Cold East Page 17

  *

  ‘Goddamn it!’ Harris shouted at the ceiling. ‘You mean to tell me someone hit our fucking terrorists before we could?’

  Via secure video-link at the New Jersey facility, Casey nodded. ‘The Turkish NIA found four bodies. One was a taxi driver and the other three are believed to be Pakistani nationals.’

  ‘Pakis?’

  ‘One had a Pakistani passport on him. Obviously they’re legends but I’m having them checked out at the moment.’

  Harris shook his head and pursed his lips ruefully. ‘Shit in a goddamn fucking hat and punch it.’

  ‘Whoever took them out has almost twelve hours’ head start. The location of the hit was on the edge of the NSA bird’s splash, so they’re backtracking their video feed to see if they can find ‘em. They could be in mainland Europe by now.’ Casey paused to take a swig of Coke; he appeared exhausted. ‘SIS had a theory that the device might surface in Ukraine, but now that looks unlikely.’

  ‘That’s pissing distance from Istanbul. Where in Ukraine?’

  ‘The place where it was designed, Kryvyi Rih. Their logic being that the nuke would need a service at the very least to make it go bang, and where better to do it?’

  ‘Anywhere? No, I mean it. The plant’s been, what, closed for a quarter of a century, yet the Brits think it’s an auto-shop?’

  Patchem shrugged. ‘Stay on it. We have to find this nuke.’

  ‘I’ll shake some trees here, but if you find any apples before me, Vince, do share.’

  Casey ended the call without another word. He was too tired for Harris’s humour.

  *

  Tariq didn’t know how long he had run for, or how far, but he knew he could run no further. Chest heaving and lungs burning, he collapsed onto the damp forest floor. Immediately, the cold soil sapped away his warmth and gnawed at his bones. Darkness had started to fall and with it the temperature. As he lay looking at the stars through the forest canopy, he realised he had no idea where he was or even if he was still in Turkey. A dog barked in the distance; he raised his head and tried to pinpoint the direction.

  Rising to his haunches, he steadied his breathing; the dog barked again, then a voice silenced it. Slowly he moved towards the sound, and then, through the trees, saw the dim lights of a building. He relaxed slightly as he realised it was nothing more than a domestic pet and not part of a pack sent to track him. He drew nearer to the building and noted that it was a wooden shack. In the ever-diminishing light he could just make out a wisp of smoke rising from a chimney. Tariq shivered and imagined the warmth to be found inside, and the food. He edged nearer, his feet numb with pain and cold, until he reached the perimeter of the small garden. As quietly as he could, he straddled a low fence and landed on the wet earth. Certain he hadn’t been spotted, he moved nearer to the house until he was close enough to peer through the window.

  In the gloomy interior he saw a fire burning happily in the hearth and a figure slumped in an armchair beside it. A large, sand-coloured dog – he didn’t know the breed – lay at its master’s feet. Tariq stayed motionless and assessed the situation. He needed the warmth, he needed to get inside, but that would mean killing both man and dog. This wasn’t something he was averse to, but something that would leave a trail. He searched around on the dark ground and found a large stone; it was ornamental and had been placed to strengthen the side of a flowerbed. He made sure he had a firm grip on it before he banged on the wall, just next to the window. Instantly the dog barked and then he heard the protestations of its master, who rose from his seat. Hiding to one side of the window, he banged again, and this time heard the lock on the front door rattle. Crouching in the darkness as the door opened, he hurled himself at the figure. The man was elderly and stumbled. Tariq brought the stone down on his head, instantly rendering him unconscious. The dog yelped and tried to bite him with half-toothless jaws. Tariq grabbed the animal by the throat and slammed its head against the doorframe. He stood, panting, and kicked the dog before stamping on its neck.

  Both master and dog lay dead, or dying; he cared not which. They were silent; that was all he needed. He shut the door and made for the fire. As the heat hit him he felt dizzy and fell into the fireside chair. As his eyes closed heavily he realised the FSB drugs were still in his system.

  Chapter 9

  Timisoara, Romania

  Sergey Gorodetski stood across the road from the hotel and stared at the receptionist. She was unaware of his presence as she checked in an elderly couple for their weekend in Vienna. Her hair was up in a bun and her black-framed glasses were squarely in place, but her uniform was too tight across her ample breasts. Sergey felt his heart pound. He wasn’t meant to be there or to see her again, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. She cast a glance out of the window and he felt himself shudder as, for the briefest moment, their eyes met. She turned back to her guests and when she looked up again, with a wrinkled brow, he had gone.

  Gorodetski balled his right fist and swore as he marched away across the square. This was the one thing he couldn’t control: his heart. He was dead to her and must remain so, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pretend anymore – she was the only woman he had ever loved and she was standing less than fifty yards away… He felt himself start to shake and then realised someone was shaking him.

  ‘Hey, Wee Willie Winkie! It’s time to open your eyes!’

  For a second Gorodetski was confused by the face that confronted him. ‘Where am I?’

  Michael Parnell cocked his head and looked out of the cabin window. ‘I’d say we’re about ten minutes out of Timisoara. Hell of a view, you should take a look – if you can keep your eyes open.’ Parnell punched Gorodetski playfully on the arm.

  Gorodetski rubbed his eyes and sat up. So she was still in his mind, and now he was in Romania she was nearer to him than ever. Would she leave him or was she for ever to be a ghost, haunting his dreams but vanishing as soon as he opened he eyes? Sergey could see distant mountains through the window. He had to focus. This was his only chance; if he blew it, what would he do? What could he do? He’d hidden from Interpol and various police forces but he couldn’t hide from the CIA. Parnell threw him a bottle of water, sat in the seat facing him, and buckled up. Several minutes later the CIA Gulfstream G550 landed smoothly on the former Romanian Air Force runway and taxied to a hanger used exclusively, but unofficially, by the CIA.

  Once the hanger was securely closed, the pilot popped the cabin door release and Parnell got to his feet. ‘Ah, Romania, birthplace of Vlad the Impaler.’

  The doors gently lowered and Parnell held out his arm. ‘Age before beauty my friend.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m not attractive?’

  ‘Ha, ha, not to me. I’m looking forward to those Romanian Gypsy women. For now we’ve got to settle in and await further instructions.’

  The crew joined them at the bottom and someone started up the coffee machine.

  ‘Where’s Harris?’

  Parnell shrugged. ‘I never know. He’s a law unto himself, but he gets results. And that’s why Casey trusts him.’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  Parnell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now trust is a tricky thing, James. I only trust myself.’

  ‘Casey seems big on trust.’

  Parnell squinted. ‘Don’t tell me; he pulled his “loaded Glock trick” on you?’

  ‘He did. I was in a hospital bed at the time.’

  Parnell made a gun shape with his hand. ‘You do realise he was bluffing?’

  ‘It was loaded. I checked.’

  ‘He’d removed the firing pin.’

  Gorodetski shook his head; a crew member appeared with a sat phone and handed it to Parnell. ‘It’s Harris for you.’

  Gorodetski took a step away and collected a plastic cup; the coffee machine had started to make gurgling noises. He walked over to it and, after a couple of attempts, managed to get a half-full cup of brown sludge.

  ‘Well, shoot, we’re off again
,’ Parnell sighed as he placed his own cup next to the machine.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Harris has ordered me to liaise with the Turkish border guards. Apparently he got some new flash intel and couldn’t reach us in the air. There’s a full intel package waiting for me at the consulate in Istanbul. And as for you…’ Parnell handed Gorodetski the sat phone. ‘He wants you to call him. Just press redial.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Gorodetski pressed the button and put the handset to his ear.

  ‘James.’ Harris answered on the first ring. ‘I’m glad you made it back to Europe safely.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Now listen, I have a situation here. We have verified intel that an Al-Qaeda cell is attempting to buy classified military hardware from a Ukrainian buyer. You and Beck are going to stop the buy from taking place. You’ll take out the buyers and grab the seller. This is going to happen in a Ukrainian industrial town called Kryvyi Rih. There’s an airport not too far away. Beck will meet you with a full briefing and tactical package.’

  ‘What are you and Needham going to be doing?’

  ‘Son, that’s need to know – and you don’t – but we are contactable should you need us. The trade, we think, is happening within the next forty-eight hours.’ Before Gorodetski could ask any more questions, the line went dead.

  Parnell raised his coffee cup. ‘Welcome to the Agency; we are here, there, and everywhere, and all at the same time.’

  ‘Yippee.’ Gorodetski took his own cup and sipped his coffee.

  Parnell checked his watch. ‘OK, we’ve got an hour while they refuel the bird to get some chow.’ He slapped Gorodetski’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go meet some entrancing Gypsy beauties!’

  ‘Copy that.’ A woman had bewitched him, thought Gorodetski, but she was Austrian.

  *

  Vauxhall Cross, London, UK

  ‘Aidan.’

  ‘Yes?’ Snow looked up from his screen.

  ‘Artur Khalidov.’

  ‘And the same to you.’

  ‘No.’ Plato folded his arms. ‘Artur Khalidov is the name of the man with Kishiev. I’ve just told Jack. I got a positive ID on him. He’s Russian Intelligence.’

  Snow sat upright in his seat. ‘SVR or FSB?’

  ‘That part is unclear, but do you want to know how I found him?’ Snow nodded. ‘It was on VKontakte. He was tagged in the background of a photograph taken in 2008 in Georgia. Then I found some more of him at a military parade in Moscow this year.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Whoever was running the world of special operations in Russia hadn’t yet latched onto the fact that soldiers liked to show off. ‘So Kishiev was with the Russians in Istanbul?’

  ‘It does look like it.’

  ‘Great. What about the shooters?’

  ‘Nothing on them yet. It seems they knew what they were doing but I haven’t given up hope. I’m going to try to look again at the tapes and check for gait recognition.’

  ‘Gait recognition? You can do that?’

  ‘Walk this way and I’ll show you.’ Plato suddenly laughed. ‘That was not intended.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Neill.’ Snow followed the computer whiz to his office. A bank of monitors faced the desk and a row of large servers took up most of the floor space to the left. The only thing in the room that wasn’t cutting-edge technology was a teapot. It wore a stripy woollen cosy and stood in a cramped corner of the desk next to a half-eaten packet of fig rolls.

  ‘Right.’ Plato sat swiftly in his swivel chair. ‘Let’s first bring up the tape of the day in question, M’lud.’

  ‘Come on, Rumpole.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rumpole of the Bailey.’

  Plato shrugged, none the wiser. ‘So, here is the tape and there are the two gents we’re interested in. Now what I do is drop this quite nifty program over them and it maps the way they move. See?’

  ‘Yep, the green lines and dots.’

  ‘Exactly. So now I export this biometric reference set and can apply it to any other surveillance footage I watch.’

  Snow was unconvinced. ‘How good is this?’

  ‘It wouldn’t, on its own, stand up in a court of law, but what it can do is lead us to a potential face match, which I can then play about with.’

  ‘How do you know where to look for the video?’

  ‘I don’t. It would be a lot easier in the UK, say, because of the huge amount of CCTV cameras, but in this instance I’ll start by pulling it up from the nearest airport and see what happens.’

  ‘You can get access to footage from Istanbul Airport?’

  ‘Istanbul Atatürk Airport, yes. And you can thank the Americans for this.’

  ‘I won’t ask how.’

  ‘Better you don’t,’ Plato said as he started to type. ‘As soon as I have anything I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Oh, and one other thing: I also found some pictures of you on VKontakte and Facebook.’

  As an SIS operative, Snow wasn’t allowed social media, and regular searches took place to ensure his face didn’t appear. ‘Who posted them?’

  ‘It was a British journalist who works for the Russian broadcaster ‘ON’.’

  ‘Darren bloody Weller!’ Snow shook his head. He had tried to persuade Darren to leave the conflict zone, but the young Moscow-based correspondent was determined to become the next Kate Adie. ‘Have you deleted them?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and now both of his accounts are merrily posting anti-Kremlin cartoons and videos of cats.’

  ‘Good.’ Snow walked along the corridor to Patchem’s office and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Snow found Patchem standing and facing the window that overlooked the Thames. ‘Jack, I’ve spoken to Dudka.’

  ‘And what has he got to say?’

  ‘He doesn’t have the records for the Kryvyi Rih plant, but can take me to the place they’re stored if I meet him in Kyiv. He says there’s no other way, due to the sensitivity of the material and the current political climate.’

  Patchem turned and leant against the windowsill. ‘Then get on the next plane. We need to follow up anything and everything.’

  ‘OK. Neill told me about identifying the Russian.’

  ‘Looks like the Russians were equally as eager to find the device. Aidan, watch your step. They may be looking in Kryvyi Rih too.’

  ‘The more the merrier.’

  *

  Undisclosed Location, Turkey

  ‘Good morning, beautiful.’

  Eyes snapping open, Tariq saw the barrel of a handgun pointing at him. ‘You!’

  ‘Yes, me,’ replied Harris.

  ‘You may have found me, Russian, but you will never find the device or my men! We shall triumph!’

  ‘Yes, I know you will.’ Harris was sitting in an armchair opposite the one Tariq had slept in. He had a plastic package on his lap. It served his purpose that the man believed he was Russian. ‘I know you will succeed because I am here to help you.’

  ‘What?’ Tariq did not understand.

  ‘I’m your contact, dumbass.’

  Tariq squinted at the man as brilliant sunlight flooded in through the open door. ‘You expect me to believe this?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘I don’t give a shit what you believe, Tariq – it’s the truth. I am your contact. I’m the guy who’s going to get you and the rest of your team out of the country.’

  Tariq frowned. He still couldn’t accept it. ‘You urinated on me, you drugged me!’

  ‘I had to know what you knew, Tariq. You might have been an informer; I had to confirm you knew nothing about me or the target. I was present at the development, trialling, and field usage of the stuff we pumped into you. Believe me, you’ve told me all you know.’

  ‘But you are an infidel!’

  ‘True, but I also ain’t no Christian. I met your Lion Sheik, twenty-five years ago in Kabul. A group of us infidels were helping him rid your c
ountry of the Soviets. Since then I’ve kept in contact with my Muslim brothers, some of them very high up within your movement. I even have a name; Osama gave it to me for all my help.’

  Tariq shook his head. ‘It is all lies. You are trying to trick me.’

  ‘I let you escape, boy. I let you kill one of my hired thugs with this…’ He held up the Makarov Tariq had taken. ‘…And you put a woman in a coma. Now why didn’t I just shoot you in your sleep, or tie you up? Because I’m your contact. You get it?’

  Tariq was still wary. ‘Where is the device?’

  ‘The nuke is being guarded in a safe house by Reza Khan. Lall Mohammad is outside waiting for you.’

  ‘Enough! You are lying to me!’

  Harris sighed theatrically before he stood, put the Makarov in his pocket, and pointed his Glock at Tariq’s head. ‘We could have done this the easy way. I like the easy way. Get up, get dressed.’ Harris threw the package at Tariq. This time the Afghan caught it and slowly rose to his feet before changing into the new clothes and shoes. Harris looked around the room. ‘I can understand the old guy, but seriously, did you have to kill the dog?’

  ‘They are noisy.’

  ‘Get outside.’

  Tariq moved slowly away from the man and through the front door. As he shielded his eyes from the daylight he saw that a small track ran in front of the house. On this a Toyota Land Cruiser was parked and a figure he recognised was leaning against it. ‘Brother?’