Cold East Page 12

  Kishiev let a smile split his lips. ‘I would like to see the little man try.’

  Boroda’s eyes showed contempt but he remained silent.

  ‘Go. I shall be watching,’ Strelkov ordered.

  Boroda guided Kishiev down the stairs to the ground-floor foyer by nudging him in the back with a silenced 9mm pistol. Both men were dressed in scruffy civilian clothes that gave the impression they had been sleeping rough. Another member of Strelkov’s team was leaning against the wall in the far corner, keeping eyes on the street outside.

  ‘Make a run for it, I dare you, Kishiev!’ Boroda said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Your father must be very proud of his son for abandoning his faith,’ Kishiev replied without irony as he stepped into the bright Istanbul sunlight. Boroda followed Kishiev a beat later and they crossed the road.

  ‘Stop!’ Boroda ordered as they reached the edge of the litter-strewn square. ‘The Turk may have lookouts. We cannot just walk into the building – it is too obvious. Turn and face me. Pretend we are having a friendly conversation.’

  ‘So, we shall converse.’ Kishiev looked his younger countryman in the eyes. ‘Do you enjoy being a Russian slave? Does it not offend your faith to serve those who have destroyed our motherland?’

  ‘You are a terrorist, Kishiev. You have killed innocent women and children.’

  Kishiev shrugged his shoulders. ‘I killed Russian soldiers who invaded my land; it was the Kremlin who planted the bombs that murdered our people. Or do you not believe this? Has that goat molester Kadyrov brainwashed you?’

  Boroda’s right arm shook as he suppressed the urge to strike Kishiev. ‘Ramzan Akhmadovich is a great man, a true servant of the faith. As President of Chechnya he had led our nation out of the darkness!’

  Unlike Boroda, Kishiev had learnt to hide his anger, a necessary skill at Black Dolphin. ‘He is a Russian puppet like you, but a rich one.’

  ‘Move,’ Boroda growled, nodding at the target building.

  They exited the square and walked up the couple of steps into Inci’s office. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust once more to the darkness within the building, but as they did so they were greeted by a youth speaking Turkish.

  ‘Iyi akşamlar.’ ‘Good afternoon,’ the boy said in Turkish. ‘My name is Ferit. How may I help you?’

  Kishiev replied in Arabic. ‘Good afternoon. I would like to speak with Orhan.’

  Without missing a beat, the youth switched languages. ‘Of course, he is upstairs. May I enquire who is asking?’

  ‘Two weary travellers who need nothing more than his hospitality.’

  ‘Please be seated.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The two Chechens sat on a threadbare green settee and watched Ferit disappear through a beaded curtain which hung at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Kishiev took in his surroundings; nothing had changed since his last visit. The settee and desk were the only two pieces of furniture in the room, and both had seen better days. An asthmatic fan moved above them, swirling the warm city air, and a radio quietly played Turk-pop. ‘You do speak Arabic, I presume?’

  ‘Do not attempt to insult me further, Kishiev. I am Chechen.’

  ‘A real one, according to your master.’

  ‘Correct,’ Boroda grunted, the insult sailing above his head.

  They heard the short, rotund Turk before they saw him, his feet sounding a surprisingly light pitter-patter on the steps, like a child. As he pushed through the curtain, accompanied by Ferit, his eyes widened. ‘Ahlan sadiqi.’ ‘Hello my friend,’ Inci said in Arabic.

  Kishiev and Boroda stood. Kishiev held out his arms. ‘Hello, Orhan, may peace be upon you.’

  Inci took Kishiev’s hand and then examined him quizzically, staring at his bristly scalp and stubbly face. ‘Of course I had heard you were held by the Russians?’

  ‘No longer. The will of Allah is greater than the walls of any prison.’

  ‘Of course.’ Inci turned to Boroda. ‘You are one of his men?’

  ‘He is,’ Kishiev confirmed with a smile.

  ‘I am Orhan. I am happy to be of assistance to you.’

  Boroda did not take the man’s hand. The Turk’s protruding belly and choppy Arabic disgusted him.

  ‘I understand that several of my brothers now stay with you.’ It wasn’t a question from Kishiev but a statement of fact. ‘I must speak with them.’

  Inci was surprised, not wary. As a smuggler for hire, operational details weren’t his concern and he had received payment from Al-Qaeda for many years. There was no reason for him to believe his business was in jeopardy. He’d been paid to move Kishiev and, later, men sent by Kishiev, and the paymasters for his current guests were the same. ‘I will ask if they wish to see you.’

  ‘That is most kind, Orhan, but we have our orders. I hope you understand?’

  ‘Of course, but please just wait a moment.’

  Inci retraced his steps back through the beaded curtain.

  Boroda spoke quietly in Russian. ‘Kishiev, if you have in any way warned Inci, your family will be slaughtered like lambs.’

  ‘One day, Boroda, you shall die. I will kill you and, at that moment, Allah shall pass judgement upon you.’

  ‘You have already been judged, Kishiev, and you have failed.’

  Inci reappeared. ‘Follow me up the stairs.’

  The stairway was narrow, the walls a grimy green, giving way to a landing with two doors. A skylight above, in contrast to the dirty interior, gave a glimpse of crisp, vivid-blue sky. The door on the right had the word ‘Tuvalet’ stencilled on it, and the door on the left was open. Through it several beds were visible. Four men stood in the room, well dressed, their business suits at odds with their intense eyes.

  ‘These are the two men who wanted to see you,’ Inci said before backing out of the room. He had no interest in learning more about their business.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mohammed Tariq was the closest to the door. His arms were loose by his sides and he stood on the balls of his feet.

  ‘Brother, my name is Kishiev. I am, just like you, a humble servant of Allah, peace be upon Him. I have come to aid you in this most noble of missions.’

  Tariq’s eyes narrowed. ‘What mission is that?’

  Kishiev heard footsteps from the corridor and fought the urge to turn. Boroda snapped around to face the remaining two members of Tariq’s team, who had concealed themselves in the toilet.

  Kishiev held up his open palms and smiled in a manner he hoped would put the men at ease. ‘Of course you are wary, and you should be, for the device you carry is the most potent weapon we have ever possessed.’

  ‘What device is that, brother?’

  ‘The portable nuclear device you have transported through Iran with the aid of Yassin al-Suri.’ Kishiev now spoke to each man in turn. ‘Many years ago, I was one of those who sat with the Lion Sheik and planned your mission, brother.’

  Tariq was suspicious that this man knew of their connection to al-Suri. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is, my brother. You are the chosen warriors who will use the Hand of Allah against the infidels!’

  ‘Insha’Allah.’ Tariq let himself relax a fraction at the name of the weapon. His visitor knew of the device, but what did he know of the mission, and who was he? ‘Search them.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ Kishiev said.

  ‘And neither do I, brother,’ Boroda stated with an even tone.

  The two Chechens held their arms away from their bodies as they were frisked. Kishiev locked eyes with Boroda and waited for the right time to make his move, but as the search concluded he became confused as he saw a faint smile form under the Chechen’s beard. Satisfied that neither Chechen was carrying a weapon, the Afghans stepped away.

  ‘So, brothers…’ Tariq’s tone was now much relaxed. ‘Explain who you are and why you are here.’

  Kishiev quickly recalculated – the best lies contained the seeds of truth. ‘We are Che
chen. Like you, our lands have been invaded, our crops poisoned, our women raped, and our faith defiled by the infidels. Together we shall strike back. We are here to guide you on the next stage of your journey.’

  ‘To guide us where?’

  ‘Your team shall be split into two groups. Half of you shall head for Greece where you will be assigned your target by another true believer, while your team,’ Kishiev said, pointing at Tariq, ‘shall accompany us to Ukraine with the nuclear device. That is why you will need our Russian-language skills.’

  Boroda tried to hide his surprise – his thick eyebrows and beard helped.

  ‘Understood, brother.’ Tariq now accepted that the men before him were Al-Qaeda, as they spoke of operational details no one outside the management council would know of, such as the splitting of his team into two and mentioning Ukraine. ‘Why the change of plan?’

  ‘The Russians, my brother. They have invaded some parts of Ukraine and now all ports of entry to the south of the country are heavily monitored. You would be questioned, and without our linguistic abilities they will detain you. We may enter together, however. I have the necessary contacts.’

  Tariq was satisfied. ‘Please accept my hospitality and have tea with us.’ He waved his hand at a small table.

  Kishiev placed his hand on his chest. ‘Alas, time is short. We are to leave tomorrow at sunrise so you must be ready.’

  ‘Before we leave, may I see the Hand of Allah?’ Boroda asked.

  Tariq addressed Reza Khan in Pashtun. ‘Show him the device.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Do not question me, Reza.’

  Khan said no more. He knelt beside one of the beds, removed a case from underneath, and then held it at arm’s length. ‘Here.’

  Boroda felt his heart start to beat faster and a bead of sweat appeared on his brow. It was true; the bomb was in the hands of the terrorists. He had to act, to retrieve it, but he was one man against six – seven if he counted Kishiev. Could he grab it and, if so, could he make it safe? Would they not just detonate it right here and now? He took a step forward. Tariq blocked his path. ‘I need to see the markings on the case, that is all.’

  ‘OK,’ Tariq agreed, ‘but do not attempt to touch the device.’

  ‘I understand, brother.’ Boroda took three more steps and leant forward slightly to study the metal case. The heavy clasps were identical to the photographs he had been shown, as was the design of the corners, but he realised there was no way he could take it alone. He made a show of being satisfied and walked back to Kishiev. ‘Be ready to leave at sunrise. Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ Tariq repeated, as the Chechens left the room.

  Boroda hustled Kishiev towards the stairs, almost colliding with Inci as he exited the toilet, still buttoning up his fly. ‘We need transportation north.’

  ‘Ah,’ Inci sighed. ‘Transportation is no problem, it is what I do. When do you need to travel?’

  ‘At sunrise,’ Boroda grunted.

  ‘You know that prices have changed? I have much demand now.’

  ‘We can pay,’ Boroda bristled. ‘Be here at sunrise.’

  ‘So it shall be.’

  Holding his arm with a vice-like grip, Boroda took Kishiev down the stairs, across the office, and out into the street. ‘You set us up, Kishiev.’

  ‘True, I was expecting them to find your gun.’

  ‘You think I would have been so foolish as to take it in there? I left it in the foyer of our apartment block.’

  ‘You believe you are safe with me unarmed?’

  Boroda growled. ‘Try me.’

  Strelkov watched the two Chechens exit the target building and take a snaking route towards the OP. Minutes later they were back in the Russian-commandeered flat and Boroda had explained what had transpired.

  ‘You can confirm that the device is present?’ Strelkov asked almost mechanically.

  ‘Yes.’ Boroda wasted no time with rank. ‘The case is of the type used on an RA-115A.’

  Strelkov folded his arms. It was too soon to feel elated. His anger at Kishiev had started to rise and soon it would boil over unless he channelled it. ‘You lied to us, Kishiev.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kishiev admitted without emotion.

  ‘You knew all along where the device was headed.’

  ‘No. I made it up.’

  Strelkov shook his head. ‘What is the target?’

  ‘Which one?’

  Strelkov’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘The target of the bomb!’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘But you do know that the team will split into two?’

  ‘Yes. I know the outline of the plan, which is why we are here. I have led you to the bomb, as we agreed.’

  Strelkov laughed mirthlessly. ‘You think you are able to play us? To outwit the FSB?’

  Kishiev became indignant. ‘I have handed you the device; now you must keep your end of the bargain, Strelkov.’

  ‘I will. You have proven that you know more about the inner workings of Al-Qaeda than you have disclosed to us. Our interrogation wing shall now be responsible for your safekeeping just as soon as they arrive. In the meantime, Boroda shall take you away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not the circus, if that was what you were expecting,’ Strelkov sneered.

  ‘I have seen enough performing dogs here.’

  ‘That’s it; carry on with your inane remarks now, because when the interrogators arrive you’ll have little breath to speak.’

  *

  The target building was quiet and the streets outside were still. Strelkov studied the building yet again for anything he might have missed, but it was unremarkable in its ordinariness. Two of the three tatty Hyundai taxis had left in the small hours of the morning with their drivers and, as far as Strelkov could make out, were not expected back until midday. The last remaining yellow saloon belonged to Inci and its presence was a sign that he had slept on the premises. Strelkov studied the scrubby square. The dogs were sleeping and the benches were tramp-free. Moving away from the window he gave his handpicked assault team the ready signal and said ‘Go! Go!’ in Russian. ‘Davai! Davai!’

  With the sun still an hour away, the Russians advanced to target. Dressed in full assault coveralls, body armour, helmets, and respirators, they were aliens in the urban environment. They skirted the square and then lined up against the side wall of the building, unsighted by the windows directly across the room. The Russians then split into two subteams. The first used a grappling hook to get onto the roof while the second took up position by the front door. The lead man of the second team placed a frame charge against the front door, before trailing out the det cord and retreating away from the rest of the assaulters to the opposite side of the doorway. A second later the door imploded and a pair of flashbangs were tossed into the void. They exploded and were immediately followed by the Russians in snake formation. A further pair of flashbangs were dropped through the skylight and followed a second later by the roof team.

  As Strelkov continued to look on he saw flashes in a first-floor window before everything for a moment became calm. Then the sound of dogs howling and the neighbourhood complaining at being woken up took over. Strelkov left the apartment, and its owner, who lay drugged up in his empty bath. He jogged across the street and through the square towards the target. The assault had lasted no more than a minute and they had a further five before the local authorities would arrive and start to ask questions.

  *

  The Russians had drugged Kishiev before transporting him to the flat that acted as a safe house, injecting just enough sedative to make him compliant, but now it had worn off. Kishiev sat on the cold, laminate floor, handcuffed by the left wrist to a radiator. His FSB guard was a huge man, completely ill-suited to covert operations. He was the muscle, the man they used to intimidate and suppress. And now, as the rest of the Strelkov’s team, led by Boroda, assaulted Inci’s building, the guard was attempting to intimi
date and suppress Kishiev. He hadn’t spoken a word to Kishiev, merely watched him with a cold anger that suggested deep hatred. Meanwhile, Kishiev stared at the wall, and retreated into a meditative state in an attempt to clear the remnants of the drug-induced fog from his mind. His years at Black Dolphin had taught him patience and how to channel his mental strength, an unexpected gift from Mother Russia.

  A shrill ringtone reverberated around the sparsely furnished flat. The Russian answered. ‘Da?’

  There was a pause while the guard received his instructions and before he moved towards Kishiev. As he bent, off balance, arm extended, to hand Kishiev the phone, the doorbell rang. The Russian hesitated, and then walked away, speaking into the phone. Kishiev saw his chance and acted. He wrenched his arm and felt the wall mount give slightly. As he heaved again he heard a heavy thud come from the hallway, like a large book landing flat on a wooden floor. Kishiev turned his head towards the door and that was when he heard a whistle. A whistle he recognised. He heard it again and this time he replied with one of his own; it was a signal he hadn’t used for many years.

  From outside the room a familiar voice asked in Arabic, ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes, brother, I am,’ Kishiev replied.

  ‘I’m coming in,’ the voice said. A figure emerged from behind the door. He was carrying a suppressed Glock 19. Even though they hadn’t stood face to face since Afghanistan, more than a decade before, the man known within Al-Qaeda as the ‘White Eagle’ was unmistakable. ‘Ahlan sadiqi,’ he said, a smile forming on his lips.

  ‘Hello, my brother,’ Kishiev replied. ‘It has been a long time.’

  ‘And a hard time for you, or so I hear.’

  Kishiev let his lips curl into a smile. He pulled his left arm, the radiator wall mounting snapped, and the handcuff slipped free. ‘The Russians thought they could break me. They were wrong.’

  ‘The Russians are wrong about most things, Aslan.’

  Kishiev stood. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘It wasn’t that difficult. Strelkov let the cat out of the bag when he came to see you at Black Dolphin. Then I just had to follow him.’

  Kishiev grunted his agreement. The White Eagle was one of Al-Qaeda’s deepest cover agents. ‘So you have finally decided to use the nuclear device?’