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  ‘Is he a believer?’

  ‘A believer in profitable business.’ Tariq frowned and al-Suri held up his hand. ‘Using a non-believer leaves less of a trace and our business dealings have made him much money.’

  ‘A man who is motivated by money cannot be trusted,’ Tariq stated.

  ‘Your fears are misplaced. We have used him many times. I have used his services. He is trusted. Besides, we know where his family lives.’

  ‘When will we receive our weapons?’ Reza asked.

  ‘No weapons, my brother; travelling businessmen do not carry firearms. It would be another risk. You, Reza, and the rest of you, must leave your knives and anything else you have with me here.’

  ‘Unacceptable.’ Reza glared.

  ‘No. It is how it must be,’ Tariq stated as he looked at al-Suri.

  Al-Suri bowed graciously and then made eye contact with each of the warriors as he continued his briefing. ‘On arrival at Istanbul the group shall split into two. Tariq shall lead one team and Reza the other. Reza, your team is to continue from Istanbul into Greece. Tariq, your team is to take the ferry from Derince to Illichevsk in Ukraine. It’s a long and indirect voyage, but you are much less likely to get spotted or questioned than if you were to take a smaller private vessel or fishing boat. Your contacts will be waiting for you and shall provide the pre-agreed password.’ Al-Suri clasped his hands. ‘That is as much as I have been informed of, my brothers. I know your mission is sacred and I know that your targets were chosen by the Lion Sheik himself, peace be upon Him. It is an honour for me to have you in my house, even if only for a fleeting moment.’

  Tariq did not want to praise their host but knew he must. ‘It is an honour for us to be here and to have been chosen, Yassin. You are a most revered believer and have done much for the cause.’

  ‘My sacrifices have not been great compared to yours. Allah has bestowed on us our own specific strengths and we must use them as his humble servants.’

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ Tariq stood.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ the six other men replied.

  And then the Al-Qaeda operatives chanted as one. ‘Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar!’

  *

  Abkhazia Region, Georgia

  Kishiev studied his reflection. His beard had been removed as part of his indoctrination into Black Dolphin. Two guards had tied him to a steel chair with leather straps, while a third had hacked at his beard with blunt-bladed scissors. When the guard switched to a cut-throat razor, Kishiev had prayed the man would slip, that the blade would penetrate his skin, his arteries, and end his purgatory. The guard knew what he was thinking – Black Dolphin was a final destination prison after all. The guard did, however, inflict several nicks on the Chechen’s face for his own sadistic pleasure.

  Four years later, Kishiev now stood in front of the mirror at the safe house and studied the unfamiliar reflection as though it was someone else. The face cleanshaven and the once thick mane of black hair now buzzed to the bone. At Dolphin there had been no mirrors. This was the first time he had seen his naked cheeks since he was a boy, but the face that stared back was not that of a boy; it was haggard almost beyond recognition. Kishiev flashed himself a smile and for an instant the fire appeared in his eyes and the boy was back. He grinned wider and his blackened teeth ended the illusion. He would recover. He had been in the darkness, but was now back in the light, as Christian ideology would lead a Russian to believe.

  As a Chechen and a true believer he knew it wasn’t black and white; his redemption had cost the lives of many noble Muslim warriors. They would be avenged. The FSB had shown Kishiev stills taken from the Moscow metro CCTV cameras of those suspected of carrying out the bombings. He’d recognised two faces; one of these had been martyred in an explosion minutes later. Kishiev had no idea how the FSB had traced the other man he had named, but within two days the international press were being briefed on the successful elimination of the terror cell responsible for the Moscow terrorist attacks. Strelkov had begrudgingly accepted his Director’s orders and taken Kishiev out of Black Dolphin and brought him sedated to the safe house. In his room he had found, to his dismay, not a copy of the Koran, but in its place Russian newspapers. He read up on current and world events, as portrayed by the Kremlin-controlled press. For the masses, the Russian sheep, the news as reported within the flimsy paper pages was the truth; but for him it was merely Kremlin propaganda. He read of the Chechen President Kadyrov, perturbed to find the idiot was still alive, and read about the continued joy of the Crimean people in their reunification with Mother Russia. Apparently, the Crimean Tatars were happy to be once again living in a country where their ethnic rights would be respected. He was furious. Like the Chechens, the Tatars had been the victims of Soviet purges; both groups were believers and yet both continued to be abused.

  Kishiev turned away from the mirror as he heard a key in the lock. The door to his room opened and a huge FSB commando entered. ‘Outside, now.’

  Dressed in a cheap pair of jeans, boots, and a thick sweater, Kishiev was met by a second FSB commando in the corridor. The trooper pushed him forward and towards a door at the far end. A third commando opened the door and Kishiev entered.

  ‘Sit.’ Kishiev did as Strelkov ordered. ‘Your weapon is on the move.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That is not your concern. Tell me the route and the target.’

  ‘When will I see my family?’

  Strelkov’s face flushed red. ‘There is a portable nuclear device in the hands of terrorists and you dare mention your wife and child?’

  Kishiev remained silent. In his prime he could have silenced the Russian in the blink of an eye with his bare hands, but that was before Black Dolphin almost killed him. It was said that after two years at Dolphin the soul died. After this, the human body either decided to shut down or kept on functioning as a life-support machine for the automaton brain. Kishiev’s soul was not dead, but his body was weak, for now. ‘Your superior agreed my terms. I see my wife and daughter and then I tell you the route of the weapon.’

  ‘I could force the information out of you, Chechen.’

  ‘No, you could not, as I am sure your FSB doctors have explained to you. Black Dolphin has made me weak. You would torture me, I would resist, and then I would die a martyr.’

  ‘There are certain drugs I could use on you.’

  ‘The risk is yours to take. I welcome death and dying defending the faith is the most honourable act of all.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? If this device is detonated it will lead to the deaths of thousands. It would be mass murder in the name of your God.’

  Kishiev’s face tightened. His war had been waged to remove the Russians from his homeland and to herald a return to the true values of the Koran, not to blatantly kill civilians.

  ‘Kishiev, are you listening to me? Men, women, and children – both Christian and Muslim – will die!’

  ‘It will pass through Iran and then into Turkey.’

  Strelkov took a deep breath to restore his composure. ‘That is the part I know. And from then onwards?’

  ‘Take me to my family.’

  ‘Bring them in,’ Strelkov called wearily across the room.

  ‘They are here?’ Kishiev felt his heart race.

  Strelkov crossed his arms. ‘We are where you hid them.’

  *

  Iranian-Turkish Border

  The Iranian-Turkish border crossing was 2,600 metres above sea level and at the foot of Mount Ararat. It was as far as Ahmed was to take Tariq and his team. Ahmed bade goodbye to the men, climbed into his minibus, and headed towards Tehran. Tariq felt a chill of cold air brush his beardless cheek as he watched the driver disappear. The Afghans approached the Iranian emigration counter and in turn each gave their passports to the Iranian official, who with a stamp and a dutiful nod sent them on their way. The Holy Warriors now
had a five-minute walk across no-man’s land, along a road fenced on both sides, before they reached the Turkish officials, where they would again present their new documents. The Turkish border guard compared the face of each man against his passport and a few minutes later the group were free to enter the Republic of Turkey.

  Lall Mohammad looked around. Mount Ararat dominated the landscape to the north with flatlands to the south. In front of them a wide road stretched into the distance. ‘So this is Turkey?’

  ‘It reminds me of home,’ Abdul Shinare noted.

  ‘We are not tourists,’ Reza Khan reminded them all.

  ‘Where is our transport?’ Lall Mohammad asked.

  Ahead, in a hard-standing waiting area, Tariq could only see one taxi and a battered-looking bus. Both stood with their doors open and several men leant against the taxi smoking. Something didn’t feel right; he was carrying a deadly nuclear device, yet had no personal weapon. He swapped a glance with Reza, who was tense. A man who had been sitting on the bottom step of the bus stood up, dropped his cigarette, and ground it into the dirt with his shoe. He was a short, rotund man and gave an enthusiastic wave as he trotted towards them.

  ‘Greetings, brother, I am Orhan Inci.’ He spoke in English and held out his hand to Tariq. ‘I am driving you.’

  Tariq shook his hand; it was not a Muslim custom. ‘Greetings. Where is the second taxi?’

  ‘You will be travelling by bus.’

  ‘I was told of no change of plan.’

  Inci shrugged. ‘A group of foreign men travelling through the town by bus is less suspicious. You understand?’

  ‘Is there no other route?’

  ‘Not for a bus or a taxi. For men on foot, yes, but this is a border area; there are many vehicles moving through. Dogubeyazit is cut in two by the highway.’ He made a chopping movement with his hand to emphasise his point. ‘A bus will draw no attention, much less than two taxis driving together. We will drive through, directly to Istanbul.’

  ‘How long will the journey take?’

  Inci’s eyes rolled skywards as he calculated. ‘Istanbul is a long way, so all night and all of the day. But this is why we have a large bus, yes? So you can sleep while I drive.’

  ‘You will drive the entire way?’

  ‘No, no. I am not Superman. I have Ferit; he is in the bus. He will take a turn.’ Inci mimed holding a steering wheel.

  Tariq had no time for flippancy. ‘Can we go?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come, come.’

  The Afghans followed Inci towards the bus, each of them carrying their suitcase.

  ‘Do you know those men with the taxi?’

  ‘Yes, yes. They are my friends, they pick up fares from the border,’ Inci replied.

  At the bus Inci whistled and Ferit appeared. He jumped down and opened up a panel to reveal the luggage hold. One by one the five other warriors handed their cases to the Turk while Tariq kept hold of his.

  ‘We have space, so please put in your case,’ Ferit said politely.

  ‘No, I will keep it by my side.’

  ‘You are the chief.’ Ferit stood. ‘OK, we can go now.’

  Once they had chosen their seats the bus grumbled into life and moved off. Reza sat behind Tariq. ‘This does not feel right, brother.’

  Tariq did not turn around. ‘I agree, brother, but I am sure it is just our unease at being closer to our target.’

  ‘I wish I had my knife.’

  As the aging bus travelled deeper into Turkey, Tariq was ever mindful that, unlike Iran, the Turkish government was a friend of the West, and that, as such, he and his men were very unwelcome guests.

  *

  Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  Mike Webster’s orders were classified and unequivocal. The Russian known as Mikhail was to be immediately flown back to the UK to be questioned further. His eyes wandered around his soon-to-be-vacated office; the orders made sense. Camp Bastion was about to be handed over to the Afghan National Army as the UK finally left Afghanistan. At its peak the Camp had been home to ten thousand British soldiers, but in recent weeks it had become a ghost town. Webster’s Military Intelligence team were becoming demob-happy, counting the minutes almost until they escaped. He wouldn’t be sad to leave ‘The Stan’, or ‘Asscrackistan’ as the Americans more colourfully put it; he didn’t know if his presence had done any good, or achieved anything, up until now that was. Mikhail’s appearance had changed something in him, though; it had made him see that what had started in Helmand province could end back home with the deaths of thousands. A nuclear device was on its way to Europe, of that he now had no doubt, and the man he had been ordered to send to the UK was potentially the key to stopping it. He left his office and felt the mixture of hot air and sand blast his face – no, he wouldn’t miss this at all. He proceeded to the glorified cell that had been assigned to the Russian. He returned the guard’s salute and then, as a courtesy, knocked on the door before nodding at the guard to open it.

  Mikhail stood in the centre of the room facing him. Webster was still unnerved by the hardness of his eyes. ‘I have some good news for you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You’ll be leaving for the UK today.’

  ‘So the British Government has decided to give me a passport?’

  ‘That I don’t know, but they’ve certainly agreed to have you in the UK to help with the current threat.’

  ‘I see.’ The Russian’s eyes narrowed. ‘And then what is to be done with me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that I don’t know; it’s above my pay grade.’

  Mikhail shrugged. There was nothing for him now in Afghanistan, and if going to the UK, albeit to be interrogated by the British, prevented the bomb from being detonated, then go he would. ‘Very well, I accept.’

  ‘Good. You’ll be leaving within the hour.’

  *

  Abkhazia Region, Georgia

  ‘I am going to ask you once again, Kishiev. Are you certain that this man knows the terrorists’ plans?’

  ‘He will collect them at the border and transport them to Istanbul to await further instructions.’

  ‘You are aware that if you are deceiving me the lives of both your wife and daughter are forfeit?’

  Kishiev had been given half an hour to reacquaint himself with his family before they had been taken away. ‘I led your FSB to the Moscow bombers, for which you let me see my family. Why would I lie to you now?’

  ‘Because you are a convicted Islamic terrorist and have the blood of many Russians on your hands.’

  ‘You have my word, you have my family. What more do you want?’

  ‘Tell me exactly where this man can be found.’ Strelkov’s eyes were hard.

  ‘As I told you, he is the owner of a taxi and excursion company.’ Kishiev placed his finger on a map of Turkey. ‘It operates from here in Istanbul. He has been in the pay of Al-Qaeda for many years and is a trusted conduit for believers. The Holy Warriors will stay with him here.’

  ‘Warriors? Terrorists, Kishiev, like you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And they will have the device with them?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Strelkov slammed his fist onto the desk. ‘Will they have the device with them? Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes. They will have instructions not to let it out of their sight.’

  Strelkov took a breath and sat back in his chair. ‘Then my team shall go to Turkey, liquidate the terrorists, and reclaim the weapon. You shall remain here until we decide what is to be done with you.’ Kishiev didn’t speak but gradually let a smile appear on his lips as Strelkov scowled at him. ‘What is it, Chechen?’

  ‘You do not know what the target is or where it is.’

  ‘True, but that will become irrelevant once we have recovered the device.’

  ‘Don’t you want to trace the Al-Qaeda network? What if there are other attacks planned?’

  ‘Are you saying there are more nuclear
devices?’ Strelkov felt his mouth go dry. The idea that there might be more active terror cells hadn’t occurred to him.

  ‘That I do not know, but you should.’ Kishiev made his gambit. ‘It would be pertinent to know who planned the attack, and who the cell’s next contact is. If I travelled to Istanbul I could confirm Inci’s identity and the presence of the device.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘I have used Inci’s services before. I will recognise him and he will recognise me. The cell will trust me.’

  ‘You have been to Turkey?’ Strelkov was incredulous that a known Chechen terrorist had been able to travel so easily before finally being brought to justice by the Russian legal system.

  ‘It is fertile ground for Western recruits.’

  Strelkov wasn’t at all happy that his only lead on the location of the rogue nuclear device came from the terrorist who sat opposite him, but Kishiev’s words made sense and Strelkov’s orders were to reacquire the device at all costs. He was nonetheless suspicious. ‘You could have kept quiet. Why are you now willing to help me? What is it that you want, Kishiev?’

  ‘What I want is to prevent the murder of innocent people in the name of Islam.’

  Strelkov sneered. ‘Were not the Russians you murdered in Chechnya innocents?’

  ‘They were an invading army and I was at war.’

  ‘Invaders? Chechnya is an integral part of the Russian Federation! You led a terrorist group with the sole purpose of murdering Russian patriots. Remember, it was I who stopped you then. I was there!’ Strelkov took a breath to regain his calm; Kishiev angered him in a way no other adversary ever had. ‘Very well, you shall come with my team to Istanbul; but remember, we still have your family.’

  Chapter 6

  Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine

  The ground was difficult to dig, hard from the early frosts, but he knew he must. Eliso had received good news from her sister: the man had agreed his terms and they were soon coming with the device. The components he needed to make it active lay buried in the garden of his dacha. He had acquired them in his last days at the plant as the Soviet Union crumbled. He grinned; his cabbages had protected what would make him some real cabbage. At first it had just been about the money and helping Eliso’s mother, but now it was more than this. The money wouldn’t make up for the bitter years since his wife’s betrayal with his former supervisor. The device, however, would. It would enable him, albeit via the hands of others, to hit back and at the same time implicate his wife’s second husband, as at best a thief and at worst a supporter of terrorism. His eight million dollars was enough to escape for ever if he wished, even buy a new face. He could screw the world’s most expensive whores and drink its most exquisite liquor. But no. Now he had Eliso and wanted to share the rest of his life with her. A thought struck him. Would his wife want him back when her husband was hauled away in chains as a traitor? He wiped his brow. She would of course have to beg; he would be a hot commodity, an eligible bachelor. But did he really want her back, a woman in her sixties? Of course not. He was attached to Eliso, their relationship cemented by the components he was now unearthing.