Cold East Page 13

  The White Eagle shook his head. ‘This is not the same bomb you knew of. This one was discovered in Afghanistan.’

  Kishiev was surprised. ‘This is not the Hand of Allah?’

  ‘It is his other hand. His right hand is too well guarded.’

  ‘By the management council?’

  ‘No, by the CIA. I had to let them have it; they had got too close.’

  Kishiev trusted the Al-Qaeda operative. ‘But the plans have remained the same?’

  ‘They have changed. The EU is too hard a target and would not best serve our cause.’

  ‘I am confused. Was it not the purpose of the late Lion Sheik to strike terror into the hearts of the infidels, as punishment for murdering our Muslim brothers and invading our lands?’

  ‘It remains so, my brother, but the battlefield has moved. Many things have happened during your incarceration. We have a new target, one that no one suspects and one that will catch the aggressor completely unaware. It will also please you immensely.’

  ‘What is the target, my brother?’ Kishiev scratched his stubbly chin.

  The White Eagle quickly explained and the Chechen allowed himself to smile. The dead guard’s mobile phone started to ring. ‘Your Russians cannot be too far behind me. We need to go.’

  ‘Not before we leave them a parting present,’ Kishiev said.

  Chapter 7

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Pushing and barging their way through the first of Istanbul’s morning traffic, it took Strelkov and his team half an hour to reach the Russian safe house. There had been no reply from the mobile phones of the men left to guard the Chechen. Strelkov cursed himself for moving Kishiev as they crested a small rise and the entrance to the apartment block came into view.

  ‘Stop,’ Strelkov ordered Boroda. The VW transporter came to an immediate halt. As Strelkov looked on, the scene became clearer. A police car, an ambulance, and a small crowd had gathered outside the building. ‘Take us into the car park at the back.’

  Boroda steered the van forward before turning and bumping up over the pavement and into the cracked, concrete parking lot. Strelkov pointed to three of his team. ‘You come with me. The rest of you secure the van and be prepared to move when I give the order.’ The men nodded their assent. Strelkov removed his MP-443 Grach from its pancake holster and stepped out of the van. Weapons held flat against their thighs to minimise the profile, the three assaulters followed him quickly towards the apartment building’s rear entrance. Unbidden, they took up positions either side of the door before bursting in, weapons ready. They cleared the small lobby and sandwiched Strelkov as they took the stairs, reaching the sixth floor soundlessly. The lead man lay flat on the top step and peered round the corner into the hallway. Empty. He paused for half a minute, tuning in to the heartbeat of the building, before moving forward at a crouch. He placed his ear at the apartment door and listened for any signs of life. He beckoned the remainder of the team over. Once ready they kicked the door open and bomb-burst inside. Two men went left to clear the hall, bathroom and kitchen, while Strelkov and the other moved right to the bedroom and living room. The apartment was empty. Strelkov looked down and saw a trail of blood on the tiled floor, leading from the middle of the living room towards the balcony. The doors were open and the sound of the city wafted in. Two team members headed for the balcony. Strelkov’s eyes now saw something new by the threshold. A wire! His eyes widened. As he opened his mouth to yell a warning an explosion erupted inside the apartment.

  *

  British Consulate, Istanbul, Turkey

  Simon Scarborough, ‘Scarby’ to his drinking buddies, bit into a bacon sandwich and closed his eyes with satisfaction. He loved bacon and couldn’t understand how Muslims did without it. Why did a religion forbid its followers from eating specific foods? Narcotics he could understand, even alcohol at a push, but bacon? Seriously? Bacon? Still, it didn’t matter to him. He had bacon and that was all that mattered. Breakfast was his favourite meal of the day and it was his habit to eat it slowly at his desk as he checked his overnight emails. In his opinion, bacon and tomato wrapped in two doorsteps of granary bread, with a squirt of Heinz tomato ketchup, and washed down with a mug of milky, sugary PG Tips, couldn’t be beaten. He took another bite just as there was a knock at his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he mumbled through his mouthful of meat.

  ‘Scarby!’ Brocklehurst pointed an accusative finger at his boss’s sandwich. ‘That’s haram.’

  ‘No, it’s bacon.’

  ‘You ever tried beef bacon?’ Scarborough shook his head. ‘Had it in Saudi. All we could get when the consulate ran out, but it weren’t bad with a dash of brown sauce.’

  ‘Thank you, Jamie Oliver. Now, what do you want?’

  ‘Your spy is here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Scarborough put his sandwich back on his plate and stood. His “spy” was Ekrim Keser, a former Deputy Director of the Turkish NIA and long-time friend to the British. Keser would only speak to Scarborough, a fact that irritated Brocklehurst.

  ‘I’ve put him in interview room two; he’s quite animated.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Scarborough followed Brocklehurst out of his office, along a corridor, and entered the interview room. Brocklehurst shut the door on the pair and went back to work. Keser was immaculately dressed as per usual, giving the impression that he was en route to a wedding. He came straight to the point. ‘Simon, I have some very alarming news. There have been two separate terrorist attacks this morning.’

  Scarborough’s eyes became wide. ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Perhaps I exaggerate, a little.’ Keser shrugged. ‘An address the NIA has on a watch list was attacked today by armed men. They gained entry to the building with explosives. Local residents saw flashes and heard gunfire.’

  ‘When was this? I’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘Just over three hours ago, and you won’t, because the NIA are trying to keep it quiet. I only know because… well… you know.’

  ‘I do.’ The elderly former intelligence officer had innumerable contacts.

  ‘Inside, the police found four bodies. One taxi driver and three others who appeared to be from the Indian subcontinent. A Pakistani passport was found on one of them.’

  Scarborough sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. ‘Why were the NIA watching the address?’

  Keser leant forward in his seat conspiratorially. ‘They were suspects in a people-trafficking ring.’

  ‘Oh, really.’ This was a little too close to home. ‘But who attacked them?’

  ‘Ah!’ Keser held up his index finger. ‘That’s where all this gets, how does one say, “cloak and dagger”? Two hours ago there was a call from an apartment block known to the NIA as containing a Russian safe house. The call was made by a neighbour. He’s a jogger and was setting off for a run when he found a body on the pavement. It looked as though it had fallen from a balcony. It was a huge man, like a bodybuilder, but that is not the end of it. No. A matter of some twenty minutes later there was an explosion in the apartment block, in the Russian safe house.’

  ‘Were there any casualties?’

  ‘Only a lot of blood; the casualties, bodies, appear to have been dragged away!’

  Scarborough blinked; there was only one possible conclusion. ‘A Russian black op?’

  ‘That is what my thinking is. The police have been told to leave it alone, the NIA have taken over. I want to know what a Russian team was doing there. What was their target? Were they after someone, or something? You know, Simon, I have heard some rumours.’

  Scarborough started to hear alarm bells in his head. ‘What about?’

  ‘You and your American friends are looking for something, perhaps a terror cell? I do know that something is in the air.’

  ‘Ekrim, I need to make a phone call. I hope you understand.’

  The veteran intelligence officer stood and extended his hand. ‘Yes, I do. Good luck, Simon. You know where I am if you need me.
And I would like to know, eventually, what this was all about.’

  ‘Of course.’ Scarborough shook his spy’s hand and left the room. Less than a minute later he was back in his office, eating the last piece of his, now cold, bacon sandwich. If anything, stress made him hungrier. His desk phone rang. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I take it your spy has left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to come to your office immediately.’

  ‘OK.’ Scarborough ended the call and barely had time to wipe his mouth and finish his mug of tepid tea before Brocklehurst walked into the room and sat. ‘What’s so urgent?’ he asked, but he had a feeling he already knew.

  ‘One of the Hegira locations has been hit,’ Brocklehurst said, shutting the door.

  He did know. ‘I know.’

  ‘How?’

  Scarborough quickly explained his meeting.

  ‘GCHQ got onto me after I left you with Keser. The camera shows an assault team going in. Explosive entry, flashbangs, and then, two minutes later, someone else joining them before they bug-out.’

  ‘OK. I’ve got to call Jack Patchem.’ Scarborough reached for his plate and then remembered he’d finished his sandwich.

  ‘You think this could be related to that other thing?’ Even though both men were SIS officers, they had refrained from using the terms ‘nuclear’, ‘nuke’, or ‘bomb’ within the consulate.

  ‘It seems too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we call Harry first?’ Brocklehurst referred to their London-based head of section Harry Slinger-Thompson.

  ‘No, this is time-sensitive. Jack can have someone tell Harry.’ Scarborough pressed a button on his desk phone to put it on speaker and then dialled Vauxhall Cross. He was connected on the second ring to Patchem’s PA and a moment later to Patchem himself. ‘Jack, this is Simon Scarborough, here in Istanbul. I’ve got James Brocklehurst with me. You’re on speakerphone.’

  ‘Hello, Simon, what do you have for me?’ Patchem sounded tired but affable.

  Scarborough explained once more his meeting with Keser and then let Brocklehurst add to the mix the news from GCHQ.

  Patchem hadn’t been briefed on Operation Hegira as Turkey didn’t come within the remit of his desk, but now he would request and be granted full access to their electronic take. When he spoke again the fatigue had left his voice. ‘James, for how long had this camera been in place prior to the attack?’

  ‘Just over three weeks – twenty-four days to be exact.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have the techies run the tapes again through their facial recognition software. Is there anything else you can tell me about Orhan Inci?’

  ‘His business seemed brisk. There were always tourists coming and going.’ Brocklehurst frowned. ‘Actually, I did see a group arrive two days ago who seemed unusual.’

  ‘In what way?’ Patchem prompted.

  ‘There were six of them and they were wearing suits.’

  ‘Did they look like Afghans?’

  ‘They were Asian; to be honest, if it hadn’t been for the way they were dressed, I’d have said they were Brits abroad.’

  ‘Simon, I need you to ask Keser to use his contacts to get photos of the bodies; it’ll be faster than a request via official channels. I don’t care how you do it, but we need to know who the Russians took out and who they took away.’ More importantly, Patchem thought to himself, we need to know if they’re now in possession of the bomb.

  ‘Are we sure it was the Russians?’ Scarborough asked.

  ‘I’m going to watch the tapes myself, but if it walks like a bear and moves like a bear, the chances are it’s Russian.’ If the Russians had retrieved the device the immediate threat was over, and the attack averted. But how in hell was he to verify that the Russians had the device? He couldn’t very well ask them. ‘Simon, do we have anyone monitoring the Russian Consulate?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘James, are any of your cameras near the Russian Consulate?’

  ‘No.’

  Patchem wasn’t surprised. Until events of the past year, Russia hadn’t been an enemy of the West, merely an antagonist masquerading as a partner. Their aggression in Ukraine, however, had changed all that. He was certain the US had eyes on the consulate and could run up a list of who had passed through its large, ornate gates, but that was probably reason enough to discount the consulate as a destination for the assault team and any prize they might have. ‘I’ll ask the Americans if they’ve seen anything. The Russian safe house where the explosion happened – was this place on our radar?’

  ‘No,’ Scarborough replied shamefaced. ‘Keser told us about it.’

  Patchem said nothing. He wasn’t one for the blame game; he had bigger fish to fry. ‘In that case, also ask Keser if there are any other Russian assets the NIA knows of.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Stay on top of this, you two, and if you need anything whatsoever, call me.’

  The line went dead and Brocklehurst raised his eyebrows at Scarborough. ‘Bloody hell!’

  In London, Patchem quickly left his office. His first stop would be the desk of Harry Slinger-Thompson and then he had a phone call to make to his favourite American. He hoped to hell the Russians had the device and he could call off his search, but life was rarely ever that easy, however it seemed at the time.

  *

  London, Undisclosed Location, Secret Intelligence Service Safe House.

  Mikhail was having the dream again, reliving the day that had defined his existence for the last quarter of a century. He was once again a young Spetsnaz officer. It was a nightmare, but the most frightening part was that it had been real…

  The chill of the Afghan night had all but disappeared, to be replaced by the weak warmth of dawn. In the half-light, poppy fields stretched ahead of them and westwards on the valley floor. It was a beautiful flower to some, but to others as deadly as any bomb. To the east, the unnamed village, with its ramshackle mud huts. A few feet away he saw his commanding officer, Bull Pashinski, lower his binos and rub his eyes. Their Spetsnaz assault group had been given specific orders: attack the village, eliminate all Mujahideen, burn the poppy crop. His comrades, the true elite of the Red Army, were ready. They lay prone on the ridge, waiting.

  To their left and hidden in a dip, Captain Lesukov’s fire support team had the mortars ready; to Bull’s right Sergeant Zukauskas and the rest of the Brigada. The plan was simple, brutal, and effective: Lesukov’s men would shell the village; then their team would move from house to house, picking off anyone and everyone that survived. Intelligence supplied by a local informer had said the village was a sham, nothing more than a base for Mujahideen fighters and Arab Islamic mercenaries to grow and distribute the death that came from the poppy in the field. The Red Army could not let this continue in a partner state. Hence the unequivocal orders.

  Bull looked at Lesukov. ‘Start firing your mortars in two minutes.’

  Lesukov saluted. ‘Good luck.’

  Bull returned the salute. ‘Ivan, we are Spetsnaz, we make our own luck.’

  Mikhail, Bull, and the rest of the team moved silently over the ridge and into the valley.

  Thumph… thumph…

  Mortar shells whistled through the sky. There was sudden movement from the village. A robed figure appeared and gazed directly at the ridge. He yelled, raised his rifle, and fired into the sky. As he did so an explosion tore the very earth from under his feet. More shells landed, flattening the Afghan houses and destroying the beauty of the new day. Then, as abruptly as they had started, they stopped. The Soviets now swept through the carnage before them. The dead and dying littered the village; many had been asleep, others in the process of grabbing weapons. Several fled to the fields and were chased down by rounds, which not even the fastest could outrun. Mikhail and Bull reached the building they believed housed the village elder. The roof was intact, even though part of one wall was now missing. The old man was sitting on a crimson rug in the corner, his henn
a-red beard specked with dust. His eyes displayed anger, not fear. He waited until Mikhail had entered the room behind Bull before speaking with venom-laced words.

  Mikhail translated. The old man jabbed at them with a bony finger. ‘He says it is a trap, that we have all been tricked… we are infidels, not men of our word, not men of honour.’

  ‘Enough.’ Bull stepped forward and crouched. ‘We are men of honour. We did not break our agreement.’ Bull stood, drew his Makarov, and shot the elder point-blank between the eyes.

  Shocked, Mikhail stared down at his captain. ‘Why?’

  Pashinski stared at the young officer, his eyes angry but his face dismissive. ‘He was Mujahideen; that is all you need know.’

  An explosion sounded behind them, then another. Bull turned as Mikhail backed out of the house. On the ridge above, the fire support team were under attack. Gathering up his men, Bull charged back towards Lesukov’s squad. Reaching the ridge, wild rounds whistled past them. Lesukov’s men had been taken by surprise; a group of fighters numbering more than twenty had flanked them from the west. Lesukov fired controlled bursts from his Kalashnikov at the Afghan hordes. Of Lesukov’s eight men, Mikhail could see that only Lesukov and two others were left. The colossal Lithuanian, Zukauskas, grabbed a mortar and turned it around to face the oncoming threat; one-handed he dropped a shell into the tube and fired. Unsighted, the shell flew over the Mujahideen and exploded without causing a casualty. Securing the tube on the ground he sighted it while Mikhail dropped in a new shell. This time the explosion landed just to the left of the advancing fighters. Some stopped, others carried on. Bull joined Lesukov. There was a grin on Lesukov’s face. ‘We make our own luck!’

  ‘No. We make it unlucky for them!’

  Listening to instructions shouted by Zukauskas, Mikhail adjusted the mortar. They launched shell after shell until their ordinance ran out. Meanwhile, Lesukov and the rest of the remaining Russians fired well-aimed rounds at the approaching fighters. Eventually the sun banished the last shadows of night and the gunfire stopped. Mikhail looked around. Lesukov’s team was all but wiped out, and his own team had lost many members, too, yet Zukauskas had a smile on his swine-like face. He slapped Mikhail heavily on the back. ‘We showed those goat fuckers!’