Traitors Read online

  ‘Very well, I shall question him too. And if we have made a mistake, we shall apologise and issue him with a medal.’

  ‘I’m leaving now for the town hall; let me know if you encounter any problems.’

  ‘I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t kill, sir.’

  *

  Snow got to his feet and watched the attacking group exfil as they sped past him on the wrong side of the road. They had to be The Shadows. It was too much of a coincidence for it to be otherwise. Snow had worked with many guerrilla groups and unofficial units during his career, and as a rule it was their unreliability that always messed things up. Once first contact was made with the enemy plans imploded. And in this case first contact had been made too soon. Snow was angry but knew that holding on to this would not in any way aid the mission.

  He moved back to the storefronts and – again skirting the edge of the buildings – edged towards the scene of the firefight. He saw the smoking hulk of a BMW X5, its passenger door open to reveal several human shapes inside. Even from here he could tell they were dead. Across the road lay two bodies, unmoving.

  Snow reached the end of the block, moved a few steps down a side street, and stopped behind a large dumpster. He was directly opposite the building that had borne the brunt of the attack, the target address. A pair of men dressed in black tactical assault gear burst out of the structure, each taking a different arc with their assault rifles. After they had signalled that the area was clear, a third figure stepped out. He wore standard Russian camouflage fatigues, had immaculately combed dark hair, and a small moustache; Snow quickly identified Igor Strelkov from his SIS dossier. A black Mercedes G Wagon appeared from behind the building, creating its own path as it bounced over the verge. From the way it churned the grass, Snow could tell it was armour-plated. Strelkov hopped in and it drove away just before several men emerged from the building dressed in mismatched fatigues. They checked the bodies of their fallen comrades before standing on the street and lighting up cigarettes.

  Snow shook his head; the situation was surreal. He was in the centre of a European city observing the result of a firefight, an assault that had served no purpose. The attackers had lost several men and gunned down just two of the enemy, yet made no attempt to storm the building. Something about it disturbed him; what had been the point of attacking in daylight? Why had they changed the agreed plans? Snow kept an eye on the target in case whoever was inside moved Iqbal – if Iqbal was still inside.

  As Snow continued to watch the building, he saw three white SUVs approach and it dawned on him what he’d missed. This had to be the reason for the attack happening now. The group’s sole purpose was to draw attention to the address. Once the OSCE arrived to report on the firefight, they would demand access to the building – the building in which the DNR was illegally holding prisoners.

  The three white Toyota Land Cruisers with ‘OSCE’ stencilled on both bonnets and doors drew to a halt directly outside the building. Had they appeared so quickly by chance or by design? Snow thought he knew the answer; the attack was planned and they had been called in advance. As the civilian monitors alighted from their official vehicles, the men of the DNR stopped smoking. With outraged faces the DNR men confronted the monitors and gestured towards the two corpses and the remains of the BMW.

  An idea struck Snow. It was bold and it was dangerous, but it might work. Snow put his bag in the dumpster – hoping it wouldn’t vanish – and walked back onto the street. He carried on past the next store and crossed the road, angling towards the OSCE vehicles. A few curious locals, who decided that the arrival of the OSCE overrode their own fear of men with guns, had started to form a spectator group on the pavement. Snow stood behind them and watched the proceedings.

  The main OSCE monitor was a lanky blond man. He spoke English in a loud voice with Dutch overtones; a beat behind, his translator expressed the requests in Russian. Snow counted nine OSCE personnel in total, which seemed like overkill, until he remembered that they were unarmed. As the lead monitor continued to argue via his translator with the man representing the DNR, Snow turned his attention to the three Toyota Land Cruisers. A narrow trail of smoke escaped from the last in line, the one nearest Snow. The driver was standing next to the vehicle and enjoying a cigarette. Snow scanned the area; all the attention was still on the monitor versus DNR showdown, the local residents were transfixed – happy to watch the big men with guns being berated by a bigger man wearing a white tabard.

  Snow stepped off the kerb in the direction of the Land Cruiser. The driver’s door was open, which meant that the central locking mechanism had not been engaged. Snow casually looked into the empty boot. He then checked the back seat and spotted several white tabards with OSCE stencilled on them. He glanced to his left; the driver was still looking across the road and exhaling cigarette smoke. In a fast, fluid motion, Snow opened the rear door, reached in, and grabbed a tabard. He left the door ajar so as not to make a noise and swiftly walked away from the vehicle. Snow looped around the target building and came back onto the street on the other side of the crowd. An old Audi saloon arrived and four more militants got out to bolster their number on the street.

  Great, Snow thought, the odds are getting tougher. He hung back and waited. And then it happened … his chance. The Dutchman and three of his men were led into the building followed by two of the militants, while the new arrivals pushed back the onlookers. Snow watched and waited for the remaining OSCE monitors to start making notes before he slipped on the tabard and marched confidently towards the door.

  Inside was a reception desk. A few motor-part supplier posters still hung on the walls above it, as well as an out-of-date Pirelli Calendar displaying a woman half wearing a red bikini. The militant sitting at the desk looked up, his brow furrowed. Snow spoke in English, ‘Err … which way did they go?’

  The militant lifted his right hand and pointed to his left. ‘Office.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Snow hurried past the desk. The corridor turned to reveal a flight of stairs on the right and three doors. The door at the far end of the corridor was ajar and Snow could hear the Dutchman. Snow had three choices – one of the two remaining closed doors, or the stairs. He took the stairs up, walking lightly on his toes. The next floor was divided into two rooms, both empty save for discarded papers littering the carpet. He went up again and this time the floor was open plan and completely empty. He took a breath and ascended once more. As he crested the top of the last stair, he heard someone speak. He continued to walk, fingers mentally crossed that whoever was up there respected the OSCE vest enough not to shoot him. The room was a copy of the floor below except this one had empty shell casings spread across the carpet and a discarded RPG launch tube. If he were a real OSCE monitor, Snow would have started to take notes, but he was more preoccupied by the militant in a black T-shirt and camouflage pants leaning out of the window talking on a mobile phone.

  As Snow’s foot hit the top step, the militant turned; perhaps it was Snow’s reflection in the glass that gave him away or the sound of his boot disturbing a spent shell casing – whatever alerted him also made him reach for his Kalashnikov, which had been left leaning against the wall. Snow may have been wearing an OSCE tabard, but he wasn’t going to let a spooked militant, hyped up from battle, aim a Kalashnikov at him. Snow burst forward, sprinting four steps before lunging. The startled militant dropped his phone as he tried to reach the rifle. Snow’s right fist hit the man’s nose, flattening the cartilage, while his left pulled the rifle out of his reach. Stunned, the militant grabbed his face with both hands. Snow now reversed the AK and brought the heavy, wooden stock down on the side of the man’s head. The militant’s eyes rolled back and he hit the carpeted floor with a subdued thud.

  Snow rested against the window frame, caught his breath, and aimed the Kalashnikov at the entrance to the room. He waited a minute in silence; nothing indicated that the struggle had been overheard. Then the sound of a heavy diesel engine drifted up fr
om the road. An unnerving thought appeared in his head. Snow looked out and his fears were confirmed. A green Kamaz truck was approaching, its rear cargo area open to expose two lines of little green men – Russian soldiers sitting on bench seats.

  Snow ducked out of sight, surveyed the room again and saw nothing useful. He’d searched three floors and not found Iqbal. There was only one way to go. Regretfully, Snow discarded the AK and checked his Glock before thrusting it back in its pancake holster and walking gently down the stairs.

  *

  The last rays of the setting sun sparkled on the water below as they walked across the suspension bridge. The warmth of the day would soon be replaced by the chill of a Parisian night in late September. Most other day trippers had departed the park, leaving Racine and Baptiste to stroll in secluded silence. They reached the middle of the bridge and Racine spoke, breaking the stillness. ‘We have to end this.’

  Baptiste seemed confused. ‘End this?’

  ‘Us, we, this thing we have together. It’s not right.’

  Baptiste stopped walking, turned and stared at her. ‘This is right. It feels right – you and me, here, now, just walking, like a normal couple.’

  ‘But we’re not a normal couple, Baptiste! We’re a pair of DGSE officers, and you’re my boss. We can’t have this type of relationship. We cannot be with each other.’

  ‘I can’t help what my heart wants.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Racine, I love you, I always have. This is right, here, and now – just you and me. This is right.’

  ‘But it’s not just you and me. Don’t you understand? The world outside the gates of this park won’t accept it.’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  Racine didn’t reply.

  ‘Do you love me?’

  Racine shook her head. ‘No.’

  Baptiste took a step back as though he’d been punched in the gut.

  Racine continued. ‘We need to go. Drop me off at a metro station.’

  Baptiste swayed, as though he was falling, and grabbed the railing for support. ‘Is there someone else? Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ Racine felt her heart harden.

  ‘It’s Noah, isn’t it? I’ve seen the way you look at each other.’

  ‘There is no one else. I can’t love anyone.’

  Baptiste stabbed his right index finger into his chest. ‘But I love you.’

  ‘I can’t love anyone,’ Racine repeated.

  Baptiste came nearer. She felt his hands on her shoulders and then he raised them to her face and held her cheeks, but the hands were rough, clumsy. Then he squeezed and she tried to pull them away, but she couldn’t move …

  *

  Racine’s eyes opened lazily. They were unfocused but as her vision sharpened, she realised she was staring into Vadim’s large, flat face. He was crouching in front of her and his rough right hand was holding her cheek, whilst his left was inside her bra. He was grinning. Racine tried to move but found she was pinned – her back against a wall and her legs folded sideways beneath her.

  ‘It is true, you are not Olena Gaeva. Your breasts are much larger, and firmer. I will very much enjoy screwing you, after Boroda has finished with his questions.’ Both his hands now focused on her breasts.

  Racine’s arms were bound behind her back, her ankles were hobbled, and heavy tape glued her mouth shut. She had only one option, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. Eyes wild with anger, she used her considerable core strength and jerked forward. Her forehead slammed against Vadim’s nose. There was an audible crack. Sparks flared before her eyes, but Vadim was more hurt than she was. He let go of her breasts and fell backwards, blood pouring from his nose.

  ‘Blat! Suka!’

  Vadim felt his face. His eyes became wide at the sight of his hands, painted red with his own blood. He staggered to his feet, then he came at her. Breathing heavily through his open mouth, he grabbed her by the throat, raising her from the floor, attempting to choke the life out of her, but Racine jerked again – like a sit-up this time. She bent at the waist and pulled her arms forward under her backside whilst at the same time lifting her feet. Vadim’s bloody hands lost their grip on Racine’s neck and she dropped. Overbalancing, Vadim followed her. Falling forward, his head struck the wall behind her with a thud.

  Hitting the floor, heavily, Racine grunted but managed to turn onto her side and complete her manoeuvre. Now her hands were in front of her, and she saw that they were held by nothing more than cable ties. Standing, she raised her arms above her head and then brought them down and out as fast as she could, towards her stomach as though trying to pull them through her body. There was a moment of pain as the plastic dug deeper into her wrists. She swore under her breath, took a deep breath, and repeated the process. This time the ties gave up; they snapped and her wrists hit her stomach. She now tore the tape from her mouth and took several, hungry gulps of air. Vadim was still resting against the wall, like a dazed beast, his forehead and knees taking his weight. Racine desperately hopped to the other side of the room before she dropped to the floor once more, and frantically freed her feet. She heard Vadim start to move, and then realised that the door, her only way out of the room, was directly behind him.

  Vadim slipped down onto his hands and knees, the rough unpainted bricks grazing his forehead as he did so. He shook his head and faced her, growling as blood dripped from his head and his shattered nose. He rose to his haunches, his face a monstrous mask. He slipped his left hand into his pocket and produced an object. It was a dark leather case – a sheath. From this he drew a knife. Racine noted the blade was matte black. ‘I’m not waiting for Boroda. I’m going to kill you now.’

  Racine inhaled deeply. Someone was going to die for sure, and it wasn’t going to be her. Not today, not ever. She relaxed her body and took a mental inventory. Her forehead throbbed like hell, there was a dull ache in her throat, she felt woozy and her back was sore, but apart from that she was uninjured, and extremely angry.

  Vadim slowly rose to his feet. He was a huge man in both height and physique, immensely strong and by the look in his eye, unaccustomed to losing. He was in essence a bully, but a military-trained one. And Racine knew exactly how to beat a bully.

  He slowly backed away and turned the key in the door to lock it. He advanced, his massive meaty hands up. The fingers of his left hand were splayed whilst his right jabbed and slashed at the air in front of him with the knife, using his reach to force Racine into the corner. He crossed the small room in three strides. On the third step he planted his entire weight on his left knee and drew back his right arm. He was faster than she expected. He swung his knife hand at Racine’s neck, the kind of blow that would slit her throat and kill if it connected. She ducked and shot out her booted foot at his left leg. It missed his knee and connected harmlessly with his thigh, eliciting nothing more than a grunt. The back of his hand now swiped at her, striking her shoulder like a hammer, batting her away.

  Racine stumbled and Vadim’s own, long leg lashed out. The kick connected with her solar plexus, jerked her up and off her feet as though she had been electrocuted. She crashed to the floor, winded. He fell upon her, pinning her legs, huge fist poised to pummel her face. Using every ounce of strength left in her core, Racine sat up, and suicidally ignoring the blade brought her head forward. Vadim had read the move – another headbutt – and raised his huge fists in front of his face to grab, and to stab her … but then Racine used her arms instead. She slammed both hands, open-palmed, against his ears in a bat-strike. Vadim’s eyes went wide as he felt the disorientating pressure on his eardrums. He shuffled back, unsure if he was injured or not, swishing his knife wildly as he retreated. Racine used the time to get to her feet. She took a long, deep breath and felt the muscular pain as the air filled her bruised chest.

  Vadim rolled his head and shoulders and squared off against her, knife in hand, face a bloody mess and eyes overflowing with hatred. He charged, seemingly losing control. This time it took
just two long, powerful strides, to bring him within striking range. Again, he planted his entire weight on his left knee and drew back his right arm for the killing blow. This time, however, Racine did not miss. She delivered a kick to the side of his left knee. There was a satisfying click. Vadim’s right leg was already moving forward and the torque on his left knee made it collapse. Following the trajectory of his fast-swinging right fist, Vadim lost his balance and fell, turning in the air and landing flat on his back. The wind shot out of his lungs, his fists slammed into the floor and the knife flew from his hand. His legs were still aloft, and he presented an open target. Racine darted around and kicked him hard in the groin. He automatically raised his head and torso to fold up into the pain, making his head an easy target. Racine kicked it.

  Vadim went limp. Racine caught her breath and looked down at the bastard. He deserved to be dead and she didn’t care if he was. There was a banging on the door, but she ignored it as she kicked him again, and again.

  *

  Back on the ground floor, Snow saw the office door was cracked open; the Dutchman was still in full flow, insisting he had the authority of all signatory member countries of the OSCE – including Russia – to investigate and report on the situation. Snow looked at the door on his right and noted that it had the kind of lock used on store cupboards. He sniffed at the doorjamb and smelled a pungent cocktail of cleaning products. Stifling a cough, he backed away and stood by the last closed door. Snow took a deep breath, fixed a quizzical expression on his face and entered the room.

  Snow squinted, his eyes dazzled by the lighting in the room. In the very centre a vivid pool of white bathed a table and four chairs. One man sat at the table, facing away from him. He had shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail and was fiddling with a video camera. He was not Mohammed Iqbal. Past the table, in the gloom, Snow made out a second man. He had a thick beard and wore a uniform. He was banging on the door in a part of the room that had been bricked off. The bearded man was the first to see Snow. He stepped away from the door.