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  “It should only take us forty minutes or so, Director.” Although he refuses to wear a seatbelt, Oleg is a good driver and, of course, the speed limits don’t apply to our diplomatic plates.”

  Sukhoi nodded and, for the first time, spoke in English. “Thank you again, Mr Vickers, for everything.”

  “Not at all.” Vickers replied in the same. “Leonid Grigoryevich, I must ask you now if you can give me a hint as to what information you have? We, as you can see, have acted in good faith. This would be an act of good faith on your part?”

  Without considering the request Sukhoi spoke. ”The Russians want the world to buy their oil. Saudi Arabia is in the way.”

  “So what are they planning to do?” Vickers phone rang before Sukhoi could answer. He had to pick up it was Blazhevich. ”Vickers.”

  “The Belarusian’s know you’ve got Sukhoi.”

  Vickers froze. He knew that Dudka would have to eventually tell the SBU but wished it had not been quite so soon “Zlotnik told the Belarusians?”

  “A Belarusian KGB investigator was at the office when Dudka was led away.”

  “Where is Dudka?

  “He has been placed in a cell waiting further questioning.”

  “Thanks Vitaly.” Vickers ended the call. He met Sukhoi’s eyes. The old man had caught the gist of the conversation. “We will get you there safely. You have my word on that.”

  “I do not doubt your word, Mr Vickers but I fear that my Government will stop at nothing to prevent me from leaving Ukraine.”

  “Director Sukhoi, this is a diplomatic vehicle, what can they do?”

  *

  Wearing a pair of leather driving gloves, to prevent any finger prints, Voloshin waited. His instructions had been succinct, ‘Sukhoi must die. Use any available means.’ His car was parked at a café overlooking the Boryspil highway, the only road that led directly to the airport and the route that the British must take. He had acted fast; this was his last and only chance to complete this part of the mission. If he failed now, he failed his country and his unit. Voloshin had never failed before but this ‘old goat’ had somehow managed to elude him twice! There would be no third time. His car was now up to the task.

  Voloshin watched the traffic. Large luxury sedans sped past shaking the Soviet era Lada’s and Zaporozhets, reminding Voloshin of the giant yachts in Dubai that tossed the old Dhows in their wake. Voloshin thought of what he’d do once this was all over and the beach side villa in the sun that he’d been promised. He focused again and pushed all thoughts of personal enjoyment or gain from his mind. He would be in Dubai soon enough, but it would not be for pleasure, not yet.

  Voloshin again refocused his mind on the passing traffic. He had been given a list by the KGB station chief, of the cars kept by the British Embassy. They had to be registered with the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs, so the list was easily ‘obtainable’. Of the five cars kept they would most probably use one of the larger saloons, either the Audi A6 or the Jaguar XJ6 He had so far counted innumerable Audi’s, one was even diplomatic, but carried the wrong country identifier and an old XJ6. If he missed them here then his only course of action would be to board the plane, for which he had a ticket purchased under his ‘diplomatic’ identity.

  He blinked, then checked through a pair of field glasses, the car had had a red plate and the identifier? Yes he had spotted the Jaguar, cruising just above the posted speed limit. He started the Mercedes and joined the flow of traffic. He would follow them for a while until he was certain that he could attack.

  Classical music wafted through the Jaguar’s innumerable speakers. All was calm. Vickers glanced at Sukhoi, who was staring blankly out of the window. There was a sudden roar and then the car shook violently. Vickers spun in his seat. A large black Mercedes was behind them, touching the rear bumper. It accelerated as if to overtake, but caught the rear panel. The Jaguar shuddered again. Swearing from the driver’s seat now as Oleg indicated right and started to pull over to inspect the damage.

  “Keep going! Don’t stop!” Vickers knew it was no accident

  Oleg looked back. “But we have had an accident we must report….”

  A window exploded, Vickers did not know which, and Oleg’s head convulsed sideways. The Jag continued to decelerate and arc towards the side of the highway. Sukhoi shrunk lower into the seat and held his hands over his face.

  Vickers lurched into the footwell before clambering over the front seat. Oleg was slumped on the gear stick, his arms in the spoke of the steering wheel. Vickers grabbed the wheel and pulled it left. The car jerked and Oleg’s arms became freed. He unbelted the driver fell out of the seat. Vickers held the wheel, he couldn’t get to the pedals but he had to somehow control the car.

  The Mercedes hit them again, the Jaguar lurched right and this time Vickers was thrown forward, temple hitting the steering wheel. Everything seemed to dim and slow momentarily before the Jaguar left the road and bounced over the grass verge towards the trees. Vickers pushed himself back up and got into the driver’s seat as two more rounds entered the car. The first hit the central console shattering the Sat Nav, the second hit Oleg. Branches scraped the side of the car and Vickers prayed that these would not set off the air bags and cut the ignition.

  Gunning the accelerator, Vickers pulled the wheel once again right and the Jag bounced up onto the tarmac of the highway. The Merc was no more than three metres behind and once again raced towards them. Just before it hit, Vickers caught a glimpse of flags fluttering in the bonnet and then a masked figure at the wheel. The impact eased the Jag along the highway and he managed to put some space between himself and the BELARUSIAN DIPLOMATIC VEHICLE…

  The red and green flag of Belarus viciously snapped in the wind. Two diplomatic cars, both with diplomatic immunity, both sovereign territories, involved in a high speed chase! This kind of thing was not meant to happen, there were conventions, it was an act of war! Pushing these thoughts from his mind Vickers reached for the belt and strapped himself in. Oleg had collapsed into the passenger footwell, his blood coating the leather and colour matching the carpet.

  “You Ok?” Vickers shouted back.

  “Da.” Sukhoi’s voice showed more fear than ever.

  “I will get you to that plane.” Foot, now firmly planted in the carpet, he concentrated on the road ahead as the large Jaguar engine roared.

  Behind them, Voloshin too was focused. He dropped his Glock. He had an AK74 short barrel in the passenger seat with a full clip of ammo. He changed lanes and followed the British car diagonally, in the blind spot. Taking a second to position himself he reached for the Kalashnikov and placed it on his lap with the stock resting on his left forearm. He pressed the button and the electric window lowered and at the same time he floored the accelerator.

  The Merc drew alongside the Jag and he raised the rifle. The driver stared at him; they were no more than a metre apart. Under the mask Voloshin pursed his lips and squeezed the trigger. Rounds entered the Jag instantaneously and it swerved. The Merc matched the manoeuvre and again the two were side by side, the driver now had fresh blood on his face. Voloshin cared not who he was just that he was not dead. The nose of the Jag suddenly dipped, taking Voloshin by surprise, disappearing behind him. The driver had stopped. Oblivious to the blaring horns, Voloshin too stopped, slammed the Merc in reverse.

  Up ahead, blue flashing lights appeared. The Jag now shot passed as the driver again reversed direction. Voloshin cursed and followed suit. A Militia car was in the middle lane fifty metres ahead. The Jag squeezed past the police vehicle and into the fast lane. Voloshin now passed the same vehicle on the other side. Instantly the militia vehicle attempted to give chase and momentarily drew up in between the two diplomatic cars. The officer’s mouth fell open as he realised that both vehicles had red plates, both were diplomatic.

  Voloshin squeezed the trigger and a line of rounds ripped into the police vehicle. The boxy Lada wobbled before falling behind and flipping over. That wo
uld stop them from being followed, for the moment.

  Vickers was sweating profusely, his heart pounded like never before as he wiped his blood from his eyes. He had been hit, where exactly and by what he did not know. For all the media and Hollywood hype, SIS were primarily intelligence gatherers, yet here he was under fire! He racked his brain for the defensive driving course techniques that he’d been taught years before. None seemed appropriate; all he could do was try to out run his attacker.

  The sign indicating that the airport turning was a mile ahead flew past. More blue flashing lights appeared in front now as several Militia vehicles pulled onto the highway. What would they do, what could they do thought Vickers, both he and the Mercedes had diplomatic immunity!

  “The chip is in my phone…” The voice was weak but lucid.

  “What?” Vickers looked back.

  “If anything should happen to me the chip with the intelligence is in my phone.”

  “Director we are almost there.”

  Sukhoi nodded, but was unconvinced. “Whatever anyone says, Mr Vickers, you must know this, Dudka is no traitor. Myself? Perhaps.”

  There was a thud and the shattering of glass. A sudden rush of air filled the car. An object landed on the seat next to Sukhoi. In a split second forty years disappeared as the KGB spymaster grabbed the grenade and in a fluid motion hurled it out of the side window. Less than a second later it exploded. The shockwave pushed Sukhoi down and took his breath, Vickers swerved as the Jaguar bucked. Almost at the airport exit they reached the two Militia vehicles. Vickers slowed to match their speed. Eyes wide, the nearest officer, radio in hand, looked into the British car.

  Voloshin swore. He had backed off after the first grenade and would now catch up to throw another. He didn’t like this one bit. Two Militia vehicles buzzing around the target vehicle and more certain to appear, but his orders could not have been clearer, ‘Use any means.’ He planted his foot squarely on the accelerator pedal and once again rammed the Jaguar. Suddenly he was forced to the right as the Jag turned for the off ramp and the spur that led to the airport. He yanked the wheel left causing both vehicles to under-steer into the grassy central reserve that housed the huge electronic billboard announcing ‘Welcome to Kyiv’.

  Wheels lost traction in the wet grass and the British car started to spin, coming to a halt facing the Mercedes. Airbags exploding, both ignitions were cut.

  Seconds later, Voloshin’s eyes flickered open. He shook his head and felt hammers of pain. He kicked open his door, grabbed his rifle and reacquired the target. The Jaguar’s rear door was open and the old man was awake. Blood seeped from his mouth. He tried to move, not to escape but to sit up. Sukhoi was trying to die with honour. Still dazed Voloshin’s hand tightened around the pistol grip.

  “What are you waiting for, finish me!” The old man was yelling. “Come on do it!”

  Voloshin’s eyes caught movement, the driver. He now trained the rifle on the man. The brown haired figure fell out of the Jaguar and onto the grass.

  There were voices approaching from behind. Voloshin spun. Three Militia officers. Two holding up service pistols, one open palmed. He had diplomatic immunity but they still would not let him kill. He depressed the trigger and cut them down before they had a chance to fire a single shot. Looking back around he saw that the driver had pulled himself up to his hands and knees. The man looked up. Voloshin could tell he was English, not a driver, not an operative, a spook. He trained the Kalashnikov once more on Sukhoi and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He dropped the rifle and felt for his side arm…missing.

  Vickers was on his feet and lunged, knocking the former Spetsnaz commando down. Vickers balled his fist and hit the man square in the face, feeling his knuckles bloody. He pulled at the balaclava to reveal the face. Voloshin, dazed, rolled and forced him off, scrabbling away he pushed himself up again, facing the Englishman. Angrily he ripped off the mask and felt his split lip. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Enraged he pointed at the diplomat.

  “This is not between you and I. Interfere again and I will kill you.”

  The fear Vickers had earlier was gone, now all he felt was adrenaline. “You touch him and I’ll kill you.”

  Voloshin frowned and launched himself at Vickers. He felt the air get knocked out of the spook as he hit him. They went down, Voloshin on top. This time it was his fist that made contact. Vickers head snapped sideways and his eyes rolled back. The assassin’s hands tightened around Vickers’ throat momentarily before he decided to let go.

  Voloshin stood and strode towards the Jaguar. Sukhoi was hobbling on the grass. The younger man kicked his legs out from under him, sending his target crashing into the ground. Without remorse, without another word Voloshin grabbed Sukhoi’s head, pulled it back and snapped his neck.

  SEVEN

  Presidential Administration. Kyiv, Ukraine

  Yuri Zlotnik drummed his fingers. Life had dealt him yet another undeserved blow. Not only had he now been forced to recognise that Dudka may well be innocent, but also that he, Director Zlotnik of the Ukrainian SBU had been used in a plot to murder a fellow intelligence officer. He looked up from the photographic composite. “Yes this is Investigator Kostyan of the Belarusian KGB.”

  The President’s chief of staff, Olexandr Chashkovsky agreed. “This looks very much like the man we met.”

  Vickers nodded. It hurt. His jaw had been dislocated, was badly bruised and his right eye almost closed. This was in addition to the flesh wound in his left shoulder. “So where does this leave us gentlemen?” He managed to ask.

  Zlotnik spoke. “Cards on the table? This man, Kostyan, told the both of us that Sukhoi was involved in the passing of sensitive information to the Poles about the Russian anti-missile defence systems in Belarus.”

  Vickers grimaced, then wished he hadn’t as his reaction to pain only caused him more. “What Sukhoi was bringing us was not about missiles. It was about an act of international Russian aggression. My PM wants to brief your President within the hour.“ He looked at Chashkovsky. “Please arrange this.”

  “Immediately.” Chashkovsky rose and left the table.

  There was a silence. Zlotnik looked at Vickers. If he wanted one hundred percent proof that Dudka was not involved, he could not provide it, but he knew deep down that the Deputy Director was not. “You have a special relationship with Dudka, I believe?”

  Vickers nodded, grimaced, spoke “Yes.”

  Zlotnik reached into his suit pocket. “One minute, Mr Vickers.” He pressed the speed dial button on his mobile and was connected to SBU headquarters. “Release Dudka and send him home.” He ended the call then sighed. “If you had asked me even five years ago that I would be sitting with a representative of MI6 and taking his government’s side over that of Belarus, I would have laughed. But, things have moved on, the world has changed. I am not going to lie to you, Mr Vickers; personally I believe that Ukraine’s best future hopes do lie with Moscow and not the EU. This aggression that you have alluded to would drag Ukraine into a conflict that it can ill afford. We are not Belarus; we are not a puppet of the Russians but a partner. “

  “Director Zlotnik, I agree with you on the second point, but not the first. Ukraine must eventually join the EU.”

  “On that point then, we agree to differ?”

  Chashkovsky re-entered the room. “The conference call has been arranged. The President is very concerned. Director Zlotnik, he wishes you to remain here in order that you may be briefed directly afterwards.”

  Internally Zlotnik fumed but did not let it show. “Of course.”

  Vickers stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me I must report to my superiors in London.”

  10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

  The British Prime Minister, David Daniels looked up from his coffee at the four other people in the meeting a worried man. At the long table in the cabinet room sat Malcolm Wibly, the Home Secretary, and Robert Holmcroft, the Foreign Secretary, accompanied
by Ewan Burstow, the Head of the Intelligence Service, and Abigail Knight, the Director General of the Secret Intelligence Service. What they were to discuss was classified as ‘No Eyes’, meaning that no record would be taken of what was to be discussed and no documents would leave the room. It was the highest secrecy level in the United Kingdom.

  Daniels pushed a strand of hair away from his forehead, a nervous tick that the satirists readily exploited. “I have just finished a video conference with the President of Ukraine. What we have discussed is incredibly shocking and if verified could be considered an act of war.” He paused to note the reaction from those he had called.

  Knight knew the content of ‘the tapes’, the others were intrigued except for Holmcroft, who looked distinctly annoyed.

  Daniels coughed, “Ms Knight perhaps you could set out the situation more succinctly than I?”

  “Very well, Prime Minister. We have come into possession of audio recordings of a conversation between the head of the Belarusian KGB and the special adviser to the Prime Minister of Russia. They set out the basis for an operation by Russia to destabilise the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia with the use of Belarusian agents as a catalyst. Their reason for this course of action is to destabilise the world’s oil market in order that they may sell their own. Thus taking market share from Saudi Arabia.”

  Holmcroft exploded. “What!”

  The PM nodded. “I’m afraid so, Robert.”

  “That is an absurd notion. How on earth would the Russians expect to get away with this?”

  “How do they envisage destabilising the Kingdom?” Wibly, who was not given to ‘theatrics’, asked.

  “Through a series of, as yet, undefined terrorist acts.”

  “Which they would have us believe is the work of al Qaeda? How are the tapes to be verified Ms Knight?” Wibly continued.

  “The actual audio is currently being analysed by a sound laboratory to test the authenticity of the voices. Coincidentally, the BBC conducted an interview with Ivan Sverov, Director of the Belarusian KGB, earlier this year.”