Cold East Page 14

  Unable to speak with exhaustion, Mikhail heard solitary rounds ring out from the Spetsnaz as they made sure the fallen Mujahideen remained so. Bull and Lesukov approached. Bull spoke to Zukauskas in Lithuanian. The big man slammed his fist into the side of Mikhail’s head, causing him to fall to the ground. Caught by surprise he rolled onto his back and attempted to stand. Suddenly the boots of the three men rained down upon him. Unable to move away, Mikhail curled into a foetal position.

  ‘Stop.’ Bull looked down at the lieutenant. ‘The old man said it was a trap. You betrayed us. You have spoken to the locals; you have become one.’

  ‘That is not true.’ Mikhail tried to sit but a heavy boot pushed his chest back into the ground.

  ‘You have betrayed us, your Spetsnaz brothers, you have betrayed the Red Army, but most of all you have betrayed the Soviet Union.’ Bull spoke again in his native Lithuanian to Zukauskas, who grunted and heaved Mikhail to his feet.

  Bull brandished a knife. ‘You have led us to be slaughtered like animals so you will now be slaughtered as one.’ With a sudden thrust the knife ripped through Mikhail’s shirt and into his stomach.

  ‘No, please!’ The pain was momentarily unbearable, then a wave of cold flooded his body. He felt himself fall.

  ‘Captain Pashinski. Report,’ Nevsky ordered.

  Bull turned and met the eye of the KGB Political Officer. ‘As ordered we have completed our mission. As instructed I am about to execute the traitor.’

  Nevsky peered down at Mikhail, but addressed Bull. ‘There can be no record of this, Pashinski. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade.’ Bull saluted.

  ‘What this man has done has brought dishonour to the KGB and the Spetsnaz. Finish him off and then leave his body for the Mujahideen. It may entertain them.’ There was a distant whoop of rotor blades and a Mi-17 troop carrier flanked by a smaller but deadly Hind gunship appeared above the horizon. Over the sound of the Mi-17’s rotors Nevsky shouted at the assassins, ‘Time to leave.’

  *

  Mikhail awoke, and lay still, wondering where he was. The feel of the mattress was alien to him, as was the sound of the London night on the street below. He clambered out of bed and moved to the window; the bars permitted it to open only a couple of finger widths, but it was enough to let the cold air of England fill his lungs and reassure him that he still lived. Mikhail had not had the dream for years, but two weeks ago it had returned. It now haunted him every night and left him feeling raw. Had there been any meaning to it? That day heralded the death of Mikhail the soldier and the birth of Mikhail the believer. He had no idea how he had survived, but survive he had. Taken by Afghan fighters, he had babbled away in Pashtun, renouncing his Soviet masters and embracing Islam. The Afghans had seen a chance to use him. It took months for the physical wounds to heal and years for the psychological ones to do likewise. A local tribal leader took him under his roof as a guest and granted his protection, as was dictated by the Koran. Mikhail was not trusted, yet it was hoped that, as one of the ‘devils in red’, he would aid the locals in their fight against the invaders. One night, months after his rescue, Mujahideen fighters came for him with murder in mind. It was then that he played his last card. He took them to the location of his weapons cache.

  He had no love for the Soviet Union – how could they even think of using such a devastating weapon on a defenceless nation? He had removed the RA-115A from his base, hidden it with other weapons, and replaced it with a rock-filled metal case. He created a cache of weapons and supplies that would sustain him when he made good his desertion. He lied about the nuke to the Mujahideen, saying it was a worthless box of electrical components, some sort of transmitter, and the simple fighters had accepted this, but what they had taken had won him their trust.

  Mikhail was now a Muslim, but swore an oath to himself that he would remain near the weapon to ensure it would never be used by either side. He returned later to the cache, retrieved the device, and hid it. He took for his wife a woman who had been widowed by a Soviet shell and grew to love her and her two daughters. Without any sons she had been of little worth to anyone else. Although she could bear him no further children he became content as time and wars passed. He was referred to less and less as ‘the Russian’, and when the Taliban took over where the Soviets had left off, he was just another simple man living in a simple village. All the while his nuclear device lay buried beneath his home, until a man from Pakistan discovered it. He was Al-Qaeda and checking out ‘the Russian’, once more to gauge his loyalty. He became very interested indeed in the box. He tried to take it; Mikhail wouldn’t let him have it until, at gunpoint, the man threatened his family. Mikhail crumbled. Now, the shame was harder than ever to live with. Terrorists had the weapon. And then, a matter of months ago, more fighters had brought another Pakistani to the village. This one demanded that Mikhail make the device work and hauled him off to a camp where he saw, firsthand, men training. Some of them were known to him as local fighters.

  Mikhail eventually drew up the same plans he had given to Captain Webster. He lied to the Pakistani and persuaded him he wasn’t just a believer but a true believer in jihad. The man placed Mikhail in a hut with a guard outside, where he was to stay until he had no further use for him. Mikhail had been contemplating escape when an explosion had reduced the camp to rubble. Unlike the assault he had been in a quarter of a century before, this attack by ISAF involved no men on the ground, just a drone high above them. With the walls broken and the terrorists in disarray, he took his chance and ran. Without transport it was a long and dangerous journey home. The fighters arrived there first. They slaughtered his family and burnt his house. All that he had been, for the last two and a half decades, was ripped out of him and turned to ashes. But the fire burnt Mikhail too; it burnt away the man, uncovering the warrior within. He vowed revenge. With every ounce of his being, until his last breath, he would fight the men who had murdered his family, who had murdered him, and who planned to murder innocents in Europe. Now, in London, he had answered many questions from serious men and women in suits about the weapon, its history, and his. He had sat next to a man at a computer terminal who had taken his handwritten schematics and turned them into what looked to him like the original documents. He didn’t know what fate awaited him after the weapon was either found or detonated, and he did not care. His sole purpose was to guard the innocents who were undoubtedly the targets of the bomb – his bomb.

  *

  British Consulate, Istanbul, Turkey

  Keser proudly handed Scarborough a thumb drive. ‘The photographs you requested are on this little disc.’

  ‘Thank you, Ekrim. I don’t know how you managed to get these so quickly, but I owe you one.’

  With a flick of his hand Keser waved away the thanks. ‘Add it to your tab. When the national security of my country is at stake, I am more than happy to help.’

  ‘Thank you all the same,’ Brocklehurst added.

  Scarborough plugged the device into his laptop and opened up the images. He repositioned the screen so that he, Keser, and Brocklehurst could see the display. The photographs had been taken by the NIA and showed the bodies lying where they had fallen.

  ‘As you will see, each man has been shot by a professional. Look at the entry wounds; they are from a 9mm. One in the chest and one in each head. It is a clinical “controlled pair” to make certain of death.’

  ‘You’ve seen these?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Keser confessed. ‘I thought you might want my expert opinion.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Scarborough clicked on to the next image. Brocklehurst shuddered as he saw the face of the man he knew as Orhan Inci devoid of any life. ‘So, who does the NIA feel is responsible for this?’

  ‘You don’t really need to ask me that, do you, Simon?’ Keser folded his arms.

  ‘Thank you for bringing these to us, Director Keser.’

  Keser acknowledged Brocklehurst, but spoke to Scarborough. ‘So, can I t
ake it that these men were part of some sort of terror cell?’

  Scarborough nodded. Keser had been quick to get the images and now a titbit of information would keep him sweet. ‘Yes, and with these photographs we may well be able to find out who they were and, equally as important, where they were going.’

  ‘When I met with my contact, he said the coroner had not as yet confirmed the time of death, but that is of little importance – we know who shot them and when.’

  The remaining photographs scrolled in a slide show until an image of a passport appeared on the screen. The next image showed its interior. ‘Pause that one,’ Brocklehurst requested. All three men stared at the image. It showed a Schengen visa.

  ‘So he was going to the EU?’ Keser asked.

  ‘It now looks that way.’

  ‘Not to the UK?’

  ‘A UK visa is much harder to get.’

  ‘They are an Al-Qaeda terror cell or Islamic State, perhaps?’

  Scarborough lied. ‘We don’t know for certain they were Muslim extremists.’

  ‘Of course, but that is the most likely scenario, unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘No, no, just ignore me, I am thinking aloud,’ Keser said with a smile.

  Brocklehurst frowned. ‘I don’t understand why this single passport has been left behind? Where are the passports of the other men in suits? Why leave this one at all? Is it misdirection or does someone want us to know the group was heading for the EU?’

  Brocklehurst had impressed the veteran intelligence officer. ‘You have raised good points. Why indeed?’

  Scarborough closed down the image. ‘I need to get these off to London, pronto.’ He opened up his email and sent the photographs directly to Patchem. He was sure they would be of interest, but perhaps the biggest lead would come from the passport. Dates and numbers could be checked from the photos and both it and the visa’s origin traced, even if the original document was safely in the hands of the Turkish Intelligence Service.

  ‘Have the Russians claimed the body that fell from the balcony?’ Brocklehurst asked Keser.

  ‘No, and how could they without admitting it was one of their men?’

  ‘Perhaps he was on holiday, or got lost,’ Scarborough said.

  ‘This isn’t Ukraine,’ Brocklehurst replied.

  Keser held up his index finger. ‘Ah, but we are near Ukraine and that is what I had begun to think about. What do we have here that they also have in Ukraine?’ Both Brits remained silent. ‘Tatars.’

  ‘Tatars?’

  ‘Yes, and Tatars are also Muslims.’

  The two SIS men exchanged glances. Scarborough spoke first. ‘Do you think this terror cell is somehow related to the Crimean Tatars?’

  Keser shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but you have seen how the Tatars in Ankara have created large demonstrations at the Russian Embassy? And I am sure you will have read about the mass intimidation of Tatars in Crimea by the occupying Russians?’

  Scarborough leant back in his chair and clasped his hands. ‘As far as I’m aware there is no radical Tatar movement. Are the Tatars militant?’

  ‘No, they are a very peaceful group and mostly secular – if one can use that term to refer to a Muslim – but surely if one is provoked enough, one will fight back?’

  ‘That’s certainly a point to consider.’

  ‘We’ll pass it on to London,’ Brocklehurst added.

  Keser stood. ‘Gentlemen, I must now go. As always, you know where to find me.’

  The retired intelligence director shook Scarborough’s hand before Brocklehurst escorted him out of the room and towards reception. Returning, Brocklehurst found his boss slumped back in his chair.

  ‘What do you think of his Tatar hypothesis?’

  ‘I think I could murder a bacon sandwich,’ Scarborough replied.

  Chapter 8

  Detention Centre, Location Classified

  The cold hit him first, then the muscular pain, which seemed to come from all over his body. As Tariq opened his eyes he realised he was lying on the floor, naked. The room was dimly lit and stank of bleach. With effort Tariq shuffled backwards until he was lolling against the wall.

  ‘I am speaking to you in English because I know you can understand me.’

  A desk lamp switched on and Tariq saw, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, a white man in a pair of jeans and a leather bomber jacket. There were two tin mugs in front of him and a second chair. ‘Join me – we are not savages. My name is Boris.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Don’t you worry. Mother Russia has you tucked up nice and safe.’

  Tariq felt a fiery rage surge through him. He snarled at the infidel. ‘You have lost, Russian.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Boris drank from one of the mugs. ‘Tea or perhaps a coffee? Mine is Irish, but I don’t believe you’d want the same, being a good Muslim. Or perhaps you are not a good Muslim?’

  Tariq felt a twinge of anger at the affront to his faith. ‘You would offer me tea laced with drugs to get me to talk?’

  ‘No, just tea.’ Boris held up a plastic package. ‘We burnt your old clothes. They were covered in shit and piss. You had an accident when we captured you. Here are some clean ones.’

  Tariq felt his blood boil. ‘You are very generous.’

  ‘Catch.’ Boris threw the bag.

  Tariq struggled to get out of the way but was too slow. The package hit him on the head.

  Boris laughed uncontrollably. ‘Are you the best that Al-Qaeda has? A man who is scared to get dressed?’

  ‘And you are the best the KGB has to offer me?’ Tariq hesitantly stood, and used his fury to rip open the plastic wrapping. He was suddenly aware of a dull but growing pain in his temples. He swayed as he started to dress.

  ‘The KGB no longer exists. I am FSB.’

  ‘You are a fat man in cheap clothes.’

  ‘Oh, please, please – your jokes are killing me. I know you would in reality like to, but, well, here is the thing, my friend. We have you in a facility that is so secure and so secret that even I didn’t know about it until my boss in Moscow told me. Now you, not Allah – peace be upon Him, etc. – are the master of your own destiny. You can decide to talk to me and live, or not talk and die.’

  ‘I shall never talk, I shall die a martyr!’

  ‘You really should do stand-up comedy; you have the perfect delivery.’

  Tariq frowned, he didn’t understand. ‘I shall die a martyr.’

  ‘You shall die a comedian.’

  Tariq, now fully dressed in dark-blue sweats, pointed a bony finger. ‘You have underestimated the soldiers of Islam. Do you think that by capturing me it is all over? Fool. Our attacks cannot and will not be stopped by you infidels, with your feeble minds and fat bodies!’

  ‘I see that your head has started to hurt. Do not worry, that is a mere side effect of the drugs we gave you to make you talk. You see I already know quite a lot about you, Mohammed Tariq.’

  Tariq’s mouth opened for a moment before he could find his words. How did the Russian know his name? ‘But I… I do not remember. No! You lie to me!’

  Boris shrugged and then, without warning, hurled his metal coffee mug. Catching Tariq off-guard it hit him on the temple and he stumbled. Boris lurched across the room and grabbed the prisoner by the neck before swinging a right hook into his jaw. Tariq went limp. Boris let go and the Afghan fell to the floor. Boris opened his flies and urinated. Tariq jerked awake as the warm liquid hit his face. He flailed his arms and rolled onto his stomach.

  ‘Coffee makes me piss like a Moscow circus elephant.’

  The light snapped off and the Russian left the room. Alone and covered in the waste of an infidel, Tariq spat blood and planned how he would escape and kill the man who had disgraced him in such a manner.

  *

  Consulate General of the Russian Federation, Istanbul, Turkey

  ‘Four of our men dead, an escaped prisoner, and sti
ll no bomb!’ Director Nevsky’s rage was little tempered by the video-link. ‘Are these the types of results I can expect from you? That the President can expect from you, that the motherland can expect of you?’

  Strelkov’s anger at being spoken to in such a manner was temporarily masking the pain. Twin grenades had been set off by the tripwire on the balcony, grenades taken from his dead men’s webbing. He had suffered a concussion and lacerations to his face and chest. The two men nearer the balcony had no chance… their bloody bodies, and those of the dead guards used as bait, had been cleared away by the remainder of his team. But it had been too late for them to secure their comrade on the street. ‘I do not know what to say, Valentin Romanovich.’

  ‘Explain to me again what has happened.’

  ‘When we entered the target address we found that the place had already been hit. The Al-Qaeda courier, Orhan Inci, had been executed along with three men, whom we presumed to be members of the Al-Qaeda cell. All had been shot with 9mm rounds. The device was nowhere to be seen. It was a standard six-man cell, therefore we can deduce that the three remaining terrorists have the weapon.’

  ‘You deduce, Strelkov! You must not presume. You must find the device. Was there any hard intelligence that it had been there in the first place?’

  ‘We found trace levels of radiation in the building.’

  ‘So the weapon is leaking? Is that what you are saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How hard is it to follow a trace radiation signal?’

  ‘It is impossible. They have a twelve-hour head start on us and the level is not enough to be picked up by our satellites. The casing of the device was designed to shield the radiation signature for this very reason and the leak is minimal.’

  Director Nevsky fell silent, took a sip of tea from an ornate china cup, which appeared minute in his large paw, and then, albeit digitally, looked Strelkov in the eye. ‘Tell me about the Chechen. How did he escape?’