Traitors Page 16

  ‘Go past them.’ Weller was unable to contain his pride. ‘I always do. Put the flashers on; they’ll see it’s me.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘They did this morning,’ Racine confirmed.

  Snow pulled out wide into the central reservation where the grit tugged at the MG’s tyres. Racine held the Makarov low and out of sight and placed her mouth by Weller’s greasy ear. ‘If this doesn’t work, you’ll be the first to die.’

  Weller let out a low moan and his entire torso became rigid, as though he were about to ride a roller coaster. As the car drew level with the front of the line, an overweight man in a brown Saab started to shout at them. A militant bent down and gazed into the car.

  ‘Press,’ Weller said, tightly.

  The militant studied each of them in turn, grunted, and stepped back. Snow accelerated away gently.

  ‘Do you know where you are going?’ Racine asked.

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘Only generally.’

  Snow shook his head. ‘We should have brought Boroda.’

  Racine put her hand on Weller’s shoulder. ‘I bet you know, don’t you, Darren? You know where all these places are.’

  Weller remained silent and stared out of the window.

  ‘Is that true, Daz? You know where the other site is?’

  ‘Why should I tell you? You’re both instruments for the Kyiv Nazi junta!’

  Snow started to laugh. ‘Do you really believe the crap you peddle? After all you’ve seen?’

  ‘You don’t know what I’ve seen!’

  ‘That’s true, but I know what you’ve filmed. Look, you weren’t the only failed journalist hanging around Kyiv. I never liked you as an ex-pat. I tolerated you – we all did. This is different … this is deadly serious. I’ve been sent by the same people who issued you with your passport to rescue a fellow British citizen, an innocent man who is being held and tortured because of the colour of his skin. So who are the real Nazis here? If you have any humanity left in your greasy little head, you are going to tell me exactly where this place is.’

  ‘And if that fails—’ Racine nudged him with her Makarov ‘—I’m going to shoot you in odd places until you do tell us.’

  ‘Yes.’ Weller exhaled sharply. ‘I know where it is! Keep going the direction you are until we leave the city centre. It’s in a village a few miles further on, towards the Ukrainian lines.’

  ‘Directly in the line of Ukrainian fire,’ Snow stated.

  ‘Yes. What else did you expect from terrorists?’ Weller said sarcastically.

  Chapter 14

  Kalinins’kyi District, Donetsk

  Strelkov took the call in his G Wagon; the further he’d moved away from the attack site, the stronger his cell signal had become. He was incredulous as he processed the news from the local commander who had called in from the Ramada Hotel. ‘Are you telling me that she shot two of your men last night and you have only just now realised it?’

  ‘Yes, Igor Ivanovich.’ The militant’s voice was unsteady as he addressed the de facto head of the military forces of the Donetsk People’s Republic.

  Strelkov could still not believe what he was hearing. ‘She killed two of your men, dragged the bodies into another room, and went back to sleep afterwards?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘What business did your two men have with Ms Gaeva?’

  There was a pause on the line. ‘They … err … wanted to check her papers.’

  ‘In her room, in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Yes, Igor Ivanovich.’

  ‘Let me remind you that this is one of the few functioning hotels in this city of any real worth. We cannot, and must not, have any of the guests intimidated. Your men may have been the dregs of society before we took power, but there is no room whatsoever for crooks and rapists now! Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Igor Ivanovich.’

  ‘I’m glad she shot them; if they had lived, I would have ordered their cocks chopped off.’ The woman posing as Olena Gaeva was more important, and dangerous, than even he had thought. By now he had no doubt she was a trained intelligence operative. But had she been sent for him or Vasilev? He’d inform the interrogator of his suspicions. Either way he had to find out who she was working for and what her mission was. Strelkov ended the call and immediately tapped in Boroda’s number. The phone rang to voicemail. Puzzled, Strelkov called again.

  ‘Igor Ivanovich—’ Boroda sounded out of breath ‘—the woman and Weller have been taken from us.’

  Strelkov’s left hand balled into a fist, his knuckles turning white. ‘Explain.’

  The G Wagon carried on through the city streets as Boroda gave a quick situation report. ‘Are you telling me that the British were attempting to rescue Iqbal?’

  ‘Yes, the man was definitely British. Weller knew him.’

  ‘Weller was involved?’

  ‘He has to have been. First he brought in that woman, and he personally knew the British agent who rescued him. It is too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘I agree. I do not believe in coincidence. And you gave him the location of the second facility?’

  ‘Yes, because that would bring him directly to you, sir. They will all be walking into a trap.’

  A sneer spread across Strelkov’s lips. Finally, someone was thinking like a real member of the GRU. ‘You have done well, Boroda. It is your men who have failed.’

  ‘No, it is I who must shoulder the blame.’

  ‘Meet me at the town hall. We shall go to the second site together.’

  Strelkov ended the call. This was an interesting if very unexpected turn of events and something that he could use to his advantage. He reached into his large jacket pocket and retrieved the Glock 26 he had taken from the woman. He examined the custom-made suppressor. Whoever she was he approved of her taste in weapons.

  Petrovsky District, Donetsk

  The traffic lessened and the buildings became more bomb-damaged the farther away they travelled from the city centre and the closer they drew to their new target address. Their unusual car, the UK-registered British racing green MG ZT, acted as a beacon announcing their presence to the DNR. Racine looked to her right; they were nearing a residential apartment block. The ground floor, as was the case with many of these buildings, housed several shops. Partly obscured by trees, a row of cars were parked in front of the structures. It was the best place she had seen yet to ditch the MG and grab a new ride. As if reading her mind, Snow slowed the sports saloon and turned off the main drag. He made eye contact with Racine; she nodded.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Weller asked.

  Neither operative replied.

  ‘This is not the address!’

  Racine noted that one of the stores was a beauty salon. ‘True, but I’m pretty sure they’d be happy to give you a wash and blow dry or redo your nails.’

  ‘So that’s it, is it? I’ve become a figure of fun?’

  ‘It’s not a recent thing,’ Snow added.

  Snow took a parking space on the very end of the row under the protective branches of a large evergreen tree. Racine exited the MG and assessed the selection of cars. A plan had formed in her head, and the only vehicle that would make that plan work was of course the only vehicle that had someone sitting inside it.

  ‘Stay here with him.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Racine moved to the back of the MG, opened the boot, and unzipped her bag. She retrieved her Ukrainian passport and a beanie hat then shut the boot. Casually turning, she painfully put on the hat to cover her swollen forehead then sauntered across the empty spaces towards the silver Mitsubishi Shogun and gently tapped on the window. The man behind the wheel jerked awake and wound down the window. Racine stuffed the Makarov in his face. ‘I need your car.’

  The man didn’t react. Racine swung the door open. The man remained immobile.

  ‘Give me your car. Now.’ Racine punched the man in the throat with her left hand. H
is eyes bulged and he brought his hands up to his neck. Racine took hold of his jacket and heaved him out of his seat. The man stumbled to the pavement, making a gurgling sound. Racine climbed into the Shogun as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. ‘Stay down, or I’ll shoot you too.’

  She shut the door, started the 4X4 and reversed out into the access road before swinging around the corner and parking just out of sight at the side of the building on the grass. She jogged the ten steps back to the MG.

  ‘Get out,’ she ordered Weller.

  Weller climbed out, hands on his head like an Edvard Munch painting and moaned. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing she’s not done before,’ Snow said, shutting his door.

  ‘Now explain to me exactly where this place is, or I’ll do the same to you,’ Racine stated.

  Weller stuttered with fear, ‘I … I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Weller screwed up his face. ‘I lied! You scared me! You’re a homicidal maniac!’

  ‘Merde! We don’t have time for this.’ Racine took a step forward and punched Weller in the stomach. His gut felt surprisingly solid, the act of punching him surprisingly satisfying.

  ‘Where are they holding Mohammed Iqbal?’ Snow said.

  ‘It’s a village a couple of miles down that road …’ Weller gasped. ‘Please! That’s all I know.’

  Racine was an assassin but not a cold-blooded killer. She had principles, and Weller, although an annoying imbecile, was a non-combatant. ‘Get out of here, Darren.’

  Through the pain there was relief on Weller’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘She told you to sod off,’ Snow stated.

  ‘If I hear any reports about today’s events that mention him or me, I’ll find you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Snow leant into the MG and retrieved his OSCE tabard before locking Weller’s car and taking his keys. ‘Darren, you need to get out of Donetsk, before you get yourself killed.’

  Racine climbed back into the 4X4 and started the engine. Once Snow had got into the passenger seat, she rejoined the main road. In the mirror she saw Weller leaning forward vomiting into the gutter. ‘We shouldn’t have let him go; he’s a lose end.’

  ‘He’s a bell end,’ Snow replied.

  Racine let her mouth form a smile.

  ‘You’ve got blood on your face,’ Snow stated.

  ‘Thanks.’ Racine pulled down the sun visor, removed her hat and checked her face in the mirror. She spat on her hand and wiped Vadim’s blood from her cheek. She then prodded her forehead. It was raised and it hurt but it was not yet too discoloured.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A large Russian decided to attack my head with his nose, twice.’

  ‘That was unwise.’

  ‘It was.’ Now that Weller was not around, Racine had a question she wanted to ask the Englishman; she needed to know if there was a security leak. ‘You said earlier you knew who I was, so who am I?’

  ‘I think you are a DGSE agent with the codename “Racine”, and you report to “Maurice Jacob”.’

  Racine decided to deflect and answer his question with one of her own. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘You know my name is Aidan Snow, and I work for the SIS. I’ve been briefed about possible foreign assets operating in the area.’

  ‘How did SIS learn about my mission?’

  ‘We knew sooner or later the French would want to get their hands on Sasha Vasilev. We were correct; he is, after all, at the top of your most wanted list. I honestly don’t know how we learnt about your specific unit, which officially doesn’t exist.’

  Racine frowned, the existence of The Department was highly classified, supposedly a state secret. ‘I work alone.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Don’t get in my way.’

  Snow laughed. ‘Am I that clumsy?’

  Racine cast him a side glance. No, she thought he was anything but clumsy. However he was extremely tall and now that she thought about it bore a passing resemblance to Gerard Butler. Fanciable, if that was your type, she imagined, but definitely memorable. She didn’t know why but she wanted to talk. ‘You met Weller in Kyiv?’

  ‘I did,’ Snow said. ‘I was there to teach English.’

  ‘That was your cover for SIS?’

  ‘No, it was my job.’

  ‘You were a teacher? So, what were you before that? Military obviously. I’m guessing SAS?’

  ‘What is this, twenty questions?’

  Racine didn’t reply.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’ Racine said as she slowed to negotiate a pothole.

  ‘How long have you been with the DGSE?’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  Snow frowned. ‘I see. I open up to you and you, what, you refuse to do the same?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, to gain my trust, to bond with me?’

  Racine frowned. ‘This isn’t speed dating.’

  Snow chuckled. ‘Ever tried it?’

  ‘It’s too slow. Isn’t Aidan an Irish name?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So why does an English spy have an Irish name?’

  ‘Why does a French spy have the codename of a seventeenth-century playwright?’

  ‘Racine is my surname.’ She glanced at Snow. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Ecstatic.’

  ‘I’m not telling you my first name.’ Racine was angry with herself for giving too much away, but Snow was right; if they were to reach both of their mission objectives, and at the moment it looked as if their targets were together, they did indeed need to trust each other.

  ‘My name is the result of my dad’s sense of humour. I was conceived at The British Embassy in “Aden”,’ Snow said.

  Racine looked at him but made no reply.

  Snow probed again. ‘Your Home Counties accent is faultless.’

  ‘It should be. My father paid a lot of money for me to finish school there.’

  ‘That’s odd for a Frenchman, to send his daughter to England.’

  ‘We’re an odd family.’

  ‘Odd is good.’

  There was a brief silence before Snow spoke again. His tone had changed and he said, as way of a statement rather than a question, ‘France has sanctioned you to assassinate Vasilev.’

  ‘I’m not here to collect a fine on his library books.’ She looked at him. ‘Does that offend your British sensibilities, your sense of fair play?’

  ‘No. I know what he did to your agency. I understand that bringing him back to stand trial is not an option.’

  ‘My turn. Why are the British so eager to rescue Iqbal? Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a British student who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Is there ever a right time?’ Racine had had enough chat. ‘So, what’s your plan?’

  ‘My plan was for The Shadows to hit that garage tonight so I could go in with them and get Iqbal.’

  Racine frowned. ‘They’re the ones who attacked the garage? They did it for you?’

  ‘Yes and yes.’

  ‘So why did they attack in daylight?’

  ‘I don’t know but look on the bright side – it saved you.’

  ‘Hm. When we get to this new place, do you have a plan in mind?’

  ‘They know we’re on our way – why else would that Russian give up the address so easily?’

  ‘Perhaps he gave us the wrong address completely?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No, neither do I,’ Racine agreed. Weller had seemed to know of the place and was too scared to lie about it. ‘We need a new plan.’

  Chapter 15

  Thirteen Years Ago

  Nice, France

  It was the end of the summer term, the end of the school year and the end of her time at that school. And Sophie was relieved th
at her troubles were all behind her. Her father had used his full persuasive powers to stop the police from pressing charges against his daughter. He had asked them what would have happened to her if she had not defended herself? Why had the gendarme roughly grabbed her and not identified himself first? Her mother, however, had not been swayed. She had become ashen at the news of the fight, as she called it. Drawing on a wave of pent-up emotion she had screamed and shouted at her husband, demanding what kind of a man turns his daughter into a hooligan? What type of a man corrupts an innocent girl? What kind of a man is happy that his sweet little girl has been taught to attack the police? So, it went on with her mother screaming herself hoarse and her father silently accepting what he had done.

  It had been a traumatic time because after this event came the worst news of all. Celine had died, and Sophie had found herself looking at a headstone with the name Celine Durand carved into it and an inscription. She tried to read it but the tears in her eyes prevented her from doing so. Her father was by her side and her mother was in front of them stroking the top of the stone. She opened her mouth to speak to her mother, to try to comfort her, but the words would not come.

  Sophie took a deep breath. That had been two months ago, and school was now over for the summer. Sophie knew that she could spend more time with her mother, to try to understand her and make her proud of her again. Sophie of course was still grieving for Celine, but she desperately missed her mother.

  The school was a large, square steel and concrete 1970s building. In the local area it stuck out like a sore thumb, built to educate, not for any architectural merit. Sophie, however, was oblivious to all of this as she strode out of the main gates and saw her father waiting for her in his BMW.

  He told her he’d finished work early for the day and wanted to take her out for a treat. They drove to the nearest McDonald’s, much to her confusion and delight, him telling her that it was fine to eat what you wanted, once in a while. They took their food to go, he parked the car and they sat together on a bench overlooking the harbour. Sophie sensed something was wrong. Her father hadn’t touched his cheeseburger. He sighed and said, ‘Your mother has left us.’