He could see that the intelligence officer was too conceited to hide the satisfaction he was getting from informing Kishiev of the news. He was too smug to be telling lies. Kishiev let himself smile and then laugh. He laughed hard until it turned into an uncontrollable cough. Strelkov did not understand. Kishiev recovered and spoke. ‘If that is the case you have truly lost. The Hand of Allah shall be released and your capital cities shall burn to the ground!’
Strelkov shook his head dismissively. ‘Enough of your religious rhetoric. Bin Laden is dead and so is your cause.’
‘You speak of rhetoric; I speak of a real weapon.’ Kishiev saw little point in keeping it a secret any longer. ‘The Hand of Allah is a nuclear device. The Lion Sheik ordered it be deployed after his death.’ His laugh returned, only this time harder than ever.
The man from the FSB was stunned. Had Al-Qaeda finally got its hands on nuclear material? Was the Chechen lying? ‘What do you know of this device?’
‘I know that it is a suitcase bomb, and I know its designation. I am extremely surprised that it has not already been detonated, but then perhaps the timing is the surprise?’
‘Where is it?’ Strelkov replied too quickly.
‘What will you give me?’
Strelkov scrutinised the terrorist’s face. This was a ploy, he was sure, a ploy to gain his freedom. It had to be a fabrication. But what if he were telling the truth? What if one of the world’s deadliest weapons had fallen into the hands of Islamic terrorists? Strelkov had led raids against the terrorists in Afghanistan, in Chechnya, and in Dagestan. Rooting out and apprehending Muslim extremists had been the focus of his career, and he had won. But had they now achieved the impossible? Strelkov started to feel his heart beat faster and had to breathe deeper to control his rising fear. All the while the Chechen laughed at him like a circus clown, yet he had to take the statement seriously. ‘What is the designation of the weapon?’
Kishiev became serious. He had a memory for numbers and specifications and had wanted to be an engineer before becoming a Mujahideen, before discovering a love for weaponry and the technology of weaponry. He knew how to dismantle, clean and repair any number of firearms and had created very effective IEDs. ‘The designation of the device that I know of is RA-115A.’
Strelkov felt his blood chill and for a moment could not speak. What felt like a lifetime ago, when his employer had been known as the KGB, he had been assigned to a guard unit protecting the perimeter of a military base. Within the base had been a weapons-testing facility. He had never actually seen the device, or known where or if it had been developed, but talk among his unit, who met with other guard units at sporting events, was that a new type of atomic weapon called the RA had been created that was both deadly and portable.
‘Where is it?’ Strelkov demanded.
Kishiev remained silent.
Enraged, Strelkov leapt from the table and backhanded the Chechen across the face.
Kishiev slipped sideways and fell onto the floor. In his weakened state, after three plus years in prison, the once fearsome warrior could not fight back. He tasted blood in his mouth as he spoke. ‘I know of the plans, the route it may take. I will tell you in return for my freedom.’
Strelkov rushed out of the door. He already had his phone to his ear as two of Zontov’s men entered to secure the prisoner. Strelkov speed-dialled the FSB number, but it would not connect. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it before yelling at Zontov. ‘Why is there no signal?’
‘There is no signal for security reasons, Comrade.’ It humoured Lieutenant Guard Zontov to see the self-important FSB agent lose control.
‘What? Where can I get a signal?’
Zontov inclined his head. ‘Two kilometres in that direction, I believe.’
Strelkov balled his fists, his knuckles turning white. ‘Where is the nearest landline?’
‘Back there, in my office.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘It is a telephone in my secure office.’
‘That is not what I meant!’ Strelkov snapped, turned on his heels, and went back inside. He picked up the desk phone and was about to make a call when he noticed that Kishiev was still in the room, standing between the two guards. ‘Take that outside and wait.’
The room empty, Strelkov lifted the handset to make a call to Moscow but then hesitated. Moscow was almost sixteen hundred kilometres away and two hours behind Sol-Iletsk. He checked his wristwatch; it was almost a quarter to seven, which meant it would be a quarter to five in the morning in his Director’s Moscow mansion. Strelkov sighed, shook his head, and called his chief, Director Nevsky, on his mobile phone. It rang out to voicemail. Strelkov ended the call and immediately redialled. This time it was answered on the fourth ring by a slumber-thickened voice. Strelkov took a breath and explained what he had been told by the Chechen.
Several more time zones away at the headquarters of the NSA in Fort Meade, an analyst grabbed hold of his desk to stop himself falling from his chair. The Echelon system had picked up a phone call to a flagged and secure number, but, unusually, the caller was using an unsecured landline. This was surprising, but what was explosive were the keywords it had picked up on: Al-Qaeda… nuclear device… detonate… Western city… Hand of Allah…
Chapter 3 (#ulink_08b8953a-c192-5a90-93ce-c1d7147a2f56)
Mashhad, Iran
At the town of Herat, the group of six Holy Warriors were met without incident by their Iranian smuggler. A man well known to the guards on both sides of the border, he received his orders from an Egyptian, who since October 2001 had lived in Iran, immune to US attacks, and continued to serve as head of Al-Qaeda’s security committee. The truck was used officially for cross-border trade, and unofficially to funnel foreign fighters through Iran. The relationship between Al-Qaeda and Iran was a complicated one, but one that for the moment favoured Mohammed Tariq and his team. At the Iranian border they were waved through after a perfunctory check while other potential Afghani migrants were hauled from trucks and beaten. Those who attempted to make a run for it were shot. Unlike the ‘soft’ borders of the EU, the Iranian guards were authorised to use lethal force to protect their beloved country from any undesirable visitors.
Tariq tried to settle his mind. In the semi-darkness of the truck he peered at his five men, all of whom had taken his advice and succumbed to sleep. He, however, could not. Although their route into, through, and out of Iran had been specifically selected by the late Sheik and the management council, Tariq couldn’t get rid of the feeling that at any moment they might be ambushed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. However, he didn’t let his fears show when his men were conscious; he was the leader of a holy mission and, as such, had to remain resolute about their chances of success. He stroked the case as though it were a pet, oblivious to the potential oblivion its contents could bring. Eventually, fatigue triumphed over fear and he fell into a fitful sleep only to be awoken what felt like minutes later by the truck’s tyres crunching loudly on gravel.
In front of him, Reza Khan was the first to react; he sat up with a start and reached for his knife. By the time the back of the truck had been opened all six men were awake and alert. The driver informed them that they had arrived in the holy town of Mashhad. They hopped down to find themselves in the courtyard of a large villa. Above, the sky was a piercing blue and a slight breeze lightened the midday heat. This was the residence of Yassin al-Suri, the Al-Qaeda facilitator who, granted some leeway by Tehran, was permitted to operate discreetly within the country. This included collecting money from donors, to be transferred to Al-Qaeda’s leadership in Pakistan, and facilitating the travel of recruits from the Gulf States to Pakistan and Afghanistan. Dressed in a grey, tailored suit, with neatly cropped hair that, if longer, would be curly, al-Suri resembled a banker not a terrorist. Yet he was both. He was one of only three men to know the true nature of the case Tariq carried. Any more would lead to security leaks and the mission being compromised. He was on hand to personally oversee their operation and grease palms. This was the highest-risk Al-Qaeda operation in history, surpassing even the New York attacks, for not only the infidels but the Iranians, too, would give anything to possess the device Tariq carried. ‘Welcome, brothers!’ Al-Suri held his arms wide to encompass the villa behind as he greeted them.
Tariq kissed al-Suri on both cheeks and introduced his team: Reza Khan, Sharib Quyeum, Ashgollah Ahmadi, Lall Mohammad, and Abdul Shinare. All of them were proven fighters, devotees to the cause, and resourceful. ‘Is everything in place?’
The edges of al-Suri’s mouth curled up. ‘Everything. Now let us eat. Tomorrow you shall continue on your path to martyrdom.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
‘Yes, my brother, Insha’Allah.’ Al-Suri’s eyes wandered to the case. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I hold it?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Do not let it out of your sight and do not let anyone take it from you. Now let us all go inside. You must wash and then eat.’
Tariq beckoned to his men. ‘Come.’
New York, USA
‘This is most irregular.’ Dr Litvin glared at Needham and Beck, arms folded defiantly.
Needham shrugged as though he had no choice in the matter. ‘I understand, Doctor, but it’s in the best interests of national security that Mr East be moved to a secure facility.’
‘This is against my medical opinion. There are further tests that need to be carried out.’
‘Rest assured they will be, Doctor. Our medical staff consists entirely of experienced specialists.’
‘Really?’ His nose had been put out of joint. ‘What is the name of the medical institution he’s being transferred to?’
‘I can’t reveal that, for reasons of national security, but he’ll be well cared for.’
‘Mr East, what is it that you want? Do you agree to be transferred?’
Gorodetski looked from one man to the other. ‘I think it is best that I do go with them. Yes.’
Litvin shook his head slowly. ‘Very well. Mr East, you have made a swift recovery thus far, but I warn you, head injuries are a very delicate area. Certain symptoms may be delayed in their onset for days after the time of injury. You may start to experience problems concentrating, have memory lapses, become irritable, unable to sleep, or be hypersensitive to light and noise. You mustn’t overexert yourself, and if you start to suffer from any of these symptoms you must immediately report this. Do I make myself clear?’
Gorodetski nodded and was rewarded with a jolt of pain behind his eyes.
‘Goodbye then, or as we say in Russian: Dasvidaniya.’ Litvin held out his hand.
Gorodetski took it and replied in Russian. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your care and advice. I did appreciate it. Until we meet again, all the best.’
Litvin beamed at hearing native Russian. ‘Moscow?’
‘Tula.’
‘Ah. Tula once had a hearing aid factory. Take care, my friend from Tula, and I mean that.’
*
Beck and Needham flanked Gorodetski as they entered the underground car park. Gorodetski felt unsteady on his feet but refused to let it show. Needham pointed his remote at a black Cadillac Escalade; the lights blinked to confirm the alarm had been disabled and that they could now open the doors.
Gorodetski glanced up at Beck as the taller man opened the sliding door. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
‘Not for a week, according to one of the nurses.’ His face was unsmiling, but the eyes betrayed it wasn’t an issue.
‘Live by the pork sword, die by the pork sword,’ Needham added as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
On pulling out of the parking lot both operatives automatically scanned for possible threats. The NY traffic was heavy, but eventually gave way to the emptier roads of New Jersey.
‘It’s gonna be a while yet, James, I’d get some shut-eye if I were you.’ Needham didn’t know Gorodetski’s real name, and nor did the rest of Casey’s team. ‘Sleep when you can, eat when you can, remember?’
‘Yeah, I remember.’ It was a Special Forces motto the world over. Gorodetski needed no encouragement; the cocktail Litvin had administered already had him nodding.
*
Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
As one of the last units to leave Camp Bastion, Captain Mike Webster of the British Army Intelligence Corps had started to become bored with his posting. The frantic activity that had followed the target acquisition and execution of the Bin Laden kill/capture mission had long gone. There had been some infighting between rival groups, with splinter cells forming new alliances as their leaders vied to replace the late Saudi ‘Sheik’, but now, in Afghanistan at least, there was an eerie silence from Al-Qaeda. The West had turned its attention to the new threat: Islamic State, or IS, as British Intelligence officially called the new organisation. For their part, neither Al-Qaeda nor the Taliban had conducted any major attacks since the announcement that Camp Bastion was to close and ISAF were to pull out of Afghanistan. It was as though they were collectively holding their breath until Bastion’s decommissioning had become a reality. Regardless of the lull in hostilities, Webster was sure that some very fanatical men somewhere were planning the next 9/11. It wasn’t a matter of if – it was when. He supped his regulation milky tea and studied the US drone surveillance photographs. The most exciting things he had seen in months were the images in front of him. Known players in the Pakistani Taliban had been followed crossing into Afghanistan where they were recorded meeting local Afghani ‘Talibs’ and suspected members of Al-Qaeda. In Webster’s opinion, the group posed a perfect target for a hellfire missile, but someone high up, undoubtedly American, had decided to let it play out, to see what the ‘men in black turbans’ were up to. Webster shifted the photographs to one side and sighed. His room was stuffy and he was tired. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift… He was suddenly on a beach with his wife, sipping rum as the sun set. He could taste the alcohol and feel the warmth of his wife’s lips…
‘Captain Webster.’
Eyes snapping open, embarrassed, he looked up. ‘Just thinking with my eyes closed. What is it?’
Corporal Ian McAdam seemed a bit uneasy. ‘We’re holding a… er… local who wants to meet with a member of British Intelligence.’ It wasn’t an unusual request. Every Tom, Dick, or Halib thought they had vital intelligence, especially when rumours circulated about large cash rewards. What was unusual, however, was that Webster was being bothered. McAdam met his superior’s eyes. ‘This one is a bit different.’
‘How so?’
‘He says he’s Russian.’
‘Russian?’
‘Soviet Red Army, sir.’
Webster raised his eyebrows. An unknown number of former Red Army soldiers had remained in Afghanistan after the Soviets had withdrawn. A few had been prisoners of war, others deserters who had gone native, and some bandits who attempted to make money in the ‘Wild East’ as the Soviet Union had crumbled. He, however, had yet to meet one.
McAdam held out his hand. ‘He was carrying this.’
Webster narrowed his eyes. Puzzled, he studied the sheet of paper. It seemed to be some type of technical diagram. It was handwritten and contained words in Cyrillic. ‘OK, lead on, Macduff.’
‘McAdam, sir.’
Webster sighed. ‘I know.’
McAdam led the way out of the dark seclusion of Webster’s office into the dusty, blinding Afghan daylight and to an area designated for ‘interviews’. Both buildings reminded Webster of a Star Wars set. Two armed squaddies had been placed, as a precaution, on sentry at the entrance. They saluted; Webster returned it and entered the room.
His guest was sitting with his arms folded and a hardness in his eyes. He was not to be intimidated. When the man spoke there was a recognisable Russian accent. ‘You are Military Intelligence?’
‘You can talk to me, Mr…’
‘Then that is a “yes”? My name is Mikhail. I have valuable intelligence that you must pass on to your superiors in London.’
Webster kept his game face on. ‘What would that be?’
Mikhail had no time for small talk. ‘Al-Qaeda has an atomic weapon.’
‘What?’ Had Webster heard him correctly?
‘Al-Qaeda has an atomic weapon. I brought it into this country in 1989. It is an RA-115A and is the size of a suitcase. The paper I have given you details the technical schematics of the device.’
Webster tried not to smile. It was best to humour the loonies, not make fun of them. He’d let ‘Mikhail’ talk and pretend to take notes. ‘So you’re saying that the Red Army brought nuclear material into Afghanistan in the Eighties?’
‘That is correct. I was a lieutenant in the Spetsnaz. I was assigned a classified order to bring certain weapons into theatre. I was to maintain them until they were needed.’
‘How many?’
‘How many nuclear devices?’
‘Yes.’
‘I personally had one such device. There may have been more in other bases that I was unaware of.’
Webster stared at the paper. He neither spoke nor read Russian, if that was indeed what he was looking at, but the more he studied the diagram, the more something started to niggle him; the more he started to feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Mikhail wasn’t mental. What if this was real? ‘How did you come across this document?’
‘I created it myself.’
‘From what?’
‘From memory. I have perfect recall. What do you call it, “photograph memory”?’
‘Photographic memory.’
‘Yes. I was trained in how to use the device, how to maintain, and also, if necessary, adjust it. As such I saw the inner workings. If you have a basic technical knowledge it is really not complicated.’
Webster remained silent and studied the paper again. It meant nothing to him. He could see the shape of a case with a tube and several small boxes inside it, but that was as far as his technical understanding went. ‘Mr Mikhail…’
‘Just Mikhail.’
‘Mikhail, this is of course a very serious accusation and one I will have to check the validity of before I take it further.’
‘You do not believe me; you think I am a crazy man? Perhaps I am crazy to stay in Afghanistan, but I am not crazy enough to let terrorists detonate an atomic weapon.’
Webster noted Mikhail’s unblinking eyes; there was still no reason to believe this was anything more than the imaginings of a heat-crazed Russian deserter. It wasn’t his area of interest, but surely the notion that such suitcase nukes existed was one of fiction? ‘Where exactly is the weapon?’
‘Exactly, I do not know. Roughly? It is on its way to Europe, via Iran.’
‘And what is the target?’
Mikhail shrugged. ‘If I knew that I would have told you. I do not want a nuclear bomb to go off, anywhere.’
‘Then why did you give the bomb to Al-Qaeda?’
‘I did not give it to anyone. I had been hiding it away from the world. The terrorists took it and have decided to use it, and I have decided to tell you so you can stop them.’
Webster was confused. ‘Why have you not informed ISAF before? Are you a member of the Taliban, Mr Mikhail, or perhaps Al-Qaeda?’
‘I am a Muslim. These people of Afghanistan are now my people. I had no reason to believe that the device would be discovered.’
Webster pursed his lips. The idea that the bomb existed was wild enough, but the idea that, if it did, Mikhail could have at any time prevented its being taken or alerted ISAF but didn’t was beyond him. But he couldn’t waste any time on this now. What he had to do was report back to London just in case there was a shred of truth in what the Russian was telling him. ‘Tell me everything about this weapon.’
‘This of course I am happy to tell you, but in return I want safe passage out of Afghanistan.’
‘Back to Russia?’
‘No. I want to go to the UK.’
So that was his angle, the real reason why the Russian was sitting opposite him. He wanted to escape Afghanistan? ‘I don’t know if that’s possible.’
‘Of course it is,’ Mikhail said slowly. ‘There is a bomb heading for Europe and I know who has it. What information do you need from me to confirm that I am telling you the truth?’
Webster rattled off a stream of questions. ‘I need your full name, the location of where you say the device was stored, the names of the men who took it, the names of the men who now have it, the name of your unit and where it was based, the name of your commanding officer, the name that was given to your operation, your…’
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Alex Shaw
The clock is ticking. Will Aidan Snow be able to save the world…again?In Ukraine, MI6 operative Aidan Snow rescues a British national held by Russian insurgents.In the United States, a terrorist attack is thwarted by a man who does not exist.In Russia, a notorious Chechen terrorist escapes from the nation's most secure prisonIn Afghanistan, a Red Army soldier long given up for dead delivers a chilling message: Al-Qaeda has an RA-115A.As the connection between these separate events begins to become clearer, MI6 and the CIA must attempt to prevent the world's first act of nuclear terrorism.Aidan Snow faces his biggest challenge yet, and if he fails, thousands will be incinerated.The clock is ticking. And you never know who you can trust.Praise for Alex Shaw:‘Meet Aidan Snow, an ice-cold operative in a red-hot adventure’ Stephen Leather‘Sizzles across the page like a flame on a short fuse!’ Matt Hilton‘A perfect blend of spy fiction and political thriller’ Matt LynnReaders love the Aidan Snow books:‘A superb, pulse-racing read’ Online reviewer‘Exciting and fast-paced’ Online reviewer‘Immensely enjoyable and tightly written’ Online reviewer
About the Author (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
ALEX SHAW spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being headhunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.
Cold Blood, Cold Black and Cold East are commercially published by HarperCollins (HQ Digital) in English and Luzifer Verlag in German.
Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine, Worthing, England and Doha, Qatar. Follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman (https://twitter.com/alexshawhetman?lang=en) or find him on Facebook.
Also by Alex Shaw (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Cold Blood
Cold Black
Cold East
ALEX SHAW
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Alex Shaw 2018
Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008306342
Version: 2018-07-26
Table of Contents
Cover (#uf6a1d144-0ac0-578b-b000-06c722d4a290)
About the Author (#uf1efe2d1-bb5d-50d9-9eff-cad7fe7e457d)
Also by Alex Shaw (#uedada189-c904-50ec-8d6e-b8239c168b6d)
Title Page (#udf34fc8f-5701-582a-ba4b-eb956af9ce4b)
Copyright (#u2657af34-6dda-5447-8c93-b4ead9f2b960)
Dedication (#ue2fb6e56-87d0-5fac-b4b6-7d2d9cbb901a)
Prologue (#u5fb4ae81-2c2d-5c85-85fb-a4c04454afb3)
Chapter 1 (#u0e48ee15-948f-558d-9539-acc2f976ecc5)
Chapter 2 (#u96d031a8-cb3c-5d28-a912-708587141e48)
Chapter 3 (#u55824bef-66ab-5c4d-a672-c878ce79d909)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To my wife Galia, my sons Alexander and Jonathan,
and our family in England and Ukraine
Prologue (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Donetsk Region, Ukraine
‘I can’t see them yet.’
‘They’ll be here soon, he said so.’ Vitaly Blazhevich peered into the distance towards the besieged city of Donetsk. Smoke rose from tower blocks on the outskirts, the result of early-morning shelling by Russian-supplied Grad rockets. The ceasefire agreement between the Ukrainian government and the Russian-backed insurgent organisations of the Donetsk People’s Republic (DNR) and the Lugansk People’s Republic (LNR) had been in operation for several months, yet attacks continued. The men around Blazhevich were a mixture of regular Ukrainian infantry and young, hastily trained members of a volunteer battalion. Despite the cold, the Ukrainians kept their spirits high as they rotated manning the vehicle checkpoint, cooking, and resting. Blazhevich had nothing but respect for the volunteers who, until recently, had been carrying on normal lives as university students, mechanics, bus drivers, doctors, and businessmen. Every now and then the group would spontaneously start singing Ukrainian folk songs or old Soviet tunes in Russian. They were Ukrainian and what mattered to them most was one country, not one language. The checkpoint was to the north of the small town of Marinka and straddled the road towards Donetsk. The adjacent flat fields of fertile black earth had been left barren in the conflict zone. A click away, the road forked and the treeline started.
‘Here.’ Nedilko handed Blazhevich a mug.
‘We should be doing more to help him,’ Blazhevich replied to his SBU colleague before sipping the bitter-tasting army coffee.
‘He likes pretending to be Russian.’
‘That’s true.’
Blazhevich saw movement ahead. He put his drink on the ground, raised his field glasses, and focused on the road. A white Toyota Land Cruiser appeared from the treeline. As it neared, the blue flag and markings of the Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) became visible on its paintwork. The Ukrainian soldiers manned their weapons, ever wary of a surprise attack. The checkpoint had changed hands several times so far; the men were taking no chances.
Nedilko’s phone rang. ‘Hello? OK.’ He pointed at the SUV. ‘It’s him, or at least he’s is in the vehicle.’
‘It’s four-up,’ Blazhevich replied.
Nedilko removed his Glock from its holster. ‘What’s the saying? “Plan for the best, prepare for the worst”?’
‘Something like that.’
As the Land Cruiser came to a halt, just short of the checkpoint, a series of rumbles rolled across the fields. The DNR were shelling again. A thin man, wearing a blue OSCE vest over a grey, three-quarter-length jacket, stepped slowly from the front passenger door. He held his arms aloft as a pair of Ukrainian soldiers advanced, weapons up. The rear door now opened and out climbed an Asian man followed by someone both SBU agents couldn’t mistake: Aidan Snow.
‘“Who Dares Wins”,’ Blazhevich said with a smile.
Snow led the trio towards the checkpoint. The man in the OSCE vest held out his hand to Blazhevich. ‘Gordon Ward, OSCE monitor. You must be from the Security Service of Ukraine?’
‘That’s correct, the SBU,’ Blazhevich confirmed, shaking hands. ‘Things getting busy back there?’
‘Hairy is the word for it. The DNR are systematically violating the ceasefire!’
‘We heard,’ Nedilko stated.
‘Well, here they are, safe and sound.’ Ward turned to Snow. ‘Don’t make a habit of this, will you?’
‘I’ll try not to.’
Ward flashed a swift smile, turned on his heels, and got into the Land Cruiser. The Toyota crabbed across the road before quickly heading back towards Donetsk and the rest of the OSCE monitors.
‘Vitaly Blazhevich, Ivan Nedilko, may I present Mohammed Iqbal,’ Snow said.
‘It’s Mo, to my friends,’ Iqbal added.
Snow was in Ukraine to facilitate the repatriation of Iqbal, a British citizen held captive for several months in Donetsk. Iqbal was one of many foreign students studying medicine at Donetsk University, but unlike the others he had been kidnapped by the DNR, who took exception to the colour of his skin. The news of Iqbal’s plight had come from a bizarre post on the DNR’s ‘VKontakte’ page. They used the Slavic copy of Facebook to inform the Russian-speaking world of their latest proclamations and ‘successes’ against the Ukrainian forces. Via VKontakte, Iqbal had been labelled ‘a black mercenary’ and ‘a spy’ by the self-appointed Prime Minster of the DNR. Iqbal was subjected to intimidation, beatings, and starvation by his captors. It was only after much negotiation that his release had been brokered and an agreement reached to hand him over to the OSCE. At least that was the official story, and the one that made the DNR look like humanitarians, but Snow knew otherwise. He still had the bruises and an empty magazine to prove it.
‘Incoming!’ A shout went up as a shell whistled overhead.
Snow grabbed Iqbal and threw him into the ditch at the side of the road as another shell flew past them to land with a thunderous cacophony further down the road.
‘Bloody twats!’ Iqbal’s Brummie accent grew thicker with his annoyance, as he spat out a mouthful of cold mud.
‘Stay down!’ Snow ordered. He looked up and saw the source of the shells. What he took to be a Russian armoured vehicle, possibly a BMP-2, had appeared from the fork in the road. Too far away to return fire, the Ukrainians took cover as best they could. Still visible, Snow watched the OSCE Land Cruiser skid around the tracked vehicle and take the fork in the other direction. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped. The BMP-2 turned and followed the Toyota towards Donetsk.
‘Nice of them to give you a sendoff,’ Snow said as he pulled Iqbal to his feet.
‘I’d have preferred a box of chocolates.’
Snow smirked. ‘Come on. We need to catch a ride back to Kyiv.’
Chapter 1 (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Morristown, New Jersey, USA
As James East neared Morristown Green, a raw October wind battered his cheeks with icy rain like needles. For a dead man he felt very alive. In winter the snow that covered the park and storefronts lent a Dickensian feel to the otherwise drab, post-revolution architecture; today, however, rain was all anyone was getting. Saturday shoppers traipsed like herds of deer, umbrellas up, searching for bargains. East pulled up his coat collar. It wasn’t the cold he disliked but the wind, which ravenously bit at his exposed flesh. He entered the green along a path that crossed the central square where a group of Latino youths dressed in baggy sweats were sheltering under the trees, smoking and taking snaps of each other. An elderly couple sharing a golfing umbrella joined East as he waited for the lights to change. They were holding hands and had probably been doing so since the Fifties. East felt a pang of jealousy. It had been three years since East had held his girl’s hand; she’d loved him and he had left without a word. They hadn’t spent much time together yet he remembered every second, every flicker of her eyelashes and how she curled her lower lip as she smiled. He closed his eyes briefly and could smell her perfume and feel her head upon his chest. East shivered – it was time to let her go. His eyes snapped open as a car horn sounded. The lights at the crossing had changed to ‘walk’. Back to reality, his reality. The man she knew was dead, he had to be, but James East was very much alive. He crossed the road and entered the discount designer department store. Inside he nodded at the security guard; the man returned his nod solemnly. East undid his jacket, brushed his hand through his wet hair and looked around. To the left stood rows of handbags and on the right the cosmetics counter, where a middle-aged woman was receiving a makeover from an eager teenage assistant with make-up as thick as a circus clown. East moved past more women inspecting bags and reached the menswear section. Aisles of shirts stacked by designer, colour and size were neatly arranged. He selected a size bigger than he needed; he chose not to advertise the fact that he worked out. He took three shirts, no flashy colours, with ties to match, over to the ‘tailoring’ area, which was run by a white-haired man with an Eastern European accent. Much to the assistant’s delight, he picked up a two-piece charcoal suit and entered the fitting room.
*
At the main entrance, Finch, the store security guard, fought to keep his eyes open. To say the former US Marine was bored by his job was an understatement. After ten years in the service of the good old ‘US of A’ he had been invalided out with a derisory disability pension. The irony was that the Navy had deemed him medically unfit to stand guard for long periods of time and therefore no longer suited to active service. Yet here he stood, a security guard in a department store, on his feet for eight hours a day. Where was the logic? Finch stepped outside for a blast of icy wind to wake him up. As he did so the detectors rang. Four men entered the store, while two women with heavy bags exited. Finch sighed and asked the women to step back inside; security tags left on again, he assumed. They moved to the jewellery counter where he started to remove their purchases to be checked one by one.
*
There was a scream and shouts followed by a series of loud staccato cracks. James East locked eyes with the menswear assistant. Both men dropped to the floor; they had heard the sound before – automatic gunfire.
‘Stay down.’ East’s voice was controlled and firm. The elderly assistant bobbed his head in assent and crawled deeper into the dressing rooms. East worked his way, at a crouch, out of the alcove. What greeted him on the shop-floor was shocking. Two men holding Uzi submachine guns stood in the central aisle, firing off rounds indiscriminately at any shopper who dared move. The security guard, white shirt turned crimson, lay sprawled across a collapsed glass counter. Two women had been dropped next to him. As the store fell silent one gunman changed magazines while the second continued to swing his weapon in an exaggerated arc. East noted their actions: uncontrolled, jerky, and amateur. There was a sudden blur of movement as a portly woman ran from behind an overturned display. The gunmen tracked her with their weapons on fully automatic. Rounds spat from the barrels, showering her and the surrounding area. East hugged the floor as rounds impacted against the back wall, hitting fittings and spinning off at obtuse angles.
The woman, eyes wild, was thrown sideways, mid-stride, as white-hot lead tore into her flesh. She came crashing down with a sickening thud on the thinly carpeted shop-floor. Her eyes saw East and her mouth moved; she reached out her hand. ‘Pamageet minya.’ ‘Help me,’ she pleaded in Russian.
‘Nie dveegaisia!’ ‘Stay still,’ East hissed back in the same language. But it was too late. Her hand trembled, fell limp, and her eyes glazed over. East’s jaw tightened – he was going to stop them.
*
There were footsteps on his left by the escalator. Two more gunmen were ascending to the upper floors, one a little ahead of the other. East craned his neck; the first pair now had their backs turned and their weapons pointing away. East moved with speed and stealth towards the disappearing gunman. Reaching the bottom of the escalator he launched himself up, two steps at a time, no longer caring about the noise he made, only the distance he covered. The nearest gunman turned, Uzi held upwards in one hand, the short barrel pointing at the concrete above. His eyes registered East but not before East’s open palm crashed up into the underside of the gunman’s nose, flattening cartilage and breaking bone. As if struck by a sledgehammer the man dropped the Uzi and fell sideways. East grabbed the weapon and squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst ripped through the gunman before burrowing into the side of the escalator.
There was more gunfire from above. East flattened himself against the metal steps and was carried upwards. As his head crested the shop-floor he saw that the fourth gunman, oblivious to his colleague’s demise, had started to spray the room. East raised the Uzi and fired a controlled burst into the back of his target’s head. The man fell instantly, body dead before it had stopped falling. Around him shoppers and staff cowered and wept. Two X-rays down, two more to go. East hit the stop button on the stairs and peered over the side at the ground floor. Save for sobbing, the area was quiet once more as both gunmen again changed magazines. One was silent and had a crazed expression on his face, while the other seemed to be quietly chanting. East had to act; he had to take them out now. He moved down the metal steps, took a deep breath, and then broke cover at the bottom.
The nearest X-ray looked up, eyes wide as East fired. The gunman stumbled backwards as rounds impacted his chest before he crashed into a counter. The second gunman returned fire and charged forward. East pivoted, fell to one knee to lessen his profile, and acquired the target.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ the gunman yelled.
East looked into the man’s eyes and released second pressure on the trigger. The X-ray fell upon him and glass exploded around both men. The X-ray was history, but his momentum took East down with him. East’s head hit the carpet-covered concrete shop-floor with a loud crack and his world went black.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine
Aidan Snow sipped his black coffee as he listened via the internet to the Today programme on Radio 4. The main news of the morning was an explosion at rush hour on the Moscow metro. It had happened at a station Snow knew well, one close to the international school he had attended as an ‘Embassy Brat’ twenty years before. So far the number of fatalities hadn’t been released but Snow knew it would be high. The radio announced that the explosion had been confirmed as an IED and that a Chechen group, the Islamic International Brigade, had claimed responsibility. An expert on Russian security matters from the UCL School of Slavonic and East European Studies had been quickly found and, in heavily accented English, gave his opinion. He explained that the Russian authorities wouldn’t accept that the real Islamic International Brigade had carried out the attack, due to the fact that the FSB had either captured or killed its leaders. Indeed, the leader of the group had been publicly put on trial and was at this very moment serving a full life term in Russia’s most secure prison. The expert went on to say why he thought the bomb had been detonated and who else could be responsible. A splinter or copycat group using the same methods…
Snow clicked off the broadcast and continued to eat his breakfast in silence, even though he had now lost his appetite. Terrorism was senseless: innocent civilians were targeted based solely on the actions of their governments, whom they probably hadn’t voted into power. Yet it was endemic the world over and it sickened him. Saturday had brought reports of a suspected Al-Qaeda attack on shoppers in a New Jersey department store and today it was the turn of commuters in Moscow. Snow shuddered as he imagined the horror created by the detonation and panic among the Muscovites. He pictured the metro station in his mind as he remembered it, with its scrupulously clean floors, advert-free walls, grand architecture, and fur-clad crowds. As a teenager he had frequently explored Moscow by jumping on the metro after school, much to the annoyance of the British Embassy driver. He had sat and listened to the Muscovites, often taking the train to the end of the line into areas that were strictly off the tourist path. In the late Eighties, just before the Soviet Union crumbled, Moscow had been an exciting place. There had been something in the air, a note of dissent those in power had chosen to ignore, to their ultimate cost.
Today, the people in power were jumpy; an attack in one European capital city put all the others on high alert. Moscow, having once again attempted to resurrect the Soviet Empire by illegally annexing Crimea and invading Eastern Ukraine, had made itself target number one. It had no one else to blame, but it was the Russian people who were suffering and not the warmongering cocks in the Kremlin.
The door to the room Snow was camped out in opened and Alistair Vickers entered. He sat heavily in an armchair. ‘You’ve seen the news, I take it?’
‘What next?’
Vickers shrugged. ‘I have no earthly idea, but Jack’s just called for a video conference.’
On cue, Snow’s secure iPhone vibrated to show an incoming email from Jack Patchem, his boss at SIS. It contained just one word: Moscow. ‘We’d better go to your office then.’
Vickers reluctantly dragged himself out of the comfy chair.
*
Several minutes later Patchem spoke without preamble as the video-link started. ‘Terrible news from Russia. The last thing we need is the loony brigade annoying the Kremlin.’
‘Do we know who’s responsible?’ Snow asked as Vickers pushed a plate of custard cream biscuits towards him.
‘Only what the media is saying, but our man on the scene is confirming thirty dead now, some foreigners. The FCO doesn’t know yet if this includes any Brits.’
‘Was there any advance warning of the attack, any increased chatter seen by GCHQ?’ Vickers asked.
‘None, and that’s what’s so worrisome. The only chatter we have is after the event, the usual rhetoric praising the suicide bomber and thanking Allah. Allah the almighty, who invented Semtex!’ There was a pause and Patchem apologised. ‘I know, gentlemen, I know. Call me an Islamophobe, but you understand what I mean. These crazies want to blow us all up in the name of Islam.’
‘Their view of Islam.’
‘Yes, Aidan – you’re right, of course.’ In London, Patchem took a sip of water. ‘Actually, one phrase has come up a few times: “The Hand of Allah”. We don’t have anything on it yet; it could be a new group aligned to Al-Qaeda or IS, or, who knows, perhaps the name of an operation or just a turn of speech.’
‘If it’s the name of a new group, that would back up what the Russians say.’
‘That it’s not the Islamic International Brigade? Aidan, you know as well as I do that the FSB and GRU would never admit some key members of the group might have evaded capture.’
‘I’m surprised the Kremlin isn’t trying to pin it on “Ukrainian Banderite fascists”,’ Vickers said.
‘I had a beer with Bandera’s grandson once. He wasn’t a fascist, he was Canadian,’ Snow replied.
Patchem agreed. The Kremlin had labelled the new Ukrainian government fascists and called the protesters who had ousted the old Moscow-backed President ‘Banderites’ after Stepan Bandera, the Ukrainian wartime nationalist leader who had chosen the Nazis over the Soviet Union. ‘We can’t rule out anyone at this stage.’ Onscreen, Patchem closed his eyes and pinched his nose. ‘Look…’
‘Everything OK, Jack?’
‘What, Alistair? Yes, just not sleeping as much as I should.’ Patchem drank some more water and then cleared his throat. ‘So, Aidan, welcome back and congratulations on “collecting” Mr Iqbal. How is he?’
‘He’s still catching up on his sleep. They kept him chained up in a garage for most of the time, and if he wasn’t chained up he was digging trenches.’
‘Trenches?’ Patchem frowned.
‘Apparently the leader of the DNR is a World War One buff; he loves the idea of trench warfare,’ Vickers added. ‘Which is very odd, when you consider he’s holed up in the middle of an industrial city!’
‘The whole thing is very odd. Alistair, how long until we can get Iqbal back to the UK?’
‘Midweek I’d say. He’s going to be talking to the SBU today; they want a debrief on everything he saw during his time in captivity. They’ll be chatting to Aidan too. It’s all going to be taken down as evidence against the DNR. Of course, I’ll be there to record the session.’
‘Good. Aidan, finish writing up your report, and then, once the SBU are happy, bring Mr Iqbal home. In the meantime, keep a low profile, but have your “grab-bag” and passport handy.’
‘I always do.’
*
New York, USA
The driving rain cut down visibility, which was good for concealment. He lay on the damp concrete under the truck, his left side leaning against the cold steel of the skip. His dark-blue waterproofs kept most of the rain out save for a continuous trickle working its way down into his cuff where it mixed with the sweat on his clammy skin. Lights came on in the timber warehouse as the first workers began to arrive. The business park, however, remained silent. Seven o’clock came and the sky lightened, but the rain did not, continuing to pound on the steel of the skip and the hood of the truck. His view was limited to what he could see directly ahead between the truck and the skip and to his right under the vehicle. If anyone approached on foot he would be blind until they were directly on top of him. His position was far from perfect. He put all thoughts of comfort to one side and continued to await his prey.
He felt rather than saw the first timber shipment arrive. Trucks could appear any time after the transporters had cleared customs at Newhaven port and been offloaded. For this reason the warehouse was always staffed. It was almost 8 a.m. now, and he stretched in an attempt to relieve cramped muscles. His mind started to repeat over and over the words he had been told… the target was the one who had carried out the orders; the target had burnt, torn, and tortured. Inside the overalls he sweated heavier as a white rage engulfed his body. The target would pay for his brother’s murder. A vehicle approached, the distinctive growl of the AMG Mercedes engine competing against the rain. His mind was suddenly clear, focused, his breathing controlled. He craned his neck and saw the driver’s door open. Positive ID. He moved with the speed and grace of a panther, springing up and away from its den. Uzi in his right hand, he narrowed the gap to his prey and hit him with a stiff arm. The target fell back against the hood of the Mercedes and, a split second later, he pulled the trigger. Intense flashes of light illuminated the stormy morning. The target convulsed, lightning bolts impacting his chest and upper body, forcing him into the car. The gunman stopped and looked into the eyes of the target with hatred. ‘Za mayevo Brata,’ he heard himself yell in Russian. ‘This is for my brother…’ He repeated the proclamation as he emptied the remainder of the magazine into a lifeless corpse… the last time he had used an Uzi was… He felt a pain in his temples and a light flashed, the pain increasing as the light got nearer and brighter. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to move, to run away, but his legs wouldn’t work. He tried to raise his hands to protect his eyes, but they wouldn’t work either. All the while, the light got brighter and the pain intensified. His world changed from the blackest of black to a deep red. James East began to hear a voice speaking in a language he did not officially speak. The red gradually lightened and then the voice spoke to him.
‘Can you hear me?’ The Russian was flawless. ‘You are safe; you are no longer in any danger.’
The doctor noted a flickering beneath the patient’s closed eyelids. He spoke again. ‘If you can hear me, can you try to open your eyes?’ A note was thrust into the doctor’s hand. He read it quickly. ‘I need you to give me the name of your next of kin. We must contact your family to say that you are here and safe with us.’
Family? From somewhere inside East’s mind, a light switched on. His mouth opened and several syllables of Russian rolled out.
‘I am sorry, I did not hear that. Can you say it again?’
More Russian. ‘Y menia bull brat…’ ‘I had a brother…’ East began to say in Russian, then stopped. The pain sharpened and the light became white. Suddenly conscious behind closed eyes, East realised his mistake. He started to groan and make unrecognisable sounds.
‘I am sorry, but I do not understand. Can you say that again?’ The doctor moved closer.
East opened his eyes and spoke in English; his throat was dry and his voice raspy, but his Boston accent, the same one he had used for the past three years, was unmistakable. ‘Where am I?’
The two men standing over the bed momentarily seemed surprised before regaining their composure. The doctor spoke first, sticking to Russian. ‘You are in hospital. You were involved in a shooting.’
East blinked, feigning incomprehension. ‘I’m… s… sorry. What did y… you say?’
The doctor began to speak, but the second man touched him on the shoulder and shook his head. He asked in English, ‘What’s your name?’
‘My… my name is James… James East.’
‘Well, Mr East, my name is Mr Casey. As Dr Litvin was attempting to say, you were caught up in a terrorist attack.’
East tried to sit up, but a searing pain behind his eyes blurred his vision.
Dr Litvin placed his hand on his patient’s arm and now also switched to English. ‘Try not to move too quickly; your body has suffered some trauma.’
East closed his eyes; when he opened them again his vision had returned. He assessed the room. It was a standard hospital white. He noted the badge on the doctor’s coat but directed the question to Casey. ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in a hospital in Manhattan, Mr East. You were brought here after the shootings. Do you remember that?’
It was hazy, but he did. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Just over forty-eight hours. You have a concussion.’ The doctor touched his arm reassuringly. ‘You are lucky, Mr East, that it was not more serious.’
‘He must have a thick skull, eh, Doc?’ Casey was jovial.
‘Quite.’
‘Mr East, there are a few questions I would like answered.’
The doctor frowned. ‘If I could have a moment, Mr Casey?’
The doctor stepped outside and folded his arms. He waited for his visitor to join him. ‘While I am more than happy to assist with your investigations, I do not think the patient is medically fit enough to be interrogated.’
Casey raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Doc, no one’s going to be interrogated. I just need to ask him a few questions.’
‘Not today, Mr Casey. He is not going anywhere. You may question Mr East when I deem him to be fit.’
Casey’s expression hardened. ‘I need to question him in the interests of national security.’
‘You came to me because you thought the patient might be a Russian and, indeed, I heard a few words. However, when he regained consciousness, he spoke English, just like you and me.’ Litvin was an immigrant but didn’t let that cloud the issue. ‘I understand that Mr East is not a normal patient; however, he must be treated as one. Remember, it would be me in the firing line if he were to sue the hospital for any complications or malpractice.’
‘Thank you for your candour, Doc.’ Casey decided to push no further.
*
Scanning the room, East realised there was no TV in the corner, just an empty bracket. He tried to sit up again but felt as though a gigantic hand was squeezing his head.
The door opened and Litvin appeared. He smiled as he neared. ‘Mr Casey is a government agent and wanted to interrogate you. I told him you were not well enough. You need to rest.’ Litvin sat in the chair next to East’s bed. ‘Can you remember what happened?’
‘I think so. How many did they kill?’
‘Nine dead, and seventeen others with gunshot injuries. It was a miracle more innocent shoppers didn’t die. Some people are calling you a hero. I, for one, agree with them.’
‘Thanks, I guess.’ Nine! Inwardly East cursed. Why hadn’t he been faster? Why couldn’t he have been by the entrance to stop them?
Litvin seemed to read his mind. ‘I expect you are asking yourself why you couldn’t have saved more people, or shot the terrorists sooner?’ East nodded and Litvin continued. ‘You are suffering from survivor’s guilt, and everyone does. You wonder why you were chosen to live when others died, when others might have been more deserving of life. No one has answers to this, not down here at least. We are not party to the great plan. Tell me, are you a religious man?’
‘No.’
‘I see. I am from Moscow… and you, Mr East?’
‘Boston.’
‘Originally?’ Litvin raised his eyebrows. East didn’t reply, so the doctor continued. ‘Where did you learn your Russian?’
‘I did a course at college. It was either that or Spanish.’
‘You spoke Russian several times while you were sedated.’ In actual fact, it was when the sedation had begun to wear off, but Litvin wasn’t going to admit the anaesthesiologist might have got the dose wrong.
East changed the subject. ‘When can I leave, Doctor?’
‘In about a week or so. There was some swelling to your cerebellum, which is at the base and back of your brain, and is responsible for coordination and balance. The good news is that the scans did not show any obvious damage. Until you regained consciousness, however, we could not be certain. Now you are conscious, you need to undergo further tests.’
East frowned. ‘Why was Mr Casey here?’
‘Mr East, there was a shooting; these things have to be investigated. I think it is best that you rest now. My colleague from the neurological team will be along to check up on you later.’ Litvin rose and left the room. His patient needed rest and, regardless of who the men in suits were, they must let him be.
East closed his eyes. What Litvin had said was true; he wasn’t worthy to live because of the innocent lives he had taken in the past. Any of the nine murdered shoppers had more to offer society than him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Were the painkillers altering his mood, making him morose, or did he really feel this way? He sat in silence. He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he had messed up, and now he had to work on his escape.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_67fdbf0d-2e16-5bcf-bcf6-b4fd2993db3c)
Kabul, Afghanistan
‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.
The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.
Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.
Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.
‘Are you going to the West?’
Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’
‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’
‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’
The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine
Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.
An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.
Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’
‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.
Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’
‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’
Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’
‘You too. How long are you back for?’
‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’
‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’
‘Correct. I’m free this evening and then I’ve got meetings and business lunches until I fly out on Wednesday.’
Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Phew, I’m glad I just teach a few English lessons here and there. No stress and lots of time to drink, smoke, and observe the local wildlife.’
Snow shook his head at the fifty-something Welshman. ‘How’s Ina?’
‘Not bad. She lost her job, though.’ Jones’s wife of sixteen years was a banker – and her husband’s banker.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Eh, but she got a new one with a Canadian investment group. She may have to fly out there next month. I don’t mind, it gives me a chance to rest.’ Jones’s diction was lilting and slow, as always after he’d had a few pints. ‘But great to see you, eh!’
‘You too, Mr Jones.’ Snow became serious. ‘So, how have you been this last year?’
‘Fine. We obviously skipped Crimea this summer and thought for a while of coming back to the UK. But then I saw the house prices. I can’t bloody afford to get on the housing ladder at my age! So we didn’t. Our area was pretty isolated from the violence and unrest, thank Christ. But eh, it’s a shocking business, isn’t it? Who are the Kremlin to say Ukraine can’t join the European Union? Ukrainians are good people who were led by a corrupt president. Russians are good people but… people are people, let them live.’ He waved his hand and then drained the remainder of his beer.
Snow agreed with Jones’s statement, even if the wording was a little off, but he didn’t want to get political or morose. For once all he wanted to do was sink a few drinks, reminisce, and relax. And from the look of it, Jones was several drinks ahead of him. Snow caught the attention of the barmaid, who trotted over with menus.
‘Is this your friend, Michael?’
‘This is Aidan. He used to teach with me.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Snow said in Russian. ‘Two beers, please.’
‘Is Obolon OK?’
‘Fine.’
She smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar with a wiggle that Snow tried but failed to ignore.
‘Service with a smile,’ Jones remarked happily.
‘So, what brings you to this place then?’ Snow asked.
‘One of my students, Vlad, runs it. He’s a good bloke and the beer is so cheap for Kyiv prices!’ Jones was always counting his money. His love of bargains coupled with his love of alcohol had made him an expert on the cheaper watering holes of Ukraine’s capital city.
‘I’m not surprised it’s cheap – it’s in the middle of nowhere.’
‘It’s not far from the metro and if you’re near the metro you’re near everything.’
‘That’s true.’ The beer arrived and Snow held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘You too.’
‘What time does Ina want you home?’
‘Whenever. She doesn’t mind me drinking with you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.’
Snow smacked beer from his lips. ‘I thought she knew me better than that.’
The door opened and a hulking figure ducked his head to enter.
‘He’s a big boy,’ Jones noted, ‘and I thought you were tall.’
‘I am tall. He’s a giant. Do you know him?’
‘No.’ Jones returned his attention to his beer.
The giant, dressed in a tracksuit under a leather box jacket, strode to the bar and, with a booming voice, ordered vodka. He knocked back his drink in one and then demanded a beer.
Snow’s training kicked in as he scanned the bar. The other ten or so customers weren’t making eye contact with the new arrival, especially the table of women Michael had been watching. Two of them discreetly turned their chairs away. The man was dangerous, and by the way people reacted to him, known as being such.
‘Another?’ Jones asked.
‘Silly question.’ Snow winked.
‘Pani!’ Michael called out the Ukrainian word for ‘miss’, also used to mean waitress. ‘Two beers, please.’
The giant turned and leant against the bar, swivelling his large head to stare at them.
Snow involuntarily felt himself tense, ready for action. ‘So, where is this Vlad then?’
‘He’s probably in reception; it’s a family business. His dad owns the hotel; Vlad’s just taken over here and his two sisters work in both. The one at the bar is called Svetlana.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know him?’
Jones sniggered. ‘Not the giant, the barmaid.’
‘Here.’ Svetlana brought the beers. She no longer seemed happy and hurried back to the bar.
Jones took a long swig and then stood. ‘I’m sorry, I need a slash. Bladder can’t keep up with me anymore.’
Snow continued to assess the threat and the giant continued to stare, until another man appeared in the bar. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with ‘Café Bar Standard’ printed on it in burgundy. On seeing the giant, he paused before walking to the bar. Snow watched as the new arrival started to polish glasses as the giant spoke to him.
‘Hokay, Vlad!’ Jones shouted as he emerged from the bathroom a minute later.
Vlad held up a tea towel but said nothing as the giant now glared at Jones.
Jones sat and noticed the expression on Snow’s face. ‘What’s up?’
‘I think the big fella is bad news, Michael.’
‘What, him? He’s just a bloke having a drink. You’ve been away too long.’ Jones produced a new packet of Ukrainian cigarettes from his jacket pocket and fiddled with the polythene wrapper.
‘Maybe.’
A glass smashed at the bar. The giant was pointing at Vlad with his index finger.
‘Shit.’ Snow sighed, getting to his feet. He’d seen enough shakedowns in his time to understand what was happening. ‘Michael, stay in your seat.’
‘What?’ Jones looked up from his cigarettes. ‘Oh, I see.’
Snow placed his empty glass on the counter. Svetlana was sweeping the floor with a dustpan and brush while Vlad stood, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Snow spoke in Russian. ‘Two more beers, please, and…’ He studied the face of the giant. ‘…Whatever you’re having.’
The big man’s heavy forehead furrowed. ‘Vodka.’
Vlad looked between the two men as he pulled the beer and then poured a shot of vodka.
‘Two vodkas.’ The giant grabbed Vlad’s wrist and scowled at Snow. ‘One for you, too, unless you do not want to drink with Victor?’
‘I’d be honoured, Victor,’ Snow said.
With a shaky hand, Vlad placed the glasses on the bar before retreating. Victor took his glass and Snow copied. There was a moment’s hesitation and then both men threw the contents against the backs of their throats. Victor checked Snow’s reaction to the harsh spirit. There was none.
‘Who is your foreign friend?’
Snow shrugged. ‘He’s an English-language teacher.’
‘I have always wanted to learn English.’ Victor’s face became whimsical. ‘So I can tell foreigners to get the fuck out of my country.’
‘That’s a good reason,’ Snow said.
‘I am sick of seeing all these Westerners around Kyiv! They swagger like they own the place, throwing their money about while, in the East, our men without the correct clothing or equipment or weapons die fighting for Ukraine. And what do the foreigners do to help Ukraine? They call the Russian President and tell him he must stop!’ Victor rubbed his face with his palms before placing them on the bar. ‘Another!’
Snow knew Victor was right, but what could he say? He just nodded at Vlad who again quickly poured two shots.
Victor raised his glass. ‘Ukraine.’
‘Ukraine,’ Snow repeated
Victor swivelled his head. ‘I am from Kamyanka; it’s a village to the south of Donetsk. The DNR have destroyed it. And why couldn’t the Ukrainian army defend it? Because they did not have the equipment! Do you understand?’
Snow remained silent; Victor was dealing with some powerful emotions and likely to explode at any moment.
‘I hate foreigners. They sit, drink, shit, and pay to screw our women. That is all.’ Victor looked now at Snow and said mockingly, ‘Thank you for the vodka.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ Snow replied as he collected his beers and moved back to his table.
‘You made friends then?’
‘He’s from the Donbas. He likes me, I’m a nice guy.’
‘That’s because your Russian is too good; ironic, eh?’
‘What’s ironic is that he doesn’t like foreigners, and he thinks you’re foreign.’
‘Well, as an ethnic minority, I am offended! Does he not know about the significant historical links between Wales and Donetsk? Donetsk was founded by a Welshman who opened Ukraine’s first mine and steel works. Ukraine’s first state school was opened in Donetsk, and the first English-language school.’
‘You looked it up?’
‘Of course. Ukrainians like it.’
‘Well, big Victor wants to learn English.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘He wants to learn English so he can tell all us foreigners to eff off.’
‘Make him the Minister for International Relations.’ Jones puffed on a new cigarette.
Snow slurped his beer. ‘Seriously, Michael, he’s trouble, but he’s not sober so his guard’s down. I suspect he’s part of a local protection racket.’
‘Roof insurance.’ Jones used a well-known euphemism. ‘Aye, that’s one thing I thought Maidan got rid of – the crime and corruption. I got stopped by a militia officer the other day who wanted to see my passport. I told him I didn’t carry it around with me for security reasons. So he said I had to pay a fine of $50.’
‘What did you do?’ Snow was sure he’d heard the story before, but now it was updated for modern times.
‘I did nothing. I was walking with Ina. She told him to piss off or she’d report him.’
Snow smiled. ‘You don’t argue with Ina.’
‘Too right. When we got home she did report him.’
There was another crash at the bar and Victor wobbled. He staggered towards Snow and Jones. ‘Teach me.’ His two words of English were slow and slurred. He raised his voice. ‘Teach me!’
Snow got to his feet and held up his palms. ‘OK… OK, have a seat and we can discuss this. We’re not the enemy.’
‘Enemy?’ A grin appeared on Victor’s face. ‘Tell the foreigner to give me his money, and you give me your money. You then can both fuck off.’
‘I’m Welsh,’ Jones said. ‘A Welshman founded Donetsk!’
The giant frowned and, without warning, but with unexpected speed for a man of his size, dropped his shoulders several inches and shot his mammoth right fist out at Snow. Snow instinctively took a step back and, with both arms working at once, his left palm swatted Victor’s arm down while the back of his right fist slammed into the giant’s nose. It was a simple but effective move; no one throwing a punch expected to receive another back before theirs had struck. Victor blinked and retreated a half-step. Snow reversed the momentum of his right fist and struck the man in the jaw. Victor’s legs buckled and he landed on his knees. He had to go down; Snow didn’t want him to be able to fight back, given his size and inherent strength.
‘I am from Oleg. He says you don’t come here anymore. Oleg is in charge here!’
‘Oleg who?’ Victor was dazed.
‘Oleg.’ Snow high-kneed Victor under the chin; his head snapped back, his eyes closed, and he fell. ‘Michael, we’re leaving.’
‘Hokay.’ Jones stood and shrugged at Vlad.
‘Call the militia quickly. Tell them the SBU are on their way.’
Vlad looked at Snow in confusion. ‘SBU?’
‘Yes.’ Snow reached into his pocket, withdrew a $100 bill, and handed it to Vlad. ‘This is for your trouble; any friend of Michael Jones is a friend of mine.’
Michael stared down at Victor. ‘Don’t mess with the SAS.’
Snow grabbed Jones by the sleeve. ‘Time to go.’
Outside, darkness had fallen and they took the path round to the front of the hotel. ‘Who’s Oleg?’
‘There’s always an Oleg.’
Michael pointed down the street. ‘Sviatoshyn metro station is ten minutes that way.’
‘OK, we’ll go back to the centre and drink in a place full of foreigners.’ Snow tapped Jones on the back. ‘Don’t worry – I’m on expenses.’
‘Oh, that’s great. But can you hang on a minute? I need another slash.’
‘Fine.’ Jones walked down the side of the hotel, opened his flies, and urinated into an evergreen shrub. Snow had ceased to be embarrassed by his friend’s antics years before, so took the opportunity to call Blazhevich.
‘Aidan? What’s up?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a problem with a guy in a bar – a giant to be exact. Can you send someone to collect him? I don’t think the local militia would be up to the job.’
He heard the Ukrainian sigh. ‘Where is the giant?’
‘He’s in a hotel on Horenska Street, not far from Sviatoshyn metro.’
‘Was this giant called Victor?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Kyiv really is a small village. He’s known to the SBU, and you were lucky.’
‘Why?’
‘Victor Krilov is a former professional boxer, a good one.’
‘Nice.’
‘Aidan, stay out of trouble. I’ll see you and Mr Iqbal tomorrow, at the debrief.’
*
FBI Field Office, New York
Vince Casey looked up from the computer at FBI Deputy Director Gianni before placing his thick index finger on the laptop screen, the display changing colour under the pressure of his digit. ‘This guy’s a “pro”, no doubt in my mind.’
Gianni stared at the frozen image of the member of the public who had taken down four gunmen.
‘Look again at how he moves.’ Casey clicked and rewound the surveillance tape.
Both men watched as the figure travelled with an economy of movement, without any hesitation or lack of purpose.
‘So who is he?’ Gianni asked.
‘That’s why your Bureau and my Agency are interested.’
Gianni sat back and folded his arms. The speed of the man was impressive, as was the way he had terminated the X-rays. ‘Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’
‘I don’t think it’s any different to yours.’
‘Humour me. Spell it out.’
‘Definitely SF or SF-trained.’
Gianni valued the opinion of the CIA black-ops veteran. In the corridor outside the office they heard footsteps. Both men remained silent from force of habit until the footfall faded away. Gianni leaned forward, dragged his laptop nearer, and tapped the keyboard. He glanced across at his long-time friend from the Agency. ‘The fingerprints come up as belonging to a banker from Boston.’
‘Let me have a look at that?’
‘Sure.’ Gianni pushed the laptop back towards Casey. ‘Just scroll down. All we have is there.’
‘Thanks.’ Casey read the report, although he already knew the basics. James East. Born in Boston, put up for adoption by his mother, no record of a father. Placed in a state orphanage, never adopted. There was a grainy photograph taken from a high-school yearbook, which showed East as a bespectacled, blond-haired teen. How was East’s eyesight now, Casey wondered – he’d better check. He read on. After graduating from high school East travelled to the opposite side of the country to study at UCLA. Upon completion of his degree, he volunteered to teach English for charities in Romania and then Bulgaria before returning to the US several years later.
‘Again, Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’ Gianni asked, deadpan.
‘Again, the same as yours.’
‘Too convenient?’
‘Exactly,’ Casey stated wryly. ‘No family, no ties, out of the US, and then no real job until three years ago when he comes back?’
‘And, as you see, no record of any criminal activity, or military service.’
‘So he’s not one of ours,’ Casey confirmed. His initial thoughts had been that East was a ‘NOC’, an agent with ‘No Official Cover’, a black operative. But his CIA database had thus far come up blank as regards any facial recognition match. In his experience even the blackest of NOCs left some record. He’d continue to search.
‘So what do we have?’ Gianni leant back in his chair and rolled his shoulders.
‘Someone else’s asset?’
‘Perhaps, but we’ve got the local office in Boston digging deeper into his background; if there’s anything fishy, we’ll find it.’
The hard lessons learnt from the 9/11 terror attacks had now been fully implemented; the varying arms of the US intelligence and law enforcement services worked together, transparently and harmoniously. At least that was the official line, but Gianni and Casey did find the activity of their organisations more and more linked. The Bureau’s remit was ‘domestic security’ and the Agency’s the interests of the US abroad; however, each organisation was keen to keep tabs on suspects, wherever they might be.
Gianni continued. ‘We got a court order to open his safety deposit box. There was nothing in it apart from a few thousand dollars in cash. I’ve asked the NSA to look for any recent calls made on the iPhone he was carrying.’
Casey got to his feet and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot in the corner of the room. ‘Whoever Mr East is, he’s got some explaining to do.’
‘Oh, he’ll talk. Hero or not, he’s facing four counts of voluntary manslaughter at the very least.’
‘And how many innocent shoppers did the bad guys get?’
Gianni held up his palms. ‘I know… if it hadn’t been for Mr East we’d have had a full-scale massacre on our hands. The fact still remains, however, that he killed four men. Justice cannot be blind.’
Casey pretended to agree. ‘How did we miss them?’
‘Hey, if we knew that we’d have stopped them ourselves.’
‘Why couldn’t just one of them have lived? At least until we bled him a bit.’
It angered and annoyed Casey that the shooters had appeared from nowhere. The leads from the increased chatter following Bin Laden’s kill/capture even now had them all chasing their tails. And, added to this, new threats from Islamic State to take their fight to the West had, in short, created so much chatter that it had become a shield. ‘The bigger question is, how many more have we missed?’
‘You know as well as I do how much traffic the NSA is looking at, the volume Echelon is sifting. My question is, why attack a store in Morristown, New Jersey? Why not hit the branch opposite Ground Zero?’
Casey had been wondering the same thing and had no answer. Was it random, opportunistic, a mistake, or personal? ‘We may never know.’
‘Yep,’ Gianni agreed. The identities of the four men remained unknown. There had been no IDs found on the bodies and the fingerprints had thrown up fake legends, the origins of which were still being traced. ‘How is Mr East?’
‘Why?’
Gianni gave Casey his no-shit stare. ‘I need to talk to him. Remember, we are in the USA; the rule of law has to be followed, otherwise we’ll be no better than them.’
Casey raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, I’m not farm-fresh, remember? We have laws, and sometimes they bend.’
‘OK.’ Gianni sighed imperceptibly; he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Casey had an agreement with the Commander in Chief that Gianni wasn’t meant to know about. ‘Someday, Vince, you’re not going to get what you want. This isn’t a pissing contest; we’ve both known each other too long for that. East has to be under my watch. I’ll pull my agents back a bit. After you’ve finished talking to him we’ll resume our perimeter and he’s mine. OK? Any intel you get, copy me in.’
‘Thanks, Gino,’ Casey said affably, ‘but I wasn’t asking you for permission.’
Gianni was about to reply when Casey’s Blackberry pinged. Casey retrieved it from his pocket and read the alert. ‘Shit. They’ve hit Moscow again.’
*
SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Vulitsa, Kyiv
The room chosen by the SBU for Iqbal’s debriefing was much more elaborately furnished than any at Vauxhall Cross. The walls were clad in ornate, gilded, hand-painted panels, and the chairs were highly padded and covered in an array of exotic leather. The large table in the middle could hold twenty guests, but today it had seated only five: Mohammed Iqbal and the intelligence officers responsible for his rescue – Aidan Snow, Alistair Vickers, Vitaly Blazhevich, and Ivan Nedilko.
At the start of the meeting Vickers officially presented Blazhevich, who was deputising for Director Dudka, with copies of Iqbal’s and Snow’s statements. It had taken most of the day to meticulously go through these, the SBU being loath to miss anything that could potentially be of use in their ongoing antiterrorist operation against the DNR and possible future international indictments. Photographs of known DNR members were shown in turn to both Iqbal and Snow, and videofits were created of as yet unidentified men. All in all, Iqbal’s illegal incarceration had provided the SBU with valuable Humint (human intelligence) they wouldn’t otherwise have been able to gather.
Blazhevich signalled Nedilko to switch off the digital tape recorder as he closed the folder in front of him. ‘Gentlemen, I think that’s it. We have finished here.’
The official part of the debriefing complete, Snow let out a long sigh. ‘I could murder a beer.’
‘Me too,’ Iqbal said.
Nedilko was confused. ‘But aren’t you a Muslim?’
‘Yes, but some of us do drink, you know.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Vickers stated, ‘we can’t be seen in a bar together. People will wonder who you are, Mo, and then, well, you know how it is.’
‘I see.’ Iqbal had been made to sign the Official Secrets Act, the SIS’s involvement in his rescue being classified and having to remain so.
‘So, your flat it is then, Alistair?’ Snow added quickly, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘Right, votes for Alistair’s place; let’s see a show of hands.’
Vickers pursed his lips as all hands but his own were raised in the air. ‘Very well, my flat it is.’
Blazhevich shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I am going to have to bow out on this occasion. My wife is expecting me home.’
Snow raised his eyebrows but made no further comment – it wasn’t like Blazhevich to pass on a booze-up.
The five men left the conference room and took the steps down to the ground floor. Blazhevich hung back and pulled Snow to one side. ‘By the way, my colleagues took “the giant”, as you called him, into custody. It was the same guy Nedilko and I arrested a year ago.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘He wanted to press charges against the guy from Kharkiv who’d attacked him.’
‘Kharkiv?’
‘He assured us that his attacker was a Russian-speaking Ukrainian.’
‘Looks like my Moscow accent needs a bit of work then?’
‘No, it’s his cauliflower ears. So we’ve charged him with racketeering, for the second time. You do know you were extremely lucky? He was a dangerous individual before, but now that he’s started to rage about the Donbas he’s become completely unhinged.’
‘Then I’m glad you’ve put him away.’
‘So am I, but you did hit him quite hard.’
‘Whoops.’
‘So this used to be the old KGB building then?’ Iqbal asked as he stared at the armed guard manning the reception desk.
‘Yes, and I wouldn’t like to think what happened in the underground levels,’ Vickers replied.
‘What, they’ve got catacombs?’ Iqbal’s eyes widened.
‘No, a basement with cells.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Yeah, they threw me in one once,’ Snow called out, catching up with the others.
‘You were a person of interest, Aidan,’ Blazhevich stated.
‘What do you mean “were”; aren’t I interesting anymore?’
‘Did you meet the ghost?’ Nedilko asked.
‘Ghost?’ Iqbal repeated.
Vickers enjoyed the banter which over the years had formed among the group as the SIS and SBU had been forced to work together. He’d miss it all when he was eventually forced to move on to a new post at a new embassy.
As they reached the door to the street, the guard’s desk phone rang. He answered it and called over to Blazhevich.
‘Hello?’ the SBU officer asked. ‘When? I see. Thank you, Gennady Stepanovich.’
Snow noticed the expression on his colleague’s face was now grave. ‘Bad news?’
‘Yes. That was Dudka. He’s just been informed that another terrorist attack has taken place on the Moscow metro system. They are still counting the dead.’
‘Bastards,’ Snow hissed; it was the height of rush hour in the Russian capital.
Vickers and Snow both felt their phones vibrate. Vickers checked his screen, a secure email. ‘Aidan, we’re needed at the embassy. Vitaly, Ivan – thank you. Mo, you have to come with us.’
Outside, a distinct chill hung in the air as winter tried to replace autumn. The British Embassy on Desyatynna Street was a brisk, five-minute walk away up Volodymyrska Vulitsa and across Sofiyivska Square, and at this time of day an embassy car would take much longer to negotiate the Kyiv traffic. Vickers led the trio through the commuters returning home, with Snow bringing up the rear as ‘tail-end Charlie’. They weren’t expecting any problems, but experience had taught both SIS men to be vigilant. Arriving at the embassy, Mo went to the room assigned to him while Snow joined Vickers in his office, where they called Patchem.
‘Aidan, Alistair, it’s the same modus operandi as before: a suicide bomber on a commuter-packed tube train.’
‘Any warnings this time?’
‘No, Alistair, none. None at all. Whoever is doing this is going to have the full force of the FSB brought down on them from a great height, and rightly so. These are innocent people, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Has anyone claimed responsibility?’
Patchem shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘What are the Russians saying, Jack?’
‘Nothing new, Aidan. If it’s not the same group then it’s a very meticulous copycat, and when I say meticulous, I mean disturbed.’
‘The SBU are now going to start to panic,’ Vickers noted. ‘After all, Kyiv does have a metro system built by the same people, but hopefully not the same enemies.’
‘So,’ Patchem reasoned, ‘if there were to be any attack upon Kyiv it would be a copycat.’
‘Or a false flag,’ said Snow. ‘The Russians getting in an attack and blaming the International Islamic Brigade.’
‘Well, let’s hope none of these scenarios comes true. Alistair, has the debriefing been completed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Aidan, I’d like you to fly back here tomorrow with Mr Iqbal. The DNR have already started to talk about his “negotiated release” on their VKontakte page. I’ve had Neill Plato take it down and put the page offline, but even though he’s a technical whiz, Neill doesn’t know how long it will stay off for. That’s the problem with this social media madness; anyone anywhere can retweet or repost. The last thing we want is a group of tabloid paps waiting for you at Gatwick.’
‘Can’t we fly into Brize Norton?’
‘The simple answer is no. Our Director General has been told in no uncertain terms by the Foreign Secretary that we’ve spent far too much time and resources on Mr Iqbal’s rescue.’
‘I bet he wouldn’t have complained if it was his arse I was saving!’
‘Aidan, I wouldn’t have ordered you to save his pompous arse.’
*
New York, USA
East opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a thin line of light spilling in from under the door. He tentatively sat up and removed the drip from his arm. The medical staff had ‘settled’ him for the night and, bar an emergency, wouldn’t be troubling him for several hours. This was his window, his chance. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the pain that was about to hit him, East swung his legs out of the bed and let his bare feet make contact with the linoleum. He shook as a wave of cold shot around his head before turning into a hot pain at his temples. He opened his eyes and gasped, but managed to grab the metal bedframe and push himself to his feet as the pain moved to the back of his head. He swayed for several seconds and, had the room been illuminated, would have noticed the edges of his vision grey out as he fought to remain conscious.
Once steady, East took a step towards the exit, then another and another, until he was certain he wouldn’t fall. He held his breath as he prized the door open a fraction of an inch. The light blinded him and made him nauseous. He stood stock-still until it passed and his vision adjusted. He opened the door further, looked left, and saw a corridor. Several other doors led off to what he imagined would be rooms like his; further along was a cleaning cart and then double doors at the end. The corridor led on to a junction – he didn’t know what was around the corner. Unable to turn his head with his neck alone, he swivelled his shoulders to the right and saw two empty chairs. Whoever had been guarding his door was gone.
Taking a deep breath, East edged out of his room and towards the cleaning cart. It contained supplies and spare towels. He picked up a towel and held it over his arm, as though he were looking for a shower room, and continued forward. He heard a door open somewhere behind him. He didn’t look back, but continued on, head throbbing as he tried to move faster. Just as he reached the double doors two large men in suits burst through them. Their eyes widened at the sight of the semi-naked man before them, the man they had been told to guard, the man who could not get out of bed. East saw the sidearms on both ‘suits’ and knew instantly they were there to guard him. Doing the only thing he could, he threw the towel. The first man automatically raised his arms to protect his face while the other took a half-step sideways. In the same instant, East moved forward and kicked the second man in the groin. Caught completely off-guard, suit two doubled up and dropped to the floor. Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain in his head, East reversed his momentum and stiff-elbowed the first man’s throat. With both men down, East grabbed the nearest suit’s sidearm and, struggling to remain conscious, pressed it into the man’s forehead. ‘Get up slowly and keep your hands above your head.’
Coughing, the suit pushed himself to his feet as his colleague continued to hold his throbbing genitals. East was about to speak again when a round impacted the door inches above his head, the repeat sounding like thunder in the enclosed space.
‘Put the gun on the floor, Mr East.’
Dizzy, East did as he was told and within seconds the suits had secured him.
Casey approached and holstered his Glock. ‘Very impressive, for a banker from Boston. Perhaps you were in ad-venture capital?’
‘Thanks.’ East’s vision had started to blur.
‘You OK, Beck?’ A grin creased Casey’s face.
‘Yes, Mr Casey, just hurt my pride, that’s all.’ The former Navy SEAL continued to massage his groin.
‘I’d get that seen to.’
‘He’s been asking the nurses to all day,’ Needham, the other suit and a former Delta, croaked.
‘Take Mr East back to his room. I’m gonna call the doc, Mr East, and have him give you a once-over. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
East tried to reply but blacked out.
*
East’s hospital bed had been raised, bringing him to a sitting position. Casey sat in a chair to one side, two manila folders resting on his lap. ‘Who are you, Mr East?’
‘Is that an existential question, Mr Casey?’
‘If you like.’
‘I’m an old soul in a young body.’
‘Cute. Who are you, Mr East?’
‘I’m an investment banker.’
Casey placed a folder on the bed. ‘Your legend is good, almost too perfect. James East from Boston who runs his own start-up investment consultancy based out of Yonkers. You’ve got some great recommendations from current clients, by the way. Where did you receive your combat training?’
East felt his pulse quicken. He was hooked up to monitoring equipment so could do nothing to hide it. ‘I’m a fan of the WWE.’
‘Yeah, that Undertaker.’ Casey didn’t hide his sarcasm. ‘James – I’ll still use that name for the moment – let’s not waste any more time. I know you’re not a banker, and possibly not even an American citizen. Now, I’m no fluent Russian speaker, but I understand enough to realise you probably are. Dr Litvin certainly believes so.’
‘I did a college course.’ East reached for a glass of water on his tray table and sipped.
‘I ran your prints through all our databases. I got one partial match. It was from an unsolved Interpol case. Would you like to take a look?’
‘Sure.’ He tried to stay calm.
‘Here.’ Casey handed him a folder.
East opened the dossier and saw a blurry surveillance photograph of himself at London’s Gatwick Airport. He turned the page to a report on the assassination of a British businessman named Bav Malik. It had several graphic images attached. East sped-read the document without showing any outward signs of emotion. After this came an image taken by a camera in an Austrian restaurant; this one was clearer and showed him wearing glasses and enjoying a drink with a beautiful woman. East felt his pulse race at the sight of her. He turned to another report. It was written in Ukrainian, a language he didn’t speak, and contained images of a second corpse – Jas Malik, Bav Malik’s son. East raised his eyes and saw an odd smile on Casey’s face.
‘I know what you are, but not who you are, James.’
‘What am I, Mr Casey?’
‘I think you are a contract killer. Possibly former Spetsnaz, gone freelance.’
‘Is that the official belief of the FBI?’
‘Did I say I was with the FBI?’
‘You didn’t say who you were with.’
‘Touché! I’m the only one who has this opinion, James. That’s why we’re having this conversation. You did a noble thing; you eliminated an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell – one we missed. You saved the lives of countless civilians.’
‘Do I get a medal?’
‘No medal, James. There are those who want to know more about you, the FBI included, and this file will come to light eventually. Unless I bury or lose it. I could potentially use someone like you, if you are what I think you are. I’m offering you a chance. I can protect you from all of this, the wolves here in the US, and Interpol, but in order to do that I need you to be honest with me. You are not James East. I need to know exactly who you are and what you were doing in New Jersey.’
East made a decision. ‘My name is Sergey Gorodetski, and I was shopping.’
There was a moment of silence as Casey held eye contact with Gorodetski before he replied. ‘The funny thing is, Sergey, I believe you. So, Russian or Russian speaker?’
‘Russian.’
Casey tapped the file with his index finger. ‘And so to this. Why did you assassinate these two British citizens?’
‘What guarantee do I have that you are not taping this? That you will not turn me over to the Feds for rendition to the UK?’
‘That’s a fair point.’ Casey took a Glock 19 from his jacket and placed it on the bedside table. He turned it so the grip was within the Russian’s reach. ‘Here, take it, it’s loaded. You have my trust, Sergey, and I hope I have yours.’
Gorodetski slowly reached for the gun and was surprised to see that Casey didn’t flinch. He aimed the sidearm at the American, felt the weight, and then carefully lowered it. ‘It’s loaded.’
‘I told you it was.’
‘I could have killed you.’
‘You still can, if you want. I’m a good judge of character, Sergey, and I know you won’t. Call me romantic – my ex-wife doesn’t – but I know who you are… on the inside. I can tell. You’re not a stone-cold killer. So enlighten me, ease my confusion, and tell me. Why did you assassinate that father and son, Jas and Bav Malik?’
‘I was of the belief they murdered my brother.’
Casey was surprised. ‘And did they?’
‘No.’ Gorodetski pushed the Glock back. ‘They were innocent. I murdered them. I am a killer. I deserve a bullet to the brain.’
‘I could shoot you, but I won’t. I think I can use you, if you agree.’
‘I agree.’
Casey smirked. ‘Tell me more; treat this as a confession, not to a policeman but to a priest. Why did you believe these two men killed your brother?’
Gorodetski took a breath and recounted what he had been told was the truth. ‘In 1989 my brother, Mikhail, was in the Red Army. His commanding officer said their unit was attacked by Mujahideen outside Kabul. Mikhail was wounded, captured, then tortured before being dismembered. Much later his CO told me he had found two of my brother’s killers. They were living respectable lives with British passports.’
‘Did you find the real murderer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Mikhail’s commanding officer.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Empty.’
‘I see.’
‘I was fooled, but that is no excuse. I executed two innocent men. There is not a night that goes by without me seeing their faces.’
‘We all make mistakes, Sergey – just ask my wife.’ Gorodetski scanned his fingers for a ring. There was none. ‘Exactly. Some mistakes are big, some small, and some monumental. I can give you a second chance, which no one else can; a chance to make a difference. Not many get that.’
‘Why should I believe you? You have thousands of SEALs or Delta or Rangers or Activity guys to choose from.’
‘Good question. I’m Agency. What I do, Sergey, is black – blacker than black. You could call it “Cold Black” – global counterterrorism. There are only four other men who know I have you, and one of those you kicked in the nuts. I get to choose my men, use Agency resources, and not get questioned. However, and this is where you come in, regardless of what you read in the press or see on WikiLeaks, we do not have unlimited resources – human or otherwise. In short, when the Cold War ended our threat radar was moved to point at the Middle East. Langley didn’t see a need for Soviet speakers, let alone native Russian-speaking operatives. But then Russia invaded Georgia, and then they annexed Crimea, and then they shot down a passenger jet while invading Eastern Ukraine. Langley made a mistake and I had a problem. I was thinking about how I could fix it when you appeared.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t go getting any grandiose ideas; it was coincidence not serendipity. Are you a patriot?’
‘To Russia?’
‘Who else?’
‘The people, yes. The country, perhaps. The Kremlin? No.’
‘That’s very good to hear, if you mean it. I need to assess you and, even if, after that, you were to pass, you’d be strictly on probation. Make a mistake or step out of line and this file gets updated and sent along with you on a one-way ticket to London. Or, failing that, perhaps I throw you in the nearest river; it all depends on whether I’ve had a bad day or not.’
Gorodetski allowed himself a half-smile. ‘You should work at the Army recruiting office.’
‘Who said I didn’t? Here is your first test – an act of good faith you could call it.’ Casey picked up the file containing the information on ‘James East’. ‘I need something for the FBI to, how can I put this, ease your transition into my custody and persuade me I’m not making a mistake with you.’
‘I understand.’
Casey tapped the file. ‘Who was responsible for your legend?’
Gorodetski frowned. ‘Responsible?’
‘Where did you get your false identity from?’
Gorodetski paused for a beat before he spoke. ‘Tim Bull. He’s a high-school science teacher in Miami and an old KGB asset.’
‘And he’s gone freelance?’
‘For the right price. He doesn’t like the current Russian President.’
‘Who does?’ Casey shrugged. ‘I’m going to need everything you have on him.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It wasn’t a request, Sergey.’
*
Sol-Iletsk, Russia
Penal colony No. 6 in the Urals town of Sol-Iletsk was known as ‘Black Dolphin’ and officially classified as a ‘final destination’ prison. It was one of five Russian facilities where criminals sentenced to death were held, but by far the most ominous. Inmates unlucky enough to be sent there had no chance of escape and, unofficially, no hope of parole. The Black Dolphin’s seven hundred inmates represented Russia’s most brutal criminals and included murderers, cannibals, rapists, paedophiles, and terrorists. One of the seven hundred was a Chechen, Aslan Kishiev. Sentenced to full life imprisonment for his part in terrorist attacks on Russian civilian targets, he was nicknamed ‘mini-Laden’. Kishiev had been the de-facto leader of the Islamic International Brigade ever since its founder, Shamil Basayev, had been killed in 2006. Kishiev had continued the jihad against Russia until he was finally betrayed by a close friend. Outraged at the manner in which he had been captured, at his trial Kishiev had openly vowed revenge by offering a bounty for the informer’s head. This, however, had only added to the charges levelled against him. To mock Kishiev further, the Prosecutor General ensured the weasel gave evidence no more than ten feet away from where he stood. Found guilty on all twenty-three breaches of the Russian penal code, which included murder, torture, hostage-taking, illegal arms trading, terrorism, and armed rebellion, he had then learnt of his fate. Kishiev would live out the rest of his days at the notorious Black Dolphin, where he would be monitored twenty-four hours a day, forced to sleep with bright overhead lights switched on, and, from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. every day, forbidden to sit on his bed. He would be liable to be checked every fifteen minutes by a passing guard and would live in complete isolation from the outside world. The Prosecutor General closed proceedings by stating that Kishiev would not be a martyr, he would simply be ‘forgotten’.
It had been a bitterly cold February afternoon in 2011 when Kishiev had arrived at his new home. Blindfolded with a black hood, he and the other new arrivals were made to walk from the prison truck to their cells, past a line of guard dogs barking viciously in their ears. Unable to see even his own feet, he had no idea if the dogs were on leads or if they would attack without warning. Once in his cell, a fifteen-day ‘educational introduction’ to his new life at Black Dolphin, a life that had been described as ‘death in instalments’, commenced. Each of the inmates of Black Dolphin had killed an average of five people; Kishiev, many more. The exact number of deaths his group were responsible for had never been truly calculated. He had been treated as a terrorist, but Kishiev saw himself as a soldier for Allah, a believer whose pacifist soul had been torn away, destroyed when his lands and faith had been mercilessly attacked by Russia. But as a terrorist, he had been thrown in with the worst filth Russia had to offer. He was forced to share a four-and-a-half-metre-square cell with a man from Murmansk convicted of cannibalism, a crime he hadn’t known still existed. Locked away in a cell within a cell, behind three sets of steel doors, it was a bleak, isolated, and hopeless existence.
As the roll call started for cell #174, both convicts adopted the ‘position’. Bending double they approached their inner cell door backwards, arms out to their sides with palms upturned, heads tilted up with their eyes closed and mouths open. The position made it impossible to move with any speed or launch an attack. It also made them look ridiculous. The prisoners in turn stated their full names, before two guards took a prisoner each and handcuffed them. Once done, each inmate was grabbed by the neck and pushed out into the corridor. They were then made to stand in a stress position holding their handcuffed arms above their heads, leaning forward with their foreheads against the wall. Kishiev heard two more guards enter his cell to commence the daily search and check protocol, while, no more than a metre away, he could feel the hot breath of an Alsatian pulling at its lead. Eyes shut until ordered to open them, Kishiev’s day had started again.
The man in charge of Black Dolphin, Lieutenant Guard Grigori Zontov, stood with his men outside Kishiev’s cell. It was exactly 6 a.m. It was his routine; he insisted on being present for morning inspection and roll call. Today, however, was not normal: they had a visitor. To be more specific, Kishiev had a visitor, something that was unheard of. A man from the FSB awaited them in Zontov’s office. The visitor had orders, from the Russian President no less, that he be granted immediate access to the Chechen.
‘Cell 174 at ease.’ Zontov studied the human detritus before him with unhidden disgust.
‘Yes, sir,’ Kishiev and Rasatkin, the cannibal, replied in unison. It was an order to open their eyes, but not to relax the stress position.
‘Do you have any forbidden items?’
‘No, sir.’ Without being ordered to, the men opened their jaws and stuck out their tongues while their mouths were searched for any concealed items.
Zontov had no sympathy for the pathetic pair of animals in front of him; to call them humans made his tongue curl. When the search of the cell was completed, he ordered ‘Convict Rasatkin’ back inside while his men placed a black hood over Kishiev’s head. As he was taken under the arms and led away, Zontov felt no need to inform the Chechen of the reason why he was now being separated from the other inmates. After five minutes of twists and turns, in silence except for the heavy breathing of the guard dog at his heels, the hood was removed. Kishiev squinted and, to his surprise, found he was in an office. Zontov quickly closed the blinds and switched on the light; he didn’t want his prisoner to have any idea where the office was located in the prison or to see the daylight outside.
The man at the table dismissed Zontov in a cursory manner. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’
‘I must stay here; it is what the regulations state.’
‘You will leave the room now, Lieutenant Guard Zontov. This is what I state.’
Zontov bristled. It was his office, his prison, his command. But the man sitting in his chair, at his desk, had a letter which carried the presidential seal. ‘Very well.’
Kishiev showed no outward sign of emotion but inside praised Allah as he started to realise his insurance policy might have been banked.
The man facing him wore an expensive suit and had a Moscow accent. ‘I had hoped you were already dead, Kishiev.’
The Chechen’s eyes burnt with hatred as he recognised the man seated behind the desk. It was the same FSB officer who had liquidated his brother Chechens and carried out a personal crusade against him. ‘Strelkov.’
‘There has been an explosion on the Moscow metro system. Many Russians have been killed and a further number wounded. Your group has claimed responsibility.’
Kishiev noticed a calendar on the wall with a red indicator showing the date. ‘That is because they are responsible.’
‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’
‘This is only the first. There will be a further attack tomorrow and then again in three days.’
‘You will give me the details of the planned attacks in order for them to be halted.’
‘No.’
‘I do not think that you quite understand my position, Kishiev. I report directly to the Director of the FSB.’
‘And I take my direction from Allah, peace be upon Him.’ Strelkov’s rank and title meant nothing to him. What was important was what he could offer.
Strelkov’s nostrils flared above his neat moustache. ‘You will give me the information I want or face the consequences.’
‘Shoot me.’ Death would be a welcome release from the monotony of his current existence.
‘I knew you would be unreasonable,’ Strelkov stated smoothly. ‘We are holding your wife and child. Unless I get the information I require their lives will become very uncomfortable.’
Rage flashed across Kishiev’s eyes, then fear tugged at his chest. His family had been hidden, had been living well away from Chechnya in Abkhazia. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Strelkov held up a photograph of a woman and young girl standing with two masked FSB commandos. ‘We found them in Sukhumi, enjoying the sea air.’
Kishiev’s jaw hardened. ‘I shall never leave this place or see them again, so I must accept that they are dead to me.’
‘If you would like to see them dead that can be arranged. Shall I bring you another photograph showing just that?’ He raised his voice. ‘Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for the death of your wife, of your own daughter?’
Kishiev noticed a vein in Strelkov’s neck throb. ‘What do I get if I speak?’
‘A guarantee that your family will not be harmed.’
Kishiev shook his head slowly. ‘No. What you will do is release me from here and reunite me with my family.’
‘That is not possible. Now tell me about the next attack.’
‘Those are my terms.’
‘You are in no position to demand terms!’
‘Then the attacks will take place, and the Great Sheik Al-Mujahid will hear of them and declare me a true warrior for Islam. He will proclaim that, even though I am in your most secure prison, I am still waging jihad, that I cannot be stopped! Allahu Akbar!’
Strelkov’s sneer returned. ‘By “Great Sheik” I take it you mean “Bin Laden”?’
‘He who is all powerful, the Lion Sheik. The infidels tremble at his name.’
‘Your Lion Sheik became a lamb to the slaughter. Bin Laden was captured by the Americans on the 2nd of May 2011. They executed him and tossed his body into the sea.’
Kishiev felt his jaw slacken and his mouth drop open. He had spent more than a decade training in Afghanistan, meeting and conversing with Bin Laden freely on several occasions. As a highly placed commander of an Al-Qaeda affiliated group, he was one of the few who had been privy to discussions on planning. ‘You are lying. The Americans will never find the Sheik. He is a great warrior and moves as the wind.’
‘He was living in Abbottabad, Pakistan. He was not living like a warrior, but like an old woman.’
There was a silence. Kishiev tried to read Strelkov’s face. He could see that the intelligence officer was too conceited to hide the satisfaction he was getting from informing Kishiev of the news. He was too smug to be telling lies. Kishiev let himself smile and then laugh. He laughed hard until it turned into an uncontrollable cough. Strelkov did not understand. Kishiev recovered and spoke. ‘If that is the case you have truly lost. The Hand of Allah shall be released and your capital cities shall burn to the ground!’
Strelkov shook his head dismissively. ‘Enough of your religious rhetoric. Bin Laden is dead and so is your cause.’
‘You speak of rhetoric; I speak of a real weapon.’ Kishiev saw little point in keeping it a secret any longer. ‘The Hand of Allah is a nuclear device. The Lion Sheik ordered it be deployed after his death.’ His laugh returned, only this time harder than ever.
The man from the FSB was stunned. Had Al-Qaeda finally got its hands on nuclear material? Was the Chechen lying? ‘What do you know of this device?’
‘I know that it is a suitcase bomb, and I know its designation. I am extremely surprised that it has not already been detonated, but then perhaps the timing is the surprise?’
‘Where is it?’ Strelkov replied too quickly.
‘What will you give me?’
Strelkov scrutinised the terrorist’s face. This was a ploy, he was sure, a ploy to gain his freedom. It had to be a fabrication. But what if he were telling the truth? What if one of the world’s deadliest weapons had fallen into the hands of Islamic terrorists? Strelkov had led raids against the terrorists in Afghanistan, in Chechnya, and in Dagestan. Rooting out and apprehending Muslim extremists had been the focus of his career, and he had won. But had they now achieved the impossible? Strelkov started to feel his heart beat faster and had to breathe deeper to control his rising fear. All the while the Chechen laughed at him like a circus clown, yet he had to take the statement seriously. ‘What is the designation of the weapon?’
Kishiev became serious. He had a memory for numbers and specifications and had wanted to be an engineer before becoming a Mujahideen, before discovering a love for weaponry and the technology of weaponry. He knew how to dismantle, clean and repair any number of firearms and had created very effective IEDs. ‘The designation of the device that I know of is RA-115A.’
Strelkov felt his blood chill and for a moment could not speak. What felt like a lifetime ago, when his employer had been known as the KGB, he had been assigned to a guard unit protecting the perimeter of a military base. Within the base had been a weapons-testing facility. He had never actually seen the device, or known where or if it had been developed, but talk among his unit, who met with other guard units at sporting events, was that a new type of atomic weapon called the RA had been created that was both deadly and portable.
‘Where is it?’ Strelkov demanded.
Kishiev remained silent.
Enraged, Strelkov leapt from the table and backhanded the Chechen across the face.
Kishiev slipped sideways and fell onto the floor. In his weakened state, after three plus years in prison, the once fearsome warrior could not fight back. He tasted blood in his mouth as he spoke. ‘I know of the plans, the route it may take. I will tell you in return for my freedom.’
Strelkov rushed out of the door. He already had his phone to his ear as two of Zontov’s men entered to secure the prisoner. Strelkov speed-dialled the FSB number, but it would not connect. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it before yelling at Zontov. ‘Why is there no signal?’
‘There is no signal for security reasons, Comrade.’ It humoured Lieutenant Guard Zontov to see the self-important FSB agent lose control.
‘What? Where can I get a signal?’
Zontov inclined his head. ‘Two kilometres in that direction, I believe.’
Strelkov balled his fists, his knuckles turning white. ‘Where is the nearest landline?’
‘Back there, in my office.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘It is a telephone in my secure office.’
‘That is not what I meant!’ Strelkov snapped, turned on his heels, and went back inside. He picked up the desk phone and was about to make a call when he noticed that Kishiev was still in the room, standing between the two guards. ‘Take that outside and wait.’
The room empty, Strelkov lifted the handset to make a call to Moscow but then hesitated. Moscow was almost sixteen hundred kilometres away and two hours behind Sol-Iletsk. He checked his wristwatch; it was almost a quarter to seven, which meant it would be a quarter to five in the morning in his Director’s Moscow mansion. Strelkov sighed, shook his head, and called his chief, Director Nevsky, on his mobile phone. It rang out to voicemail. Strelkov ended the call and immediately redialled. This time it was answered on the fourth ring by a slumber-thickened voice. Strelkov took a breath and explained what he had been told by the Chechen.
Several more time zones away at the headquarters of the NSA in Fort Meade, an analyst grabbed hold of his desk to stop himself falling from his chair. The Echelon system had picked up a phone call to a flagged and secure number, but, unusually, the caller was using an unsecured landline. This was surprising, but what was explosive were the keywords it had picked up on: Al-Qaeda… nuclear device… detonate… Western city… Hand of Allah…
Chapter 3 (#ulink_08b8953a-c192-5a90-93ce-c1d7147a2f56)
Mashhad, Iran
At the town of Herat, the group of six Holy Warriors were met without incident by their Iranian smuggler. A man well known to the guards on both sides of the border, he received his orders from an Egyptian, who since October 2001 had lived in Iran, immune to US attacks, and continued to serve as head of Al-Qaeda’s security committee. The truck was used officially for cross-border trade, and unofficially to funnel foreign fighters through Iran. The relationship between Al-Qaeda and Iran was a complicated one, but one that for the moment favoured Mohammed Tariq and his team. At the Iranian border they were waved through after a perfunctory check while other potential Afghani migrants were hauled from trucks and beaten. Those who attempted to make a run for it were shot. Unlike the ‘soft’ borders of the EU, the Iranian guards were authorised to use lethal force to protect their beloved country from any undesirable visitors.
Tariq tried to settle his mind. In the semi-darkness of the truck he peered at his five men, all of whom had taken his advice and succumbed to sleep. He, however, could not. Although their route into, through, and out of Iran had been specifically selected by the late Sheik and the management council, Tariq couldn’t get rid of the feeling that at any moment they might be ambushed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. However, he didn’t let his fears show when his men were conscious; he was the leader of a holy mission and, as such, had to remain resolute about their chances of success. He stroked the case as though it were a pet, oblivious to the potential oblivion its contents could bring. Eventually, fatigue triumphed over fear and he fell into a fitful sleep only to be awoken what felt like minutes later by the truck’s tyres crunching loudly on gravel.
In front of him, Reza Khan was the first to react; he sat up with a start and reached for his knife. By the time the back of the truck had been opened all six men were awake and alert. The driver informed them that they had arrived in the holy town of Mashhad. They hopped down to find themselves in the courtyard of a large villa. Above, the sky was a piercing blue and a slight breeze lightened the midday heat. This was the residence of Yassin al-Suri, the Al-Qaeda facilitator who, granted some leeway by Tehran, was permitted to operate discreetly within the country. This included collecting money from donors, to be transferred to Al-Qaeda’s leadership in Pakistan, and facilitating the travel of recruits from the Gulf States to Pakistan and Afghanistan. Dressed in a grey, tailored suit, with neatly cropped hair that, if longer, would be curly, al-Suri resembled a banker not a terrorist. Yet he was both. He was one of only three men to know the true nature of the case Tariq carried. Any more would lead to security leaks and the mission being compromised. He was on hand to personally oversee their operation and grease palms. This was the highest-risk Al-Qaeda operation in history, surpassing even the New York attacks, for not only the infidels but the Iranians, too, would give anything to possess the device Tariq carried. ‘Welcome, brothers!’ Al-Suri held his arms wide to encompass the villa behind as he greeted them.
Tariq kissed al-Suri on both cheeks and introduced his team: Reza Khan, Sharib Quyeum, Ashgollah Ahmadi, Lall Mohammad, and Abdul Shinare. All of them were proven fighters, devotees to the cause, and resourceful. ‘Is everything in place?’
The edges of al-Suri’s mouth curled up. ‘Everything. Now let us eat. Tomorrow you shall continue on your path to martyrdom.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
‘Yes, my brother, Insha’Allah.’ Al-Suri’s eyes wandered to the case. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I hold it?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Do not let it out of your sight and do not let anyone take it from you. Now let us all go inside. You must wash and then eat.’
Tariq beckoned to his men. ‘Come.’
New York, USA
‘This is most irregular.’ Dr Litvin glared at Needham and Beck, arms folded defiantly.
Needham shrugged as though he had no choice in the matter. ‘I understand, Doctor, but it’s in the best interests of national security that Mr East be moved to a secure facility.’
‘This is against my medical opinion. There are further tests that need to be carried out.’
‘Rest assured they will be, Doctor. Our medical staff consists entirely of experienced specialists.’
‘Really?’ His nose had been put out of joint. ‘What is the name of the medical institution he’s being transferred to?’
‘I can’t reveal that, for reasons of national security, but he’ll be well cared for.’
‘Mr East, what is it that you want? Do you agree to be transferred?’
Gorodetski looked from one man to the other. ‘I think it is best that I do go with them. Yes.’
Litvin shook his head slowly. ‘Very well. Mr East, you have made a swift recovery thus far, but I warn you, head injuries are a very delicate area. Certain symptoms may be delayed in their onset for days after the time of injury. You may start to experience problems concentrating, have memory lapses, become irritable, unable to sleep, or be hypersensitive to light and noise. You mustn’t overexert yourself, and if you start to suffer from any of these symptoms you must immediately report this. Do I make myself clear?’
Gorodetski nodded and was rewarded with a jolt of pain behind his eyes.
‘Goodbye then, or as we say in Russian: Dasvidaniya.’ Litvin held out his hand.
Gorodetski took it and replied in Russian. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your care and advice. I did appreciate it. Until we meet again, all the best.’
Litvin beamed at hearing native Russian. ‘Moscow?’
‘Tula.’
‘Ah. Tula once had a hearing aid factory. Take care, my friend from Tula, and I mean that.’
*
Beck and Needham flanked Gorodetski as they entered the underground car park. Gorodetski felt unsteady on his feet but refused to let it show. Needham pointed his remote at a black Cadillac Escalade; the lights blinked to confirm the alarm had been disabled and that they could now open the doors.
Gorodetski glanced up at Beck as the taller man opened the sliding door. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
‘Not for a week, according to one of the nurses.’ His face was unsmiling, but the eyes betrayed it wasn’t an issue.
‘Live by the pork sword, die by the pork sword,’ Needham added as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
On pulling out of the parking lot both operatives automatically scanned for possible threats. The NY traffic was heavy, but eventually gave way to the emptier roads of New Jersey.
‘It’s gonna be a while yet, James, I’d get some shut-eye if I were you.’ Needham didn’t know Gorodetski’s real name, and nor did the rest of Casey’s team. ‘Sleep when you can, eat when you can, remember?’
‘Yeah, I remember.’ It was a Special Forces motto the world over. Gorodetski needed no encouragement; the cocktail Litvin had administered already had him nodding.
*
Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
As one of the last units to leave Camp Bastion, Captain Mike Webster of the British Army Intelligence Corps had started to become bored with his posting. The frantic activity that had followed the target acquisition and execution of the Bin Laden kill/capture mission had long gone. There had been some infighting between rival groups, with splinter cells forming new alliances as their leaders vied to replace the late Saudi ‘Sheik’, but now, in Afghanistan at least, there was an eerie silence from Al-Qaeda. The West had turned its attention to the new threat: Islamic State, or IS, as British Intelligence officially called the new organisation. For their part, neither Al-Qaeda nor the Taliban had conducted any major attacks since the announcement that Camp Bastion was to close and ISAF were to pull out of Afghanistan. It was as though they were collectively holding their breath until Bastion’s decommissioning had become a reality. Regardless of the lull in hostilities, Webster was sure that some very fanatical men somewhere were planning the next 9/11. It wasn’t a matter of if – it was when. He supped his regulation milky tea and studied the US drone surveillance photographs. The most exciting things he had seen in months were the images in front of him. Known players in the Pakistani Taliban had been followed crossing into Afghanistan where they were recorded meeting local Afghani ‘Talibs’ and suspected members of Al-Qaeda. In Webster’s opinion, the group posed a perfect target for a hellfire missile, but someone high up, undoubtedly American, had decided to let it play out, to see what the ‘men in black turbans’ were up to. Webster shifted the photographs to one side and sighed. His room was stuffy and he was tired. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift… He was suddenly on a beach with his wife, sipping rum as the sun set. He could taste the alcohol and feel the warmth of his wife’s lips…
‘Captain Webster.’
Eyes snapping open, embarrassed, he looked up. ‘Just thinking with my eyes closed. What is it?’
Corporal Ian McAdam seemed a bit uneasy. ‘We’re holding a… er… local who wants to meet with a member of British Intelligence.’ It wasn’t an unusual request. Every Tom, Dick, or Halib thought they had vital intelligence, especially when rumours circulated about large cash rewards. What was unusual, however, was that Webster was being bothered. McAdam met his superior’s eyes. ‘This one is a bit different.’
‘How so?’
‘He says he’s Russian.’
‘Russian?’
‘Soviet Red Army, sir.’
Webster raised his eyebrows. An unknown number of former Red Army soldiers had remained in Afghanistan after the Soviets had withdrawn. A few had been prisoners of war, others deserters who had gone native, and some bandits who attempted to make money in the ‘Wild East’ as the Soviet Union had crumbled. He, however, had yet to meet one.
McAdam held out his hand. ‘He was carrying this.’
Webster narrowed his eyes. Puzzled, he studied the sheet of paper. It seemed to be some type of technical diagram. It was handwritten and contained words in Cyrillic. ‘OK, lead on, Macduff.’
‘McAdam, sir.’
Webster sighed. ‘I know.’
McAdam led the way out of the dark seclusion of Webster’s office into the dusty, blinding Afghan daylight and to an area designated for ‘interviews’. Both buildings reminded Webster of a Star Wars set. Two armed squaddies had been placed, as a precaution, on sentry at the entrance. They saluted; Webster returned it and entered the room.
His guest was sitting with his arms folded and a hardness in his eyes. He was not to be intimidated. When the man spoke there was a recognisable Russian accent. ‘You are Military Intelligence?’
‘You can talk to me, Mr…’
‘Then that is a “yes”? My name is Mikhail. I have valuable intelligence that you must pass on to your superiors in London.’
Webster kept his game face on. ‘What would that be?’
Mikhail had no time for small talk. ‘Al-Qaeda has an atomic weapon.’
‘What?’ Had Webster heard him correctly?
‘Al-Qaeda has an atomic weapon. I brought it into this country in 1989. It is an RA-115A and is the size of a suitcase. The paper I have given you details the technical schematics of the device.’
Webster tried not to smile. It was best to humour the loonies, not make fun of them. He’d let ‘Mikhail’ talk and pretend to take notes. ‘So you’re saying that the Red Army brought nuclear material into Afghanistan in the Eighties?’
‘That is correct. I was a lieutenant in the Spetsnaz. I was assigned a classified order to bring certain weapons into theatre. I was to maintain them until they were needed.’
‘How many?’
‘How many nuclear devices?’
‘Yes.’
‘I personally had one such device. There may have been more in other bases that I was unaware of.’
Webster stared at the paper. He neither spoke nor read Russian, if that was indeed what he was looking at, but the more he studied the diagram, the more something started to niggle him; the more he started to feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Mikhail wasn’t mental. What if this was real? ‘How did you come across this document?’
‘I created it myself.’
‘From what?’
‘From memory. I have perfect recall. What do you call it, “photograph memory”?’
‘Photographic memory.’
‘Yes. I was trained in how to use the device, how to maintain, and also, if necessary, adjust it. As such I saw the inner workings. If you have a basic technical knowledge it is really not complicated.’
Webster remained silent and studied the paper again. It meant nothing to him. He could see the shape of a case with a tube and several small boxes inside it, but that was as far as his technical understanding went. ‘Mr Mikhail…’
‘Just Mikhail.’
‘Mikhail, this is of course a very serious accusation and one I will have to check the validity of before I take it further.’
‘You do not believe me; you think I am a crazy man? Perhaps I am crazy to stay in Afghanistan, but I am not crazy enough to let terrorists detonate an atomic weapon.’
Webster noted Mikhail’s unblinking eyes; there was still no reason to believe this was anything more than the imaginings of a heat-crazed Russian deserter. It wasn’t his area of interest, but surely the notion that such suitcase nukes existed was one of fiction? ‘Where exactly is the weapon?’
‘Exactly, I do not know. Roughly? It is on its way to Europe, via Iran.’
‘And what is the target?’
Mikhail shrugged. ‘If I knew that I would have told you. I do not want a nuclear bomb to go off, anywhere.’
‘Then why did you give the bomb to Al-Qaeda?’
‘I did not give it to anyone. I had been hiding it away from the world. The terrorists took it and have decided to use it, and I have decided to tell you so you can stop them.’
Webster was confused. ‘Why have you not informed ISAF before? Are you a member of the Taliban, Mr Mikhail, or perhaps Al-Qaeda?’
‘I am a Muslim. These people of Afghanistan are now my people. I had no reason to believe that the device would be discovered.’
Webster pursed his lips. The idea that the bomb existed was wild enough, but the idea that, if it did, Mikhail could have at any time prevented its being taken or alerted ISAF but didn’t was beyond him. But he couldn’t waste any time on this now. What he had to do was report back to London just in case there was a shred of truth in what the Russian was telling him. ‘Tell me everything about this weapon.’
‘This of course I am happy to tell you, but in return I want safe passage out of Afghanistan.’
‘Back to Russia?’
‘No. I want to go to the UK.’
So that was his angle, the real reason why the Russian was sitting opposite him. He wanted to escape Afghanistan? ‘I don’t know if that’s possible.’
‘Of course it is,’ Mikhail said slowly. ‘There is a bomb heading for Europe and I know who has it. What information do you need from me to confirm that I am telling you the truth?’
Webster rattled off a stream of questions. ‘I need your full name, the location of where you say the device was stored, the names of the men who took it, the names of the men who now have it, the name of your unit and where it was based, the name of your commanding officer, the name that was given to your operation, your…’
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Alex Shaw
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: The clock is ticking. Will Aidan Snow be able to save the world…again?In Ukraine, MI6 operative Aidan Snow rescues a British national held by Russian insurgents.In the United States, a terrorist attack is thwarted by a man who does not exist.In Russia, a notorious Chechen terrorist escapes from the nation′s most secure prisonIn Afghanistan, a Red Army soldier long given up for dead delivers a chilling message: Al-Qaeda has an RA-115A.As the connection between these separate events begins to become clearer, MI6 and the CIA must attempt to prevent the world′s first act of nuclear terrorism.Aidan Snow faces his biggest challenge yet, and if he fails, thousands will be incinerated.The clock is ticking. And you never know who you can trust.Praise for Alex Shaw:‘Meet Aidan Snow, an ice-cold operative in a red-hot adventure’ Stephen Leather‘Sizzles across the page like a flame on a short fuse!’ Matt Hilton‘A perfect blend of spy fiction and political thriller’ Matt LynnReaders love the Aidan Snow books:‘A superb, pulse-racing read’ Online reviewer‘Exciting and fast-paced’ Online reviewer‘Immensely enjoyable and tightly written’ Online reviewer