Traitors Read online

  Snow sympathised; he knew it wasn’t personal. Potentially compromising her cover was a serious concern. ‘I understand, but the life of an innocent man is at risk.’

  ‘As is the life of a Ukrainian patriot.’ Yulia’s blue eyes suddenly looked cold. ‘Mine.’ She pointed to a black sports bag on the floor. ‘The equipment you requested is in there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Snow took the bag.

  ‘You will be driven to the insertion point tonight. I suggest you grab whatever sleep you can before you leave; there should be a spare cot around somewhere.’

  ‘Thanks, Yulia,’ Blazhevich said, and he and Snow left the room.

  Once outside, Blazhevich continued, ‘Yulia has always been intense. She is an excellent operative but is used to running the show. Donetsk is her hometown, so she sees this as highly personal.’

  ‘I understand,’ Snow said. ‘If anyone invaded Worthing, I’d take it personally too.’

  DNR checkpoint, Donetsk

  Yulia Nikolaevna reminded herself that the anxiety she felt as she approached the checkpoint on the road to Donetsk was healthy. Her hands were moist on the wheel of her eleven-year-old Nissan Qashqai as Kalashnikov-clutching DNR militants ahead searched cars returning from areas outside the control of their ‘republic’. Yulia was on her way home for the weekend after teaching all week in a makeshift classroom for a faculty of the Donetsk National University, which had officially relocated to Mariupol. At first, her weekly commute had raised suspicion and resentment from the men on the DNR checkpoint as they actively detained drivers, interrogating them in case they were Ukrainian spies. As time wore on and she had been deemed to be neither a spy nor a smuggler, the act of crossing the checkpoint had become less frightening and more tedious.

  The truth, however, was that Yulia Nikolaevna was very much a spy and, as such, had been reporting back to Kyiv on developments in and around Donetsk each week. On the weekends she would return to the apartment she shared with her elderly mother in the city and run errands for her and her equally old neighbours, all the while keeping her eyes and ears wide open. She had seen more Russian soldiers arriving in the city from Russia’s Far East to bolster the ranks of the DNR in addition to tanks and artillery pieces deployed to new areas. She took photographs with a digital camera and uploaded them to the SBU in Kyiv via a satellite handset, which she kept hidden in a box on the roof of a downtown apartment building. Not the same one she lived in, but the same building housing several of her mother’s friends.

  Whenever she travelled back into Ukrainian-held territory, she never ever carried the camera or anything else that, if discovered, may incriminate her. She had an eidetic memory and on arrival at the room rented by the university would type her observations onto a laptop computer. In the front passenger seat of the Nissan, Yulia was accompanied, as always, by her colleague, Borys Honchar. In his mid-seventies, Honchar was the oldest serving member of the university by a decade. He had been a renowned economist during Soviet times, winning many awards and medals. He snoozed for most of the trip, only waking to complain when the militants brought the car to a halt. As a cover it was all but perfect.

  ‘What? Are we there already?’ Honchar sat bolt upright as the Nissan stopped behind a line of cars.

  ‘No, Borys Konstantinovich—’ Yulia used the economist’s patronymic name as a mark of respect ‘—we have arrived at the checkpoint.’

  ‘Idiots.’ Honchar looked out of the car with irritation. ‘Their state will never work; it is doomed to failure!’

  ‘I agree.’ Yulia had heard the rant many times before but found that it lasted for less time if she agreed.

  ‘Just look!’ He waved his hand at the scene ahead. ‘The fact that they are now more concerned with confiscating tobacco and alcohol rather than searching for “Ukrainian saboteurs” is proof enough. They are bankrupt! They have neither the economic tools nor the resources required to run a beer bar, let alone a country!’

  Yulia adopted a neutral expression on her face as the car was beckoned forward by a militant.

  Honchar crossed his arms. ‘The final insult, now we must switch to Russian. Come, Yulia, let us leave our Ukrainian brains behind us!’

  Yulia tried hard not to laugh. Honchar was the only person to bring a smile to her face since the entire conflict had started. A militant held up his palm for the car to stop. He tapped on her window with his knuckles. It was the usual routine. She opened the boot; he examined it. She and Honchar got out of the car while the cabin was searched; then they were allowed to drive into Donetsk. Honchar fell asleep again until once more Yulia brought the car to a halt, this time outside his apartment building.

  ‘Home sweet home.’ Honchar stretched and reached for the door handle as Yulia opened up the back. The elderly academic retrieved his battered suitcase, shut the boot and gave it a gentle tap with his hand – the signal that she could go. Yulia drove off to return at six a.m. on Monday morning.

  Now alone, Yulia focused on her instructions. On Saturday morning she was to drive to an address on the outskirts of town and meet the same British agent she had met in Mariupol. She was to take him to another address in Donetsk. It sounded simple enough, and the task in itself was, but there was the ever-present danger of compromise. And she hated to think what would happen to her and her mother if she was captured by the Russians or the DNR. She took a deep, calming breath. There was no use in worrying about what may or may not go wrong. She had learnt that after surviving the previous year’s shelling – she now feared nothing.

  Ramada Hotel, Donetsk

  After parking the Golf, Racine ditched Weller – declining his offer of a drink in the bar – and headed for the hotel lobby. On the glass door outside, a strange sign caught her eye. It was white and bore the Ramada logo on the top, an infographic of a mother with two children on one side, and an image of a Kalashnikov crossed through with a red ‘prohibited’ sign on the other. Underneath the composition, a sentence written in Russian and followed by bad English stated:

  There are kids on the premises. Entrance with guns is strictly prohibited.

  Racine had never seen a sign like it before, even in Lebanon or Syria.

  She pushed the glass door and entered the lobby. The room was an explosion of red walls, leather sofas, and large impressionist paintings. It looked like a modern take on a French chateau. A blond man, dressed in a uniform that matched the red walls exactly, stood expectantly behind the check-in desk. Taking up half of the available seats and ignoring the polite notice on the door, a group of DNR militants sat with their Kalashnikovs clearly on display resting against their thighs. Immediately, each and every man stared at her. Whether they were offering ‘security’ services to the hotel, were residents, or were waiting for a commander, Racine did not know. She immediately assessed the threat and didn’t like her conclusion. She was unarmed and if they wanted to detain her for any reason, it would be all but impossible to escape. She had to control the situation.

  She took a deep breath, kept her gaze fixed in front of her, and walked purposefully to the desk. A room for three nights had been reserved for Olena Gaeva, she informed the man in red. The man confirmed the reservation and in turn informed Racine that due to the ‘current situation’ the hotel accepted cash only in advance. Racine duly paid in US dollars. As in other war zones and disputed areas, business always carried on and hard currency was king. Different palms now had to be greased as new people took power – no doubt the hotel’s parent company referred to these as ‘facilitating payments’ and not bribes – there was after all, still a clientele willing to travel to Donetsk and the hotel continued to serve them.

  Racine was given a room on the third floor and, ignoring the bellboy, carried her own bag to the lift. She felt the lustful eyes of the militants on her and, holding her head high, refused to make eye contact. Act like prey and that is what she would become. Only the closing lift doors ended their leers. Once in her room she locked the door, and with no door wedge
available, she placed the desk chair in front of it under the handle, further strengthening it before moving to the window. She had a commanding view of the city, cut in two by the tree-lined Kalmius River. In the distance, black smoke rose from the most recent round of shelling, standing out against the orange streaks of sunset.

  There was a deliberate knock at the door. Racine rapidly searched the room for a weapon, her eyes landed on a corkscrew that she grabbed up and took with her to the peephole. Peering through, she saw a man dressed in a hotel uniform carrying a covered plate. He knocked again, four rapid knocks. Racine moved the chair, stood to one side of the door, and swiftly heaved it inwards.

  The man remained motionless and waited for Racine to appear before he spoke. ‘I have a gift from Baptiste.’

  Racine relaxed; the man was the contact prearranged by her handler. ‘Come in.’

  He entered, and she shut the door behind him. He placed the covered plate on the desk next to the television. He put his finger to his lips to indicate that they should not speak; Racine nodded. The man got on his hands and knees and felt under the bed. After a few seconds he retrieved a small package, which he handed to Racine. She put down the corkscrew and cautiously opened the package to reveal a Glock 26 pistol, two spare magazines, and a custom suppressor. Racine attached the suppressor and checked the pistol then placed it on the unit by the television. Her contact moved into the bathroom and returned half a minute later with a plastic-wrapped envelope. She took the envelope and explored its contents. It was a new passport, a Ukrainian one in the name of Olena Onika; it was the correct documentation for whichever way she wanted to exfil the occupied city. The man snapped a quick salute and moved towards the door.

  ‘Wait. What’s under the plate?’

  ‘A club sandwich,’ the man said, ‘aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘As a horse.’

  Racine closed the door, replaced the chair against it, and voraciously ate the sandwich and accompanying fries as she looked out of the window at the fast-approaching Ukrainian night. The sandwich hadn’t come with a drink, so she looked in the minibar. It was empty except for a couple of bottles of Georgian Borjomi mineral water. She sighed and sat on the bed. Apparently the corkscrew had been for show or from a time before the conflict when guests actually used the hotel for leisure. She knew that anywhere bar France, even a small bottle of pastis was too much to hope for, but cognac or wine? Just one mouthful of wine would have been nice. How was a drinking girl expected to work?

  There was nothing else she could do this evening and the exhaustion of the travel over the last few days had caught up with her. She had to be operating at one hundred per cent if she was going to complete the mission. Ten minutes later she took a quick shower and then checked the view from the window again. An unusually heavy rain had started to fall. She placed her jeans, jacket, top and boots next to the bed and slipped into new underwear and a vest then climbed into bed. Racine fell asleep comforted by the sound of the raindrops on the window.

  Chapter 10

  Fourteen Years Ago

  Nice, France

  Sophie removed her nose from the windowpane, then using the sleeve of her sweatshirt, wiped away the smudge. The man on the TV had got it wrong again. It was anything but the perfect day for a picnic. Sophie sighed as she studied the dark clouds. Like her they were miserable. Her father was away on business, which meant she was at home alone with her mother. She itched to go out for a run but knew her mother would turn a shade of cardinal red if she tried to. Her mother was of the school of thought who insisted damp weather created coughs, colds, fever and influenza. No daughter of hers was going running in the rain and risking contracting pleurisy! So instead of heading down the hill to the coast and jogging along the sea road, Sophie was sitting in her bedroom listening to Katy Perry singing about a boy changing his mind.

  Racine sighed heavily and closed her eyes. She was tempted to call her friend Jocelyn and see if she wanted to come over but she knew that would make her mother go into ‘super-baker’ mode and create even more cakes and pies to stuff them all with.

  Sophie opened her eyes and saw something that made her smile. Driving along the winding road that led to the bottom of her street was a red convertible sports car. She knew of only one person who drove a car like that. Quickly Sophie slipped out of her baggy Adidas sweatshirt and put on her faded Levi’s jacket over her vest top. The doorbell rang. She shot out of her room and hit the stairs.

  As always, her mother was like lightning and reached the door first.

  ‘Hello, Madeline,’ she heard the visitor say, ‘I’ve come to take Sophie out.’

  ‘You can’t materialise like this, from nowhere, and expect to have my daughter.’

  ‘Why not? I’m her aunt.’

  Before her mother had the chance to reply, Sophie reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Celine!’

  Celine Durand was fifteen years older than Sophie and had always felt like an older sister to her. Her large, dark eyes inspected Sophie from head to toe. ‘You look well.’

  ‘Well?’ Sophie’s mother folded her arms across her considerable bust. ‘She won’t eat, constantly leaves the house to go running at odd hours, and the rest of the time she ignores me!’

  Sophie ignored her mother. ‘Celine, I’ve been running like Dad showed me. Look, this is your old jacket. The one that was tight on me!’

  Celine gave her approval. ‘It’s a perfect fit.’

  ‘It’s wet outside. Come in, Celine. Sit with us and have some cake.’

  ‘Another time, Madeline. We’re going out.’ Celine’s eyes narrowed slightly as she replied. ‘Sophie, get your shoes on.’

  ‘But when will you be back?’

  ‘We’ll call you,’ Sophie said as she quickly pecked her mother on the cheek, out of habit, and left the house. She darted through the rain to Celine’s MX5 and dropped into the passenger seat.

  ‘Let’s go, sis!’ Celine said as she pulled out of the driveway and back onto the road.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just driving. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Anywhere but here.’

  ‘So how have you been?’ Celine asked as they headed towards the coast road.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Just fine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can talk to me you know. I’m not your mother.’

  ‘I know.’ Sophie paused and listened to the sound of the rain hitting the Mazda’s soft top. ‘She’s been driving me mad with her baking!’

  ‘That’s because she misses your dad.’

  ‘No. It’s because she wants me to be fat again.’

  ‘C’mon I’m sure that’s not true, but I do think she wants to control you. Having you in the kitchen with her is one way she can keep her eyes on you.’

  ‘Was Grand-mère the same?’

  ‘Not at all. My mother wanted us out of the house. It was your mum who always tried to stay in. But even at the weekends, your grand-mère insisted we get up and get out – no lie-in for us. It was like living on a farm, I imagine.’

  ‘I feel like I live in a zoo.’

  Celine smirked. ‘When I was little we used to pretend Madeline was my mum; it was our favourite game. Your mum used to be fun, you know, but she’s always been bossy. Back then she was just like you, a rebel.’

  ‘I’m not a rebel. I just don’t like being told what to do.’

  Celine concentrated on the road. The rain had intensified and now hammered against the little car, attacking the windscreen and threatening to knife its way through the roof. They stopped at a set of traffic lights and Celine pressed a button on the CD player. Immediately Roxette’s ‘Spending my Time’ blasted out of the speakers.

  ‘You and your golden oldies!’ Sophie shouted above the ballad.

  They pulled away from the lights and headed ever nearer to the sea.

  Sophie turned the music down a notch and asked, ‘Where have you been this time?’

>   ‘All over. Morocco last week for a day and then Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘Your job’s very exciting!’

  ‘I’m just a flying waitress.’

  ‘I wish I could do it.’

  ‘You don’t want to do my job. You’ll do much greater things.’

  Sophie shrugged. The idea of getting paid to jet around the world for Air France struck her as much more exotic and fun than being a lawyer like her dad.

  Celine moved her right hand and felt inside the pocket of her stretch jeans. She pulled out her phone. ‘Oui?’

  Sophie couldn’t hear the words of the conversation, but knew from the tone it was a man. A smile spread across her face as she saw that Celine had started to blush. Her aunt ended the call and put the phone in her lap.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Someone.’

  ‘That was your boyfriend, wasn’t it?’ Sophie drew out the last word in accusatory manner.

  Celine looked at Sophie, her face creased into a grin. ‘Yes.’

  Sophie nodded like a wise mother. ‘Well, I hope he’s good at sex?’

  Celine burst out laughing, causing the car to swerve on the wet asphalt. ‘He is!’

  ‘You can’t hide anything from me! So, what does Mr Sexy do? Is he an Arab sheikh?’

  ‘He works with me.’

  ‘Is he a pilot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘You can ask him yourself. He’s just invited both of us to lunch.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes. If you’re nice, he may even order you a bottle of Orangina!’

  ‘I’d prefer wine.’

  ‘Ha ha!’

  Sophie smiled. She was both happy and annoyed at the same moment. She didn’t want to share Celine, but she also wanted to know who the mystery man was and being invited to meet him made her feel more grown up.

  ‘He said I should bring my little sister with me. Pretend to be my sister, OK?’