Traitors Read online

  ‘Of course, but I’m not that little.’

  ‘I know, you’re fifteen.’

  ‘I’ll be sixteen soon.’

  ‘Exactly. In fact I’m worried he’ll take one look at you and dump me.’

  ‘Celine, that’ll never happen. You’re the most beautiful woman I know.’

  ‘Ah thanks, sis.’ Celine squeezed her knee.

  The rain suddenly stopped as though they’d crossed through a waterfall and the sun appeared. As soon as it was safe to do so, Celine pulled the MX5 over, dropped the top and then, with the Roxette CD turned up to maximum they set off for their lunch date.

  A quarter of an hour later Celine parked in a space a few kilometres up the coast and overlooking the sea. She tidied her hair then fixed her make-up – let Sophie borrow her lipstick – and then they walked across the road to the restaurant, which was perched on the edge of the cliffs. It was still early for lunch, and only one table was taken. But it was the best. A man sat with his back to the view. He had watched them approach. He got to his feet and waved. Sophie took him in. He had neat dark hair, and sunglasses with mirrored lenses partly obscured his face. He was wearing dark blue jeans, and a pink polo shirt under a blue blazer. He seemed a little older than Celine, which Sophie found odd, but also romantic.

  ‘Celine!’ The man bounded towards them then took Celine’s face in his hands. He planted a full kiss on her lips. Sophie didn’t know where to look.

  ‘This is my sister, Sophie,’ Celine said once their lips had pulled apart.

  Celine’s boyfriend took a step back and made an overt display of removing his sunglasses to regard the two women. ‘You look like twins? Is this magic? Am I seeing double or have I been rendered mad by your beauty?’

  ‘Hello,’ Sophie replied, not knowing what to say to the handsome man who was more than double her age.

  He now took Sophie’s hand and kissed it. His lips felt soft on her skin. ‘Mademoiselle.’

  Sophie tried not to blush, and now looking into his eyes she could understand why Celine liked him. He reminded her of Alain Delon, the actor her mother fantasised over in the prehistoric films she watched. Sophie continued to stare, and so did Celine’s boyfriend. ‘I’m Sophie, but who are you?’

  ‘Celine didn’t tell you? My name is Sasha, Sasha Vasilev.’

  Chapter 11

  Present Day

  Ramada Hotel, Donetsk

  Racine’s eyes were open. A rustling sound reached her ears. She lay still in the darkness and listened to an electronic ‘beep’, followed by her door opening, and the handle hitting the chair with a thud. Racine cursed; this was a complication she didn’t need. Racine reached under her pillow for the handgun. Her hand groped around in the dark. She checked the floor in case it had fallen off, but it wasn’t there. She cursed again. In the gloom she frantically swept the room as the door opened wider, but the chair now caught on the carpet. She could hear laboured breathing. The door opened further, the chair toppled over, and two men barged into the room.

  And then she saw her Glock where she had left it, in front of the television.

  Racine had milliseconds to react. She’d messed up and she knew it. If she’d not been so damn tired the Glock would have been under her pillow and then in her hand and her intruders would have a serious problem. Racine spun off the bed and onto her feet. The men were fully in the room now. One moved directly for her bed while the other shut the door.

  ‘Hey, bitch!’ the nearest hissed softly in Russian. ‘We need some company.’

  Racine hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains and in the moonlight she half-recognised the men as part of the DNR group from the foyer. Something metallic, a blade, glinted in the nearest militant’s hand.

  ‘Please … don’t hurt me!’ she said in Russian, letting her voice wobble with forced fear.

  ‘Hurt you, bitch? Oh, it won’t hurt if you don’t let it! Now lie down!’ The militant took a step forward as his right hand, the one holding the knife, jabbed in the direction of the bed.

  ‘Please, no …’ Racine made to move backwards then reversed her momentum and sprang forward. She stepped around the outside of the man’s leading arm, grabbed his wrist with her right hand and slammed her left elbow into his unsuspecting face.

  ‘Wha …’ was all the militant managed to say before Racine twisted the knife out of his grasp.

  He stumbled back, in shock, his left hand rising to his damaged face. His eyes looked at his empty right hand in disbelief.

  There was a second glint and Racine saw a weapon rise in the hand of the other militant, who was standing in front of the door to her room.

  Instinctively she hurled the knife in his direction. It wasn’t a throwing knife and she wasn’t a knife fighter, so it missed his head but it did make him flinch and that bought her some time. Racine threw her weight at the nearest militant, slamming him into the carpeted hotel floor and winding him. And then she was up and her hands were grabbing for the Glock.

  Without issuing any warning, Racine double tapped the militant by the door, the retort from the suppressed Glock sounding like a pair of heavy books being dropped on a wooden floor. He crumpled backwards, his own handgun falling. Racine spun back now and levelled the Glock at the first militant, the one who’d called her a bitch, the one who was now whimpering at her feet. At point-blank range, she shot him in the head.

  Racine quickly confirmed that both men were dead before using the spyglass in the door to check the hallway. It was empty, and the air was still; the hotel was asleep. She looked at her watch. It was shortly after three a.m.

  Racine picked up the dirty-looking Russian-made Makarov pistol from the floor then searched both bodies. Each had wallets filled with $100 bills and a few smaller Ukrainian and Russian banknotes. She placed the pistol, cash, and knife on the table.

  Racine sat on the edge of the bed. She’d been lucky and she knew it. Next time she went to sleep she’d do it fully clothed whilst cuddling her Glock. She started to shake, an effect of the adrenalin leaving her system. Fight or flight, except she’d had no intention of running. She steadied her breathing while she tried to decide on her next course of action. She had just killed two men, her first in Donetsk but definitely not her last. The ease with which she had dispatched them shocked her. No, that wasn’t quite right. What shocked Racine even after eight years in the service was the fact that killing the two men had been a reflex action, a decision taken at a subconscious level and without considering another option … Another option she wished she had now was cognac, but she had to make do with taking a gulp of Borjomi. She threw the empty bottle in the bin and then saw a key card that wasn’t hers lying on the carpet. An idea struck her.

  She got dressed in black jeans and left the room. She walked the entire length of the hall until she was by the emergency exit and directly underneath the sole CCTV camera. She now chanced a casual glance up and saw that the wire connecting the unit had been cut. She let a breath of relief escape her lips. Whether this was a recent precaution or not she didn’t care. Turning back, Racine made directly for the room across the hall from her own. Putting her ear up against the door opposite, she listened. A heavy snoring wafted from within so she tried the room next to it. Silence. Racine gently inserted the key card into the slot and the sensor flashed green. As she had expected, the militant’s card was a skeleton key. She moved inside the space, confirmed it was empty, and returned to her own room.

  She knew she was strong, and could have probably hefted the smaller of the two corpses in a fireman’s carry over her shoulder but didn’t want to waste her time, energy and get her clothes covered in gore, so she pulled the duvet from her bed, and then rolled the body nearest the door onto it. After checking that the hallway was still empty, she dragged the body from her room to the vacant one. She removed the clean duvet from the bed and hauled the body off her bloody duvet and onto the bed. She then took her duvet back to her room and repeated the process. Once both dead men were on t
he double bed, she covered them with the duvet – bloody side down. She glanced at the two would-be rapists as they lay in a grotesque mocking clinch, and she felt satisfied.

  She shook her head and questioned herself, as she had done many times before. Without doubt her father would approve of such actions but what would her mother say? She imagined her mother would fuss over the bloodstains. Her mother had always fussed, had been the most house-proud person she had ever known; until she had walked out on them when Racine had needed her mother the most. Racine took a breath, she was shaking but with anger at her mother, at her past, and at herself. Something caught in her throat as she glanced at the two corpses. In the silence, Racine accepted that the only thing she was really scared of was herself.

  She checked there was no blood trail, took the fresh duvet, locked the door and returned to her own room. It was time to move but she had to stay in the hotel until the morning. Any sooner would raise suspicion and any later her handiwork would be discovered, the dead men in one room and the blood splatter in the other. She was on her own. Even the guy who had given her the Glock would be well on his way out of the theatre. Racine sanitised her room of her belongings, pocketed the Makarov, cash, and knife, opened the door, and tried another room diagonally across the hall in the opposite direction. Her luck held – it was empty.

  After locking the door, she once again placed the chair in front of it before she examined the fridge. Water again! She climbed onto the bed fully dressed. She lay gazing at the cracks on the plastered ceiling above her as she thought through what had happened. Had her cover been blown or were the militants only after her because she was a woman staying alone? As there had been just two of them, she had to assume the latter. Racine now felt even more fatigued than earlier and without realising it, she fell asleep with her Glock still in her hand, thinking she was glad she’d had a chance to test it and annoyed that she’d had nothing to drink.

  Chapter 12

  Kuibyshivs’kyi District, Donetsk

  Aidan Snow watched the approach road from the first-floor window as the mid-morning sun cast sharp shadows across the empty street. On the edge of the forest to the north of Donetsk, the rundown dacha was in a cluster of houses that barely warranted a name. The hamlet itself had been abandoned after several rogue shells hit sometime earlier in the year. Many such places now dotted the landscape, some completely abandoned like the one he was in, others populated by the elderly and those too stubborn to move out.

  Dressed in black Nomex coveralls, armed with an AK-74SU, and wearing a pair of NVGs, he’d made his way into the dacha in the dead of night. The coveralls, AK, and kit were now safely stored back in the black sports bag and Snow was outfitted in civilian clothes – a leather jacket and jeans. Unless he raided the bag, he had nothing but an untraceable Glock 17 handgun and his training for protection.

  Although the operation was sanctioned by the SIS and the Foreign Secretary, due to the delicacy of the location, Snow had no backup. If caught, he couldn’t call for an extraction team. It had been a decision that had not been taken lightly, but the SIS knew Russia had deployed its latest electronic listening devices to eastern Ukraine and was not willing to take the chance that Snow’s presence could be detected and recorded as proof NATO countries were active in the conflict. It was old-school espionage, reminiscent of Cold War operations.

  Snow was to get as close as he could to the location where Mohammed Iqbal was believed to be held, use whatever means necessary to gain entry, and, if located, secure Iqbal’s release – a simple but by no means easy task. He was not going to risk an approach in daylight, so he had at least twelve hours to kill before he went in suited up and wearing the NVGs. Once Iqbal was secure, he would retrace his route, leaving Donetsk the same way he had entered.

  A noise cut through his thoughts in the sleepy stillness of the early morning. A silver Nissan Qashqai deliberately turned into the rough, dirt road and came to a halt on the grass verge in front of the next house. Yulia looked unremarkable as she got out and casually leant against the roof, holding her mobile phone as though searching for a signal. Snow waited a beat then made his way downstairs. He pushed open the front door, and gently moved towards her.

  ‘We need to go,’ Yulia stated flatly, before getting back into the car and starting the engine. As soon as Snow was seated, they moved off.

  ‘How is it out there?’ Snow motioned up the road.

  ‘Have you been to the city since this all started?’

  Snow shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s …’ Yulia heaved a sigh ‘… different. Dangerous. The DNR control the police or have removed them. There are Russian soldiers, no longer pretending to be anything else, stationed to the south. The banks are closed, the ATMs don’t work, and there are increasing shortages of basic foodstuffs. Even those few, misguided locals who once welcomed the DNR have now started to protest. It’s a powder keg waiting to explode. However, life goes on.’

  ‘And what about the OSCE?’

  Yulia shook her head and there was venom in her voice when she spoke. ‘They are paper tigers, and the Russians are not going to be put off by a few paper cuts.’

  Snow agreed with the analogy. The Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) was in Ukraine to observe and report on all parties adherence to the Minsk II ceasefire agreement. This included monitoring the position, use, and damage caused by heavy weapons, and facilitating prisoner exchanges. However, as an unarmed, civilian mission, there was little the OSCE could do when confronted by Russians toting Kalashnikovs and driving tanks. They had made no mention of Mohammed Iqbal in any of their reports or press conferences.

  ‘Are they visible in the city?’

  ‘They have patrols that go out and look for new infractions but mostly they hang around their hotel.’

  ‘Where are they staying?’

  ‘At the Hotel Park Inn. It’s owned by Radisson.’

  ‘Business as usual, eh?’

  ‘Don’t think me rude but I don’t want to know anything more about you or your mission.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Because when I hear a detail, I cannot forget it.’ She briefly explained her eidetic memory to Snow before saying, ‘By car, the address you need is not that far from here; we shouldn’t have any problems at all.’

  ‘The Shadows know to attack tonight, after dark?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Yulia cast a sideways glance at her passenger. ‘Don’t thank me. I am not doing this for you. I’m doing this for my country.’

  ‘Slava Ukrayina!’ Long live Ukraine! Snow said.

  ‘Geroi Slava!’ Long live the heroes! Yulia completed the patriotic phrase.

  Snow smiled; Yulia was remarkable.

  Ramada Hotel, Donetsk

  The sound of someone banging on a door and calling ‘Olena’ woke Racine with a start. Grabbing the Glock, she moved to the spyhole. Through it in the corridor she could see a ponytail. The head turned and the fish-eye effect of the glass made the massive, wide eyes monstrous. Darren Weller knocked on the door of the room opposite and called out her name again.

  Racine couldn’t let him see her appear from a different room, so she waited for him to give up and leave. Weller produced a key card and held it to the lock … She couldn’t let him see the blood! Racine put the Glock on the floor and quickly exited her new room before Weller was completely inside the old one. She called his name.

  ‘Oh!’ Weller was startled; he turned. ‘Sorry. I called your room but there was no reply, so I thought I’d come up and check on you.’

  ‘I got up early.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Weller mumbled sheepishly as he surreptitiously pocketed the key. He then tapped his stomach with his hand. ‘I should have gone to the gym really, y’know, to keep up my abs of steel, but we need to hit the road before the military traffic starts to move about. Are you ready to leave?’

  ‘I need five minut
es.’

  ‘I can wait inside if you like?’ Weller raised his eyebrow.

  ‘I will meet you in the lobby.’

  ‘OK.’ Weller walked away.

  Racine waited until the lift started to descend with the Englishman inside before she returned to the room she’d slept in and collected her overnight bag. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, then tied her hair back and put on the minimum amount of make-up that would be expected of a Muscovite reporter. She slipped into her leather jacket and hid the Glock in a specially designed inner pocket. Rather than ride the lift down to the ground floor and present herself in a neat, metal box, she took the stairs. Hand in her jacket, poised on the Glock, readying herself for a possible firefight, she opened the door into the lobby. It was deserted except for Weller who was casually leaning against the front desk and chatting to the same staff member who had checked her in the night before. Racine continued to scan the lobby for any signs that she was walking into a trap.

  Weller turned and called to her in English. ‘All set?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Great; let’s go.’

  Racine followed Weller out of the hotel and towards his car. He asked, ‘Why didn’t you leave your luggage?’

  ‘I like to keep it on me.’ Racine hefted it onto her shoulder.

  ‘Makes sense.’

  Racine noticed the car was empty. ‘Where’s your cameraman?’

  ‘Ah, he’s gone on ahead to get things set up. You know, lights et cetera. He’s like a one-man production team. If he wasn’t so ugly, he’d even be doing the interviews!’ Weller chuckled and opened the passenger door. ‘Milady.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Racine got inside and sat with her bag on her lap. She could feel the baby Glock digging into her side, the suppressor negating the sidearm’s mini-design.

  ‘Poyechali!’ Let’s go! Weller declared in Russian as he started the MG and drove away from the hotel.