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  ‘Here it is. Of course, back then the town was known by its Russian name, “Krivoy Rog”.’ He sat and studied the papers. It took Ratanov a good five minutes before he raised his eyes triumphantly, having found the list. ‘I can’t let you take this, but you may photograph it with your smartphone.’ Ratanov placed the thin sheet of Soviet-era brownish paper on the table.

  ‘Thank you.’ Snow slowly removed his iPhone from his pocket, positioned it so that the sheet fully filled the screen, and clicked off several shots.

  ‘One for the road?’ Ratanov tapped the Campari bottle.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m more of a cognac drinker.’

  ‘Very well. I shall see you out.’ Ratanov led Snow back towards the front door.

  As Snow retrieved his boots he noticed a framed black-and-white photograph on the telephone table. Ratanov followed his gaze. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Is that Dudka?’

  ‘Yes. Dudka and my sister, on their wedding day.’

  *

  Ipsala-Kipoi Border Crossing, Turkey

  Neither Lall Mohammad nor Reza Khan had ever experienced a coach as luxurious as the one they now sat in on the Turkish side of the Ipsala-Kipoi border. But as they were freshly shaven and dressed in casual business attire, they felt as though they did not look out of place. The Sheik’s men had dropped them off at Istanbul’s Büyük Otogar (main bus terminal), where they had boarded the coach bound for Greece. The coach itself would travel to Athens via Thessaloniki, where the two Al-Qaeda warriors would alight to meet their next contact. As an artery for commercial vehicles between the EU and Turkey, the border crossing was one of the busiest. It was by no means the first border Lall and Reza had crossed, but for them it was the most hostile. Seated in the middle of the coach so as to draw as little attention as possible, the two men stood and joined the line of passengers winding out of the vehicle, down the steps, and towards the emigration counter. The building looked new and consisted mainly of white-rendered concrete walls and large, glass-panelled windows. Reza was amazed each day by what he saw in the West, while Lall was confused to see that one of the emigration officers was a woman. Both Lall and Reza’s English-language ability was basic but functional. They had been given intensive lessons in the camp by their Pakistani trainers, and when they spoke it was with an accent that passed for Pakistani. The White Eagle had assured them there would be no problems with either their passports or their visas, and that the English-language abilities of the Turkish border guards were at a similar level to their own.

  The woman pointed at Lall and clicked her fingers. He felt his indignation rise and his nostrils flare. How dare she address him in such a manner! His mouth turned down in scorn as he took a step forward and pushed his passport under the ballistic glass. The woman didn’t say a word, nor did her face express any emotion as she tapped away at the computer terminal. Lall risked a furtive glance at Reza, who was at the next counter. His indignation had given way to fear, a fear of failing in his mission. To his relief, however, Reza seemed relaxed, and the officer dealing with his passport was nodding and smiling. The woman stamped Lall’s passport and pushed it back towards him. She then looked past him and made eye contact with the next traveller. Lall started to walk away, back towards the coach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Reza do the same. A sense of invulnerability washed over him; they would soon be out of Turkey and would easily enter Greece, their Schengen visas permitting travel across the European Union. Lall climbed back onboard the coach and took his window seat; a moment later Reza was sitting next to him.

  ‘We are on our way, brother,’ Lall said in English.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Reza replied.

  A scream erupted from the front of the bus. Lall craned his neck to look over the seat in front and came face to face with an armed Turkish police officer. The man pointed his pistol at Lall’s forehead and barked commands in Turkish. Beside him, Reza had his hands raised; Lall did likewise. Three more armed men moved past the first; one had a machine pistol pointed at the Afghans while the other two held handcuffs. From the seat behind, Lall was grabbed by a pair of leather-gloved hands and metal cuffs were secured tightly to his wrists. Both he and Reza were hauled out of the coach. Reza slipped on the bottom step and landed awkwardly on his wrists. He let out a grunt of pain. The rest of the coach passengers gawped as the pair were led away to a small, windowless room at the back of the border post. With more barked commands in incomprehensible Turkish, the door was sealed and they were left alone to sit on the bare concrete floor.

  Reza listened for a moment before he spoke in English. ‘I think I have broken my right wrist.’

  Lall saw his brother’s hand had started to swell. He asked in Pashtun, ‘How did they know? How did they spot us?’

  Reza gave him a warning stare and continued to speak in English. ‘I do not understand. We are businessmen travelling to Greece, but they have thrown us in here like criminals!’

  Lall suddenly understood. ‘We have rights,’ he said in accented English. ‘We have done nothing wrong!’

  No one entered the room for what felt like hours; in actual fact, it was less than forty minutes. And then the door opened. Blinding Turkish afternoon sun assaulted their eyes as two police officers entered with a third man. His hair was light-brown and hung below his shoulders. He was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a tan-coloured field jacket, open to reveal a light-blue T-shirt with the word ‘Georgia’ stencilled on it.

  He spoke to Lall and Reza in Pashtun. ‘I know what you are so I will not waste my time asking for your names; they are meaningless. My name I will give you, so that you will always remember me as the person who made you betray your cause. I am Michael Parnell and you two clowns now belong to the Central Intelligence Agency.’

  Reza spat. ‘You will never learn anything from us, American!’

  Lall added, ‘We will not talk to a man with the hair of a woman!’

  Parnell smirked. ‘Said by a man with the body of one.’ Parnell switched to English and addressed the policemen. ‘OK, boys, can you lift them up one at a time for me, and hold ‘em steady?’

  ‘Yessir!’ one of the officers replied.

  They grabbed Reza first and heaved him upright. He grimaced as one officer yanked his wrists. Each man then held an arm. From a pouch pocket Parnell produced two pen-like autoinjectors. He stepped behind Reza and swiftly stabbed one into his neck. ‘Let him go.’

  Lall watched as Reza wobbled before falling to the ground. There was a crack as he landed on his wrists for the second time.

  ‘Whoopsy,’ Parnell said glibly.

  Enraged, Lall sprang to his feet and, head down, charged at Parnell. At the last moment Parnell took a sidestep and kicked out, connecting with Lall’s groin. As Lall folded, Parnell stabbed his neck with the second autoinjector. ‘Toro!’

  Lall fell to his knees as his eyes watered. ‘You will die!’ he panted through the pain.

  ‘Very true, hopefully between the huge breasts of a Playboy bunny, when I’m well over a hundred and ten years old.’

  A cool sensation raced around Lall’s neck, but before he could comprehend what was happening to him, the sun disappeared from the open door to be replaced by a starless night.

  Chapter 11

  Dnipropetrovska Oblast, Ukraine

  ‘Are you warm enough?’ Blazhevich asked from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Toasty,’ Snow replied.

  Ratanov’s document named eight scientists as working at the weapons research centre in Kryvyi Rih. An Interior Ministry database search found that five were dead and one had moved to Russia. The other two were listed as still living in the town. If Snow’s theory was correct, the chances had now been vastly improved that they’d be speaking to the right person. The question, however, still remained of whether the terrorists had yet made contact, or if they ever would.

  Adverse weather conditions near Kryvyi Rih had ruled out an approach by air, so they had taken an SBU Pass
at. The car bounced through a slush-filled pothole. Blazhevich’s head hit the headrest. ‘Bloody roads!’

  Snow approved; the Ukrainian’s expletives had become decidedly more English over time. Blazhevich continued to moan. ‘We should have just used a helo; it would have been a short hop. We could have worn parachutes!’

  ‘And miss all of this beautiful scenery, Vitaly?’ The gunmetal-grey sky above them enveloped the treetops lining the highway, while dirty slush covered the bottom of the trunks. Every so often a sheet of black ice emerged from the snow and attempted to tug away the tyres.

  ‘You know, Aidan, I think you are perhaps a bigger Ukrainian patriot than me.’

  ‘If that means enjoying Ukrainian cognac and fancying Yulia Timoshenko, then I must be.’

  ‘Here.’ Blazhevich handed Snow his open wallet. ‘My wife.’

  Through the plastic window, Snow saw a photograph of an almost impossibly beautiful woman. ‘Why haven’t you shown me this before? Has she got a sister?’

  ‘No, but her mother is single.’

  ‘I like older women; they can’t run as fast.’

  ‘I’ll give her your number. She’s forty-six, but soon to be a grandmother.’

  Snow now noticed the woman’s bump. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Twins.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Two boys. We will need a bigger flat.’

  Snow handed back the wallet. ‘Have you got any ideas for names?’

  Blazhevich shook his head. ‘We have an American book of fifty thousand names; there aren’t many Ukrainian ones there, though.’

  ‘What about Bill and Ben?’

  Blazhevich frowned. ‘After William Shakespeare and Benjamin Franklin?’

  ‘No, the Flower Pot Men.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was a children’s television programme.’

  ‘So, you are suggesting that I call my kids something like Mickey and Pluto?’

  Snow burst out laughing as Blazhevich’s phone burst into life. ‘Tak?’

  Blazhevich guided the car into a petrol station as he spoke and motioned for the attendant to fill the tank. When he disconnected the call his tone had changed. He now wore his ‘mission face’. ‘Nedilko reports that suspect one’s Lada is outside his dacha. No definite sighting of him, though. It looks like he hasn’t left the house yet today, but he will later, to go to the local Gastronom.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That he’ll go to the Gastronom?’

  ‘You do surprise me; you must have been living back in England for too long. It’s a Friday. Who doesn’t go out to buy bread and vodka for the weekend?’

  ‘True, let’s go to the Gastronom.’

  Blazhevich frowned. ‘What’s your plan?’

  Snow shrugged. ‘I just want to get an eyeball on him, see if I can learn anything. However cool a customer he is, you can bet if he’s aiding foreign terrorists, he won’t be behaving normally. Stay in the car if it bothers you – besides, there’s less chance of one of us getting compromised than two.’

  ‘OK, I agree. But you won’t do anything, will you?

  ‘Vitaly, do you honestly think I’ll sneak up on the old bugger and double-tap him?’

  ‘No, but I know what you old SAS men are like; remember, I’ve seen you in action.’

  Snow switched to his Moscow-accented Russian. ‘Everything will be OK, tovarich. I promise I’ll ask questions first and shoot second.’

  ‘Thank you, Comrade. Now I really feel relieved.’

  *

  The ice had started to melt as Kozalov stepped from his car. The usual Mafiosi were outside the Gastronom, propping up their BMWs, staring at him, and eating poppy seeds, seemingly oblivious to the cold. He ignored them and, entering the store, headed straight towards the drinks counter and Eliso. As he neared her a shard of sunlight hit the counter, momentarily illuminating her like a seraph. He felt young again. ‘Good morning, Eliso.’

  She turned and beamed. ‘Hello, Yuriy, what can I get for you today?’

  He loved her smile. ‘Need you ask, my dear?’

  She turned her back to reach for his ‘usual’. His gaze was instantly drawn to her backside, which was framed perfectly by her tight-fitting jeans. He asked, ‘What are your plans for the weekend?’

  She placed his bottles in a carrier bag; he now no longer had to pay extra for one. ‘I was going into town, but now I will stay at home. And you?’

  ‘I was hoping to invite you over for a drink?’

  She glanced around furtively, her hands paused suggestively on the neck of the last bottle. ‘You are naughty, Yuriy.’

  ‘At my age, my dear, that is almost impossible.’

  On the other side of the shop, Pavel sneered. ‘Look at the old fool. He’s, what, seventy-five and thinks he has a chance with her?’

  ‘She talks to him more than she does to you,’ Kirill goaded.

  ‘Ah, shut up. If he touches her I’ll see to it that he doesn’t reach seventy-six!’

  Snow stood within earshot of both conversations. After waiting for just over an hour and a half, Kozalov’s Lada had approached the Gastronom. Snow had left Blazhevich and entered the shop. He now listened as he took his time choosing a packet of crisps. The local lads were unaware of his presence just behind them, and by their posturing showed themselves to be little more than thugs. Snow moved to the counter as Kozalov handed the assistant several notes.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘But Yuriy, this is too much…’

  ‘Then use it to get something nice for yourself, or to help your mother. How is she?’

  Snow quickly stepped forward to block Kozalov as he saw the larger of the two thugs moving nearer the counter. ‘A bottle of Alexx VSOP, if you have it?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Eliso removed her hand from Kozalov’s and went back to work.

  Kozalov stood patiently and gazed up at the new customer. He was tall and cleanshaven, unlike the local Mafiosi, who seemed only to shave as often as they washed: weekly. ‘You have expensive tastes.’

  ‘Just taste.’

  ‘Then you are in the wrong place.’

  ‘Old man!’ Pavel pointed at Kozalov. ‘Give me your bottles!’

  ‘No, I won’t!’ Kozalov held his head up defiantly.

  ‘Then I shall make you. Outside! Now!’

  ‘Are you afraid to kiss him in front of your boyfriend?’ Snow asked.

  Pavel stared at Snow. ‘What the…’

  Snow snapped his right arm forward and landed a heavy palm strike to Pavel’s jaw, sending him back against the counter. ‘If you want to fight, choose someone who can fight back.’ Snow turned and easily ducked an ill-timed haymaker from Kirill, grabbing the leather-clad arm and using the attacker’s own momentum to throw him to the ground.

  Kirill attempted to scrabble to his feet as Pavel rubbed his face, hatred in his eyes. ‘I’m going to kill you!’

  ‘Please try.’

  ‘Please, stop!’ Eliso screamed.

  ‘Enough. I’m leaving!’ Kozalov collected his shopping and left the store.

  Pavel took a step towards Snow. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Mind your language. Did your mother not tell you to be respectful in a lady’s presence?’

  ‘Lady? She’s a Georgian whore who likes…’ Snow’s fist ended Pavel’s sentence.

  As Pavel fell, Kirill came at Snow again. Snow sidestepped the first punch, grabbed Kirill’s arm, twisted it, and forced him to the floor. Kirill lay in a pressure hold, facedown, with his right arm behind his back.

  ‘Who the… who are you?’ the thug grunted.

  ‘I’m just a customer.’ Snow tugged the trapped arm. ‘Now will you let me pay or do I have to really hurt you?’

  ‘OK… OK!’

  Snow let go and took a step back. Kirill slowly got to his feet and started to massage his wrist. He looked at Pavel, who was out cold. The woman from the meat coun
ter arrived with a metal bucket. She poured its contents over the bandit, who spluttered and jerked awake. Snow handed Eliso a handful of notes, took his bottle, and left the shop. He saw three other lads outside, smoking, and ignoring the freezing conditions. He saluted them as he walked down the street towards the Passat and climbed in.

  Blazhevich saw a look on Snow’s face he’d seen before. ‘What did you do?’

  Snow shrugged. ‘I just spared our target a beating.’

  Blazhevich manoeuvred the car back onto the main road as Snow explained further.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Blazhevich asked.

  ‘He seemed normal enough, but he was buying several bottles of booze, so maybe he’s expecting company? Where’s the OP?’

  ‘Nedilko is in a nearby house; it overlooks the empty plot at the back of Kozalov’s place. It’s empty, half-built – you know the score.’

  He did. ‘I hope they have a roof.’ Snow looked skywards; the clouds had become dark and ominous.

  ‘We’ve placed a camera in a tree opposite his dacha and another on a telegraph pole a few houses along.’

  ‘OK, so let’s see our second candidate.’

  ‘We’ll go to his office. It’s not far.’

  After twenty minutes of travelling down Kryvyi Rih’s central drag, Snow was starting to get a feel for the place, which, at over one hundred and twenty-six kilometres in length, was Europe’s longest, and possibly thinnest, town. Soviet-style apartment blocks lined each side, some with garish, neon-fronted stores on the ground floor. Yellow buses and trolleybuses trundled in both directions through the grimy-looking slush. Blazhevich parked the VW side-on to the kerb outside a newish, square building and showed his SBU ID as he and Snow pushed their way into the local council headquarters. Much to the consternation of a heavily made-up, peroxide-blonde secretary, the pair walked into the top-floor corner office. Taken by surprise, Mayor Kantorovich snatched a napkin away from his shirt collar and slowly got to his feet.