Traitors Read online

  ‘Try to stop me.’

  ‘Now, that is the spirit!’ Vasilev exclaimed. ‘So tell me, just to refresh my memory, what were you doing in Donetsk?’

  Iqbal let out a long breath. ‘I was, I still am, a medical student.’

  ‘Why did you stay when so many other foreign students left the city?’

  Iqbal opened his mouth to speak but then didn’t.

  Vasilev thought it was as if he didn’t know quite what to say. ‘If I had asked you this a month before I think you would have answered automatically? Isn’t that right? You would have informed me that you were here, in Donetsk because you love Tanya.’ Vasilev paused and studied the young Briton’s face. ‘Now I think you are not so sure.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Really? There is nothing to be gained by lying to me. The days of isolation have sharpened the doubts at the back of your mind. Those which told you the relationship with Tanya would never last, that she was only with you because you were a foreigner and her ticket out of the country. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘It’s not.’

  Vasilev smiled thinly; he could see he was making progress. He had not planted a seed, rather the green shoots of paranoia had already started to push through to the surface. ‘Oh, come now, I understand. Part of you feels ashamed for thinking about Tanya in this way, yet another part of you does not. And, you wonder, where is she now? What is she doing? Is she alone? Is she safe?’

  ‘You leave her out of this! And you leave her alone!’

  ‘Me? I have no intention of going anywhere near the lady. I cannot, however, say the same for the other men you have met. They are – how can I best put it? – unrestrained by the expectations of polite society.’

  ‘Please.’ There was now a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘She has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘This what, Mohammed? What is it she has nothing to do with?’

  ‘I stayed in Donetsk because I wanted to complete my course,’ Iqbal replied.

  ‘You are protecting your girlfriend, which is gallant of you.’ Iqbal’s eyes widened. ‘You see, I am not like the other men you spoke to before. I am a professional who is merely doing his job. As such, I know what you are thinking. I can read your mind.’

  Iqbal stared at the floor. Vasilev fell silent. Was the student more than he claimed to be? How could a mere medical student, whose mind he knew he should be able to control, resist in such a manner? He took a deep breath and forced himself to sigh, as though he were growing bored by the conversation.

  ‘So this is the issue with your story: I do not believe you. I think that you have been asked to remain here by British Intelligence.’

  ‘That’s not true. I came here to become a surgeon, not a spy.’

  ‘You are very clever. Very clever indeed, but I know you are lying. I have proof. Your passport was found on the body of a dead Ukrainian soldier.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you explain this?’

  ‘No.’ Iqbal’s face now displayed fear. ‘My passport was in my apartment.’

  Vasilev spoke again, interrupting his train of thought. ‘It looked like a new passport.’

  ‘My passport was new; I got it to come here.’

  ‘Issued by British Intelligence?’

  ‘No … the UK passport agency.’

  ‘Why was it found on the body of a dead Ukrainian soldier?’ It hadn’t been; Vasilev had made up the story.

  ‘How do I know? I’ve been kept cooped up here!’

  Vasilev bobbed his head; glad he’d made the student angry. He would keep pushing and perhaps Iqbal would slip up. He would use words for now; he didn’t want to get physical just yet. He decided to tell another lie and assess the response. ‘There was a second passport too with your photograph on it but using a different name. I think they were bringing you a new passport to enable you to assume a new identity.’

  Iqbal didn’t reply.

  ‘Why don’t you admit your guilt? Admit that you are a British spy?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you I’m not?’

  ‘Until I believe you.’ Vasilev took a new cigarette from his pack and his Zippo lighter from his jacket pocket. ‘You keep talking to me until I believe you.’

  Izvarine border checkpoint, Russia–Ukraine border

  Racine was impatient. The convoy had yet to set off. Weller stood by her side like a stray puppy. No she changed her assessment – compared to the burly soldiers around him, he was more like the runt of a litter. A thin smile parted her lips.

  ‘It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?’ Weller said.

  ‘It is,’ Racine replied, although she didn’t understand what he meant.

  ‘I mean,’ he continued, ‘to see all the hard work and frankly love that has gone into this aid convoy is … well, it’s something.’

  ‘It is something,’ Racine said, now trying to keep a straight face in light of Weller’s blind stupidity.

  They both stood watching the Russian soldiers making final preparations to move the convoy. Racine knew she would not have a better time to subtly question Weller about what the DNR were doing to stop Ukrainian saboteurs from infiltrating Donetsk. It could, after all, help her escape the place herself.

  She began to talk, to ask careful questions, and she didn’t have to wait long before Weller started to boast about how he had seen suspected spies and foreign mercenaries interrogated. According to him, there were several secret interrogation centres around the city, which neither the Ukrainian government forces nor the OSCE knew about. ‘How can the OSCE ask for an exchange of prisoners if they don’t know these special prisoners exist?’ he quipped.

  ‘Who interrogates these special prisoners?’ Racine asked as she nodded at two Russian soldiers who passed, heading for a truck further up the column.

  ‘Experts from Russia. It used to be the DNR – you know … our guys on the ground.’ Weller used the phrase ‘our guys’ a lot when he spoke about the members of the DNR, which Racine felt was strange both for a journalist and a British national. ‘They were, er, not the best at asking questions, so some specialists were brought in; you know … retired FSB and GRU types.’

  ‘Have you been to any of these interrogation centres?’

  Weller looked around the car park before he replied. ‘I’m not meant to talk about this, but yes I have. I went to one place where they were questioning a DGSE sleeper.’

  Racine tried not to react at the mention of her employer. She frowned and pretended not to understand the term. ‘DGSE sleeper?’

  ‘You know, a deep-cover agent for the French intelligence service – someone who had been in Donetsk for ages pretending to be someone else.’

  She let her eyebrows theatrically shoot skywards. ‘How did they know he was a DGSE agent?’

  ‘One of the reasons specialists were brought in was because they couldn’t prove it, even though he spoke French. He was a lawyer working at the prosecutor’s office. Anyway, the new specialist “Raduga” let him go, just to see where he went. Where do you suppose he ran to when they let him go?’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Exactly; he hightailed it to Kyiv and then jumped on a plane to Paris!’

  ‘So, the man was French?’

  ‘No.’ Weller frowned. ‘He was a Ukrainian. He was spying for the French. That proved it.’

  ‘I see.’ Racine knew Weller’s reasoning was flawed, but pretended to approve nonetheless.

  ‘And who do you think they brought in when they failed to spot a French spy? A French spy catcher!’

  Racine felt her pulse quicken. She consciously reached out her hand and touched Weller’s arm, a move she knew would ensure his confidence. ‘A French, spy catcher?’

  ‘Yeah, can you believe it? Raduga was a former DGSE agent who was really a Russian sleeper!’ Weller’s eyes bulged even more than normal, and his smile was so wide it seemed to split his face in two. ‘How ironic yeah? I mean, it’s all a bit Tom Clancy around
here!’

  ‘Wow,’ Racine said, theatrically. ‘I would love to go to one of those centres and report on the very important work done there.’ She touched his arm again. ‘We could go together. It would make great copy for me and great TV for you if we managed to film a foreign spy!’

  ‘I like the way you think, Olena! Let’s do it! Look—’ Weller moved closer to her ‘—it doesn’t make much sense both of us driving to the same place. Why don’t you leave your car here and ride with me? We could have some fun!’

  Racine understood from the expression on his face that Weller’s idea of fun would involve nudity. ‘That is a nice idea, but I feel safer driving myself, having my own space.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘But we are going to the same place.’

  Weller tried to shrug it off by stroking the roof of his car. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Besides, there wouldn’t be much room for your stuff, my stuff, and my cameraman.’

  ‘Where is he, your cameraman?’ She’d yet to see his work colleague.

  ‘Oh,’ Weller replied, ‘he’s probably chatting to his old mates. He’s ex-Russian army, you know; a real tough guy and pretty handy with a gun as well as a camera.’

  ‘That is good.’ Racine now understood: Weller’s cameraman was also his babysitter.

  ‘It is. I feel very safe.’

  *

  Two hours later Racine was driving directly behind Weller. A large man, presumably Weller’s cameraman, sat in the front passenger seat. The car – a UK-registered, British racing green MG ZT – was Weller’s pride and joy. Racine hadn’t asked him why; yet Weller had explained to her how he’d driven the old sports saloon across Europe on a publicity run. The aid convoys were another publicity tool. Russian officials claiming that each truck contained essential supplies for the civilian population of the Donbas region, whereas the real contents were mainly weapons and ammunition for the Russian army and its proxies. Of course the few trucks that were opened to have their contents filmed for the press did contain blankets, food, and water.

  The attack had lost the convoy two hours and seven of the sixty white-painted Kamaz trucks. Whoever had supplied the attackers with their intelligence had done a great job as it was those exact seven trucks that had contained the majority of the RPGs and ordnance for the heavy weapons. The burnt-out carcasses of the vehicles had been left where they sat or simply pushed to one side by several armoured personnel carriers. Racine did not know how many Russian soldiers had died in the attack and no one else was discussing casualties.

  After refuelling in the eastern outskirts of Lugansk, Racine continued to follow Weller’s car and four uneventful hours later – eight after they had set off – the convoy came to a halt at a DNR checkpoint in the late afternoon sunshine.

  Weller climbed out of his car and tapped on Racine’s window. She turned off the engine and joined him on the grass verge. ‘Here we are, the heart of the Donbas … Donetsk.’

  They were on a slight rise overlooking the city’s eastern suburbs. This side of the city had been hit by far fewer shells than the west and, if it had not been for the presence of all the white-painted trucks stretching out in front of her, the scene would have been almost idyllic.

  Weller gestured towards the city with his right hand. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Racine had to agree. With the autumnal trees blurring the hard edges of the Soviet architecture, the industrial city looked almost inviting … almost. ‘It is, but I am scared.’

  Weller put his left hand on her shoulder. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Being shot.’

  Weller laughed. ‘It’s as safe as houses, especially now that our guys are running things. Have you never been to Donetsk before?’

  ‘No.’ To the best of her knowledge Olena Gaeva had never been to the Donbas. ‘But friends have told me I should. So, what happens now?’

  Weller pointed down the road at the men in combat fatigues talking to one of the truck drivers. ‘The local DNR chief needs to sign a paper before the convoy will carry on to its final destination to distribute the aid. Some of it will go further into the city and the rest will go to a distribution centre.’

  ‘Where is Strelkov?’

  ‘He’ll have driven straight on to the presidential office. Don’t worry; he’ll call you to arrange your interview time. He did the same with me. He always knows where you are. It’s reassuring.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ This worked much better for Racine; it would save time. ‘When can we go to one of the secret interrogation centres that you told me about?’

  Weller beamed. ‘Tomorrow morning. I had my camera guy call ahead. He mentioned me and they immediately agreed.’

  ‘That is good.’

  ‘Darren, we must go,’ a gruff voice commanded slowly from behind in Russian-accented English.

  Weller moved away nervously and thrust his hands into his pockets. Racine turned to see a huge, flat-faced man glaring at them. ‘Vadim, this is Olena.’

  The cameraman switched to Russian. ‘Priyatno poznakomit’sya.’ Nice to meet you.

  ‘Likewise,’ Racine replied, noticing how the man’s eyes wandered over her figure.

  Weller suddenly asked, ‘Where are you staying in Donetsk?’

  ‘The newspaper has made a reservation for me at a hotel.’

  ‘Which one?’ Racine gave Weller the details. ‘Not too far from ours. So why don’t you get back into your car and follow us in mine? We’ll go via your hotel.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Racine agreed.

  Vadim glowered at Racine and returned to the MG. He clambered into the front passenger seat and waited for Weller to start the engine. Racine shivered. It was exceptionally unusual for anyone to unnerve her, but this man had. There was something about him, a feral aura that leaked out from behind his eyes. One thing was for certain, she would never turn her back on him.

  Mariupol, Ukraine

  An SBU driver met Snow and Blazhevich at the airfield and took them to a warehouse commandeered as a forward operating base. The single-storey breeze-block building sat in an unused industrial complex on the outskirts of the port city of Mariupol. Just a hundred kilometres south of the area controlled by the DNR militants who had taken over Donetsk, the warehouse was guarded by both security cameras on the outside and a rotation of armed guards inside. As standard operating procedure, the car drove directly into the building. Blazhevich waited for the large double doors to shut before he and Snow clambered out of the car.

  ‘I’m never letting you book the hotel again,’ Snow said, deadpan.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Blazhevich replied. His phone chirped. He answered the call and listened as their driver exited the building through a smaller side door, leaving them alone. Snow studied the interior of the warehouse. It was empty except for an area in one corner containing several army cots and another section that had been cordoned off with prefabricated walls to create an office. Snow heard Blazhevich ask a couple of questions, listen to the answers, and then end the call. ‘That was Kyiv. They’ve found the base the SVR bomb maker was operating from. It’s an apartment near Lisova metro station. Apparently it’s going to take a couple of days to go through everything inside. Already they’ve discovered what looks like a contact list and enough material to make two more incendiary devices.’

  ‘What about the bomber?’

  ‘She’s being held at SBU headquarters. I’ll interview her when I get back tonight.’

  ‘Good.’ Snow thought she was a victim, no doubt, of the conflict, even though she had been made a party to it. ‘Any idea how they knew about the film crew?’

  ‘They were a German news team; the reporter apparently had been interviewed last week on Our News. We don’t know if he has any significant ties with the Kremlin.’ Blazhevich gestured to the back of the space. ‘OK, someone is expecting us.’ Blazhevich led Snow to the office in the corner. He rapped on the flimsy wooden door and, without waiting for a reply, entered. A wiry middle-aged woman with light brown wavy hair stood by a map table. �
�Yulia.’ Blazhevich, was jovial. ‘How’s things?’

  The woman looked up, her blue eyes fixing on Snow. ‘Getting worse.’

  ‘This is the man I told you about.’

  Snow took a step forward and extended his hand to the woman who was a foot shorter than he was. ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive Yulia; she was never one for social niceties.’

  Yulia flashed Blazhevich a curt smile. ‘Better?’

  Blazhevich shook his head. ‘OK, tell my friend here what’s happening.’

  ‘I left Donetsk using the same route you will follow to make entry. You will use the highway but from here onwards you will be travelling parallel to my route, on foot via the woods. It is the only way you will be able to enter DNR territory.’ Yulia tapped the map with her index finger. It was large-scale and showed Donetsk and the surrounding area. ‘There is a new camp here. I am afraid that we have as yet no intel on it.’ She placed her finger on a different part of the map. ‘It continues to be busy here, and Russian troops have been seen conducting house-to-house searches. What they were looking for we do not know. In short, the insertion route is still viable, but you must travel at night.’

  ‘How’s the rendezvous point?’ Snow asked, eyeing the map.

  ‘It was deserted yesterday; obviously I cannot say what will be there tomorrow.’

  ‘Tell me more about the main roads in and out?’

  Yulia grimaced. ‘They are blockaded by checkpoints. Traffic passes both ways; everything moves at their discretion. If they deem you do not have the correct permits or they do not like your face, you are stranded or ordered to pay a fine, or taken away. I use them each weekend. In my opinion you will not be able to exfil by road.’

  Snow thought as much. Getting Mohammed Iqbal out of Donetsk would prove as difficult as getting to him. ‘Who is meeting me?’

  Yulia folded her arms. ‘I am.’

  Blazhevich now spoke, ‘Yulia is one of our most reliable and highly trusted agents.’

  ‘I personally,’ Yulia said, ‘am against being used in such a manner for your operation; however, I have my orders from upon high.’