Traitors Page 18

  ‘No … to call my mother.’

  She studied the phone; it was an antiquated, battered 8210. Small but with long battery life. It was a model now used by drug dealers or anyone who was concerned about surveillance. The lack of Bluetooth and Wi-Fi meant that, unlike modern smartphones, it could not be hacked to become a GPS monitoring device, merely crudely triangulated by way of monitoring cell towers. Racine put the mobile phone in her jeans pocket. ‘Maybe I’ll let you call her later.’

  Racine now moved away and wiped the black blade clean on the dead man’s jacket sleeve; she wondered how many victims Vadim’s knife had claimed since being issued to him. She searched the corpse and found a second, identical cell phone. She handed it to Snow. ‘We’ve got to get the body out of here.’

  Snow nodded. ‘We’ll throw him in the boot of the Lada. After that, you get in the back of the Shogun and keep down. Laughing boy here will drive and I’ll ride shotgun.’

  Racine glared at Snow. ‘What makes you think you’re in charge?’

  ‘Old age?’

  Racine didn’t reply.

  Snow made the remaining militant haul his dead comrade into the boot whilst Racine conducted a quick search of the Lada and found nothing of use. They left the car by the side of the road; anyone desperate enough to steal it was welcome to it. After stowing their kit – which now included the militants’ newish-looking Russian AK-74SUs – Racine climbed into the back of the Shogun and hunkered down below the window line. Snow sat in the front passenger seat, his Glock in his left hand pressed against the militant’s stomach. ‘Drive.’

  The Mitsubishi hove itself back onto the road and, jerkily at first, the militant drove them towards Donetsk.

  ‘Tell me about the village,’ Racine ordered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The militant raised a shaky left hand and wiped the blood from his cheek.

  She spoke slowly, precisely, to ensure he understood. ‘How many of your men are there?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘From the DNR?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many Russians?’

  ‘Just one, Raduga the Russian intelligence officer.’

  ‘Russian Intelligence,’ Racine repeated.

  ‘That’s an oxymoron,’ Snow stated flatly.

  ‘So eleven men in total?’ Racine continued.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any defences?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is the road to the village guarded?’ Snow said.

  ‘One man at a barrier.’

  ‘And ten more in the village?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many buildings are there in the village?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a village in the woods.’

  ‘OK.’ Snow glanced in the rear-view mirror; Racine was out of sight. ‘You ready?’

  ‘I’m a woman, I’m always ready,’ Racine replied.

  ‘The turn is up ahead,’ the militant announced.

  ‘Listen to me.’ Snow’s words were low and his voice calm as he explained their plan. ‘One wrong move and she’ll shoot you in the back of your head. Do you understand?’

  His mouth moved but nothing came out.

  ‘The gentleman asked you a question,’ Racine said.

  The militant swallowed and croaked, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now,’ Snow continued. ‘I am a member of the GRU from Moscow. I have come to inspect the prisoners. This is my official vehicle and I have ordered you to drive me. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The lady behind you is a new prisoner.’

  ‘OK.’

  Racine wasn’t happy. Her instinct was to lead but there were times when she was forced to use her gender as a weapon. She was again going to play a role she hated: ‘the frightened female’. She checked that her blade was hidden under her jacket and mentally prepared herself.

  The Mitsubishi moved off the highway and onto a narrow road. Less than a minute later, they came across the improvised security barrier. A white-painted pole, which looked like it had been removed from a car park. It was pointed skyward.

  ‘That’s not normal … the barrier is always down,’ the militant noted.

  ‘Stop the car.’ Snow cracked open his window and sniffed.

  A familiar scent filled the interior of the 4X4.

  Racine sat up and leant forward. ‘There’s been a firefight.’

  ‘What?’ The militant didn’t comprehend.

  ‘If it’s a trap they’ll have already seen us,’ Racine said.

  ‘There’s no point in getting out and losing what mobility and cover we have. Just make sure you’re ready to use that AK.’

  ‘Always,’ Racine replied.

  ‘OK. Carry on, keep driving, like you normally would do.’

  The militant wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and they started to move again. The Shogun rocked as it traversed the gravel road that soon became a mud track. Snow shifted lower in his seat, to reduce his profile. The militant swung the wheel to the left and they entered the village. Instinctively, he slammed his foot on the brake as he registered the scene before him. Now, unobscured by the tall, dark trees, smoke rose from two of the small houses and the other four looked as though they had been peppered by gunfire. A white-painted Kamaz truck sat on its front two wheels, the rear two torn away. Several bodies lay on the ground. The militant looked at Snow and then back at the village.

  The windscreen suddenly crazed. A retort sounding like a giant wasp registered in Racine’s ears – time froze and so did she.

  She instantly recognised the buzz.

  It belonged to a rifle round.

  There was barely time to blink, and definitely no chance to react.

  This was the end.

  The head of the militant snapped back. The round had been fired at him. It entered the man’s skull, pierced his brain and exited spraying blood, gore and bone over Racine’s shoulder and face before becoming embedded in the headrest.

  With the militant jammed in the driving seat they couldn’t move the Shogun. Regaining their senses, Racine and Snow both grabbed their door handles and threw themselves out and onto the ground. She landed heavily on her shoulder, winding herself, but Kalashnikov in hand, she pushed into the undergrowth bordering the turning. She didn’t see where Snow ended up. She lay still and waited. There were no more shots; the only sound was the wind rustling the tops of the trees above her. It was an ambush, of that she was sure, but it didn’t make sense. Why would the DNR, or the Russians, shoot one of their own men?

  Footsteps approached, slowly and with hardly any noise, but unmistakable on the dirt track. She raised her head ever so slightly and could see directly under the Mitsubishi. A pair of boots stopped by the driver’s door and another halted several feet away from her. She held her breath and then the undergrowth exploded as rounds pierced the greenery.

  ‘Come out slowly or the next bullet will go in your head.’ The words were in Russian but the accent was from somewhere else.

  Racine didn’t move. The order was not being aimed at her, nor was the barrel of a Kalashnikov, which she could now see through the foliage.

  ‘Do you really want to die in the dirt like a beast of the field?’

  ‘OK,’ Snow said.

  ‘Get up,’ the voice demanded.

  She now saw Snow deliberately drag himself forward and out of cover, then stand face to face with the gunman. In the sunlight filtering through the tree cover, Racine noted the man’s civilian clothing.

  Snow spoke in English. ‘You’re not a member of the DNR.’

  The gunman’s thick eyebrows arched on hearing the words; he replied in American-accented English, ‘No, I’m not.’

  Racine inhaled deeply then burst up and out of the foliage, Kalashnikov trained directly at the man’s head. It was a reckless move, but it was the only one to make if she wanted to control the developing situation. ‘Drop your weapon or I drop you.’

  ‘Stop!’ the gunman exc
laimed. ‘My men will kill you.’

  ‘And you’ll be dead,’ Racine stated coldly.

  The gunman carefully placed his rifle on the ground. ‘So, you are the agents from Paris and London?’

  Racine blinked. ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘Everything. I am the man who has been talking to the DGSE in Moscow for you, and with the SBU for you. We are The Shadows.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Racine said.

  ‘Please stop pointing that at me.’

  ‘Tell your men to lower their weapons.’ Racine was icy calm.

  ‘You heard her – do it!’ the gunman called out in English.

  Ahead and past the vehicle, Racine saw a handful of men step out of the trees surrounding the dachas. They held a mixture of weapons, but they were pointed at the ground. ‘Now prove to me you are The Shadows. Who was your contact at DGSE?’

  ‘Jean Larcher.’

  Racine lowered her AK.

  ‘He’s the Moscow station chief?’ Snow asked.

  ‘He’s the cultural attaché.’

  ‘Where is Mohammed Iqbal?’ Snow asked.

  ‘There was one prisoner. When we attacked, the Russians hurried him away.’

  ‘Where is Sasha Vasilev?’ Racine asked.

  ‘Raduga also escaped. We were targeting Igor Strelkov, and it was he who took them to safety.’

  ‘Strelkov was here?’ Snow was surprised.

  ‘Yes. We followed him to this place.’

  ‘Followed?’ Snow looked closer at the men and recognised a couple. When he spoke his tone was bitter. ‘Your attack on the garage was too early. You were meant to hit the place after nightfall.’

  ‘The opportunity to hit Strelkov, once his presence was confirmed, could not be ignored. You must understand he is our “enemy number one”.’

  ‘We were there,’ Racine confirmed, ‘during the attack.’

  ‘I am sorry for what has happened. What more can I say?’ Ignoring Racine, the gunman slowly raised his hand towards Snow. ‘My name is Victor Boyko. I am retired Ukrainian Special Forces and the leader of The Shadows.’

  Snow sighed and shook the Ukrainian’s hand. ‘You don’t look retired to me.’

  Racine was curious. ‘How did you follow Strelkov?’

  ‘There is a tracker on his Mercedes and his cell phone is being monitored.’

  ‘I see.’ It was clear to Racine that the group was being aided by several foreign intelligence agencies. ‘Do you know where Strelkov has taken Iqbal and Vasilev?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. He’s back in the city centre, near the Circus.’ Boyko gave him the address.

  ‘Then that is where we need to go.’

  ‘I am sorry about the man in the Shogun. Was he one of yours?’

  ‘No. He was DNR and I didn’t like him much,’ Racine stated.

  Boyko looked them in the eye, one at a time. ‘Take out Vasilev, rescue your British student, but leave Strelkov to us. Understood?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  There was a sudden shout from one of The Shadows. ‘Drone!’

  The group looked skyward. Without cloud cover, the drone was visible against the blue sky. Less able than its US counterpart, the Russian UAV flew lower and slower and, although unarmed, it carried a powerful digital camera to track and relay targets.

  ‘They use it to spot for their Grad rockets. You must move, now!’ Boyko ordered.

  Without any argument, Racine and Snow jogged back to the Shogun. Snow arrived a fraction ahead of Racine so dragged the dead man unceremoniously out of the driver’s seat and took his place at the wheel. He put the SUV into reverse as he heard a distant whistle. After Snow floored the accelerator pedal, the Shogun’s wheels took a split second to grip the dirt and then it jerked backwards. The silver paintwork scraped against branches and he spun the steering wheel.

  The first shell fired from stand-off distance, but guided by the drone, hit the clearing a matter of feet from where the 4X4 had been parked. In the rear-view mirror, Snow saw flames and black clouds rising from the trees. Good luck and bad timing had saved them again. A thought struck him; he pressed the button to slide open the sunroof. ‘Is it following us?’

  Racine looked up, squinting. ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘OK.’ They had to believe it was, but there was no way they could ditch the Mitsubishi before they got back into the city suburbs.

  *

  ‘How many?’ Strelkov asked the drone pilot. He gripped his phone and looked out of the apartment window at Leninskyi Avenue below. Behind him Iqbal was tied to a chair. Vasilev lounged opposite him and smoked a cigarette.

  ‘Approximately nine men. There is also a vehicle leaving the scene. Shall I pursue?’ The reply came via the speakerphone.

  ‘Do not engage the vehicle,’ Vasilev ordered.

  Strelkov repeated the command. ‘That is a negative on the vehicle. Keep the feed on the terrorists. I want them destroyed.’ Strelkov ended the call.

  ‘Your foreign team are in the vehicle, in my opinion,’ Vasilev replied.

  ‘It would appear so, but I need air support, a helicopter, to follow it.’ Strelkov sighed. ‘Yet manned airframes are beyond the level of support Russia is prepared to provide.’

  ‘The DNR has no air force.’

  ‘But it apparently has armour,’ Strelkov said, his temper and frustration apparent.

  ‘This foreign team will come here. Of that, I am sure,’ Vasilev said.

  Strelkov frowned. ‘Is there something you know that I do not?’

  Vasilev folded his arms and nodded. ‘The Shadows have found you twice today, so what does that tell you?’

  ‘I’m a target?’

  ‘And?’

  Strelkov’s eyes widened momentarily as he looked at his phone. ‘It’s bugged?’

  ‘Either that, or your Mercedes, or both.’

  Strelkov glared at the British student who sat tied to a wooden chair. He switched to English. ‘Why is it, Mr Iqbal, that so many people are willing to risk their lives for yours?’

  Iqbal seemed dazed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who are you, Mr Iqbal?’

  ‘I’m no one.’

  ‘Everyone is someone. Although some are far more important than others,’ Strelkov stated.

  ‘It is not who he is but who his father is,’ Vasilev said, also now using English. ‘Is that not true, Mohammed?’

  ‘My father is just a doctor.’

  Vasilev pulled his chair closer and faced Iqbal. ‘He is a close, personal friend of the British Foreign Secretary?’

  ‘They were friends as kids and lived in the same street,’ Iqbal said. ‘That’s all I know.’

  ‘Your father’s friend, the Foreign Secretary, is going to pay for sending men against me; I can assure you of that.’ Strelkov sneered at the dishevelled Brit.

  ‘Men have been sent for you? I don’t understand.’

  ‘We shall make a film—’ Strelkov faced the street once more ‘—and in that video you shall confess to what you have done.’

  ‘What have I done? I came here to study!’

  ‘I will give you a list of your offences to read. You will also condemn the British for sending in their Special Forces against the peace-loving people of Donetsk.’

  ‘I thought I wasn’t a hostage?’

  ‘You are not,’ Vasilev confirmed, a thin smile on his lips.

  ‘Then why make a hostage video? Why make me read out a false statement? Isn’t that what terrorists do?’

  Strelkov turned, the anger he felt clear on his face. ‘It will not be a hostage video! It will be a prisoner interview with ON.’

  ‘A prisoner of what? Of war? Let me see the Red Cross, Amnesty International or the OSCE. If I’m a prisoner, charge me with something. If not, let me go. Otherwise, I am a hostage and you are terrorists!’

  Strelkov stalked across the room, reached out, grabbed Iqbal’s throat, and squeezed. ‘You need to be thankful that currently I have need of you; otherw
ise, I would throw your body into the gutter to rot.’ He let go and Iqbal fought for air. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  Iqbal tried to nod.

  Vasilev gestured towards the door. He got up and Strelkov followed him out the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Strelkov barked, in the hallway.

  ‘I am close to getting Iqbal to talk. You must not interfere by using your own bullish methods of interrogation.’

  ‘You dare to tell me how to speak to a prisoner? After all that has happened?’

  ‘That is the reason I am here. Why the Russian President ordered me here. I still need to understand why this man is so important to the British. This is now more than propaganda for the DNR. Iqbal may yet provide us with some real intelligence.’ Vasilev’s tone was level.

  ‘On the British?’

  ‘Perhaps. Yet, I believe we can use him to get ourselves an even bigger prize. The room is wired for sound and vision, and the footage is securely stored on my servers. I suggest we leave Iqbal here as bait. If this “rescue team” appears we will have them on camera and will be able to both identify them and listen to every word they say to Iqbal.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You leave a few men here – expendable, for show, but don’t tell them or it will seem too easy – and have a large rapid-reaction force on standby. Close by. This will prevent the foreign team from leaving. We will then have three high-value hostages. However, you are the military mind here; I am merely the interrogator.’

  ‘Very well, Sasha, very well.’ Strelkov’s words were conciliatory, although his own tone was not. He was in charge of the military of the DNR, but both men reported directly to the Kremlin. It was not a command structure he believed to be workable. ‘I will stage two trucks out of sight.’

  ‘That is a wise move.’

  Strelkov’s anger started to rise, but he merely nodded.

  Chapter 18

  Petrovsky District, Donetsk

  ‘No sign of our mutual friend,’ Racine stated as they passed Weller’s MG.

  Snow felt in his pocket; he still had the car keys. ‘I wonder where he’s gone.’

  Racine cleaned the last of the blood and grime from her face with a wet wipe, found in the glove box, ‘Perhaps he took my advice and went to the beauty salon.’