Cold East Page 20

  ‘Can I help you?’ he demanded, with crumbs falling from his fleshy face.

  ‘SBU. Please, sit, Leonid Ruslanovich.’

  ‘I was having my lunch!’ Kantorovich was indignant as he retook his seat. ‘What is it that the SBU wants from me?’

  Blazhevich and Snow sat. Blazhevich spoke. ‘We understand that you were the director of the Kryvyi Rih weapons research centre?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that I cannot discuss anything about my former work.’

  ‘Oh, come on, the plant closed over twenty years ago and your employer no longer exists.’

  Kantorovich frowned. ‘I will not talk of my previous employment. I was a successful businessman for many years before I became the representative of the people of this town in the nation’s parliament.’ He pointed to a photograph on the wall showing him standing outside Kyiv’s parliament building, the Verkhovna Rada.

  Blazhevich motioned to another photograph, this one on the desk, which showed the Mayor and his wife standing outside a grand house. ‘You have a beautiful home. What we’d like to know is how you paid for the land it sits on and how you funded its construction?’

  Kantorovich looked at both, his eyes narrowing. ‘What is it you really want to know?’

  Snow now spoke for the first time, using his accented Russian. ‘Have you been contacted in the last year by anyone else asking about your work at the facility?’

  Kantorovich jabbed with his forefinger at Blazhevich and then Snow. ‘He’s SBU. What are you?’

  ‘Someone you don’t lie to. Answer my question.’

  Kantorovich stiffened. ‘No one has asked me about my facility for many years. It is old news around here. History. Now, what is this about?’

  ‘Someone may be selling state secrets,’ Blazhevich said.

  ‘The secrets of a state that, as you pointed out, no longer exists?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are only myself and that alcoholic, Kozalov, left; the others are dead.’ Kantorovich raised his right hand like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘And no, I haven’t spoken to him for years, before you ask me. I mean, why would I? He is nothing to me.’ Kantorovich stared at Snow. ‘What is it that is being sold?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Everything was destroyed; I should know. Anything that was of importance was…’ Kantorovich stopped abruptly, realising he had said too much.

  ‘Stolen by you and sold on?’ Blazhevich asked.

  ‘How dare you!’ Kantorovich bristled. ‘I am the duly elected Mayor of Kryvyi Rih, yet you accuse me of being a common criminal!’

  ‘Yes,’ Snow confirmed.

  Kantorovich shook and his face reddened. His mouth opened and closed but he was unable to form any words.

  ‘Thank you,’ Blazhevich said. ‘That is all for the moment.’

  There was a commotion at the door as two heavily built men appeared. Snow and Blazhevich rose to face them. The nearest ‘heavy’ spoke. ‘Is everything OK, Leonid Ruslanovich?’

  Kantorovich regained his power of speech. ‘Sasha, where were you?’

  ‘At lunch.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mayor Kantorovich,’ Snow said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Kantorovich muttered.

  The men at the door parted and the intelligence operatives left the mayoral office. Snow started to smile as they took the steps down to the ground floor.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘I’ve just realised who the Mayor reminds me of.’

  ‘Who?’ Blazhevich asked.

  ‘Christopher Biggins.’

  Blazhevich was puzzled as Snow sniggered. ‘I’ll never get British humour.’

  They exited the building and got back into the car. Blazhevich drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t think Kantorovich is our man; he’s as crooked as they come. If he’d got his hands on anything he’d have sold it years ago, and now he likes his status too much to jeopardise it.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Blazhevich. ‘However, he was a member of the Party of Regions; his feeding trough is not as full as it used to be.’ The political party of the former Ukrainian President had been notorious for its endemic corruption, nepotism, and ties with Russia. Now ousted from power, without their ‘presidential protection’ and under scrutiny in the wake of recently passed lustration laws, its members were watching their backs and scrambling to cover their tracks. ‘Would he really say no to a few million?’

  ‘That’s true as well, but my gut tells me Kozalov is our man. He’s alone and got nothing to lose. OK, here’s the plan. Drop me off at his dacha and then double back here and keep an eye on Mayor Kantorovich.’

  ‘You want to see him alone?’

  ‘I don’t want to spook the old goat; besides, he’s met me already.’

  ‘Agreed. What are you going to tell him?’

  ‘I’ll tell him I’m a Russian journalist writing a piece for an American science magazine, and that his knowledge would be invaluable.’

  ‘I see. Old men like to talk?’

  ‘Especially after a drink.’ Snow held up the cognac he’d bought at the Gastronom. ‘And then, once we’ve had a few, I’ll start to question him properly.’

  ‘Just don’t waterboard him.’

  ‘I can see why Dudka chose you.’

  ‘Seriously, you won’t do anything, will you, Aidan?’

  ‘It’ll be a friendly chat.’ Snow winked. ‘I’m a friendly guy. Start the car.’

  *

  British Consulate, Istanbul, Turkey

  ‘I’m Simon Scarborough. It’s nice to meet you.’ He shook Casey’s hand nervously. The news of the apprehension of the two terror suspects at the border that afternoon had been swiftly followed by a direct call from Patchem telling him to expect a senior CIA officer and to set up a video conference call.

  ‘Good to meet you.’ Casey sat. ‘Is Jack ready?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Scarborough scooted around his desk and pressed a few buttons on his computer. ‘Sorry, I don’t use this much… ah, that’s it.’

  ‘Nice place you have here, small but functional.’

  ‘It is, yes.’ Scarborough had always thought the British Consulate to be ‘grand’, but then Casey sounded as though he was from Texas, and he seemed to remember that everything was bigger in Texas.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.’ Brocklehurst came to a stop in the doorway. ‘Oh.’

  Casey waved him in. ‘Join the party but shut the door.’

  Scarborough looked up from his desktop. ‘Mr Casey is from the CIA.’

  ‘It’s Vince. My father is Mr Casey. Now have a seat or you’ll fall over when you hear the news.’

  Perplexed, Brocklehurst took a seat as a video screen sprang to life on the wall opposite. It briefly displayed the FCO screensaver before Patchem appeared. ‘Vince, I see you’re in Istanbul already?’

  ‘That’s right. Now listen. The Turkish police have handed both suspects over to my specialist and, after we asked them nicely, they became very helpful.’

  Patchem knew what ‘asked them nicely’ was a euphemism for. ‘Where is the device?’

  ‘We still don’t know, but we know what the target is. Moscow.’

  In London, Patchem felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. ‘Where and when?’

  ‘The when I dunno, but the where is the easy part – the Kremlin.’

  ‘The Kremlin is a big place.’

  ‘They said it’s gonna be the senate building. Now I don’t think they can get inside it, but any tourist can get near enough if they pay for the guided tour. Capitalism, eh? Lenin was right – it’s gonna bite you in the ass!’

  Patchem ignored Casey’s ill-timed attempt at levity. ‘Is it as you surmised? The terrorists will enter Russia via the border with Ukraine held by the DNR?’

  ‘Exactly. No border checks, no Ukrainian control, and no acknowledgement by Moscow that they control the border.’

>   ‘Who has the device?’

  ‘That’s the kicker. It’s Kishiev. It looks like he was playing the Russians and escaped from them.’

  Scarborough found his voice. ‘It must have been him who was responsible for the deaths at the Russian safe house?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Casey agreed. ‘But that’s not where it ends. Do you remember the rumours about the White Eagle?’

  ‘Fairy tales would be a more appropriate term.’ Patchem was brusque.

  ‘Well, apparently he ain’t no fairy tale. The Afghans claim the White Eagle is real and working with Kishiev.’

  Brocklehurst felt out of his depth and glanced at Scarborough, who seemed equally awkward. ‘Who is the White Eagle?’

  ‘He’s a ghost, boys,’ Casey explained. ‘He was meant to be an Al-Qaeda agent inserted into the very heart of US intelligence to spread doom and misery. We took the threat seriously; my department investigated it for a few months after 9/11, but then nothing happened, no chatter, no nothing. But now, and this may make some sense, the cell members are saying he’s a Russian.’

  ‘Vince, what are you going to tell the Russians?’ Patchem said pointedly.

  ‘Something like this: you know those suitcase nukes you like to pretend you never made? Well, one of them is being transported by a man you claim you have in custody, over a border controlled by Russian soldiers you say are there on vacation, and it’s going to destroy your senate building and irradiate the Kremlin.’ Casey sighed. ‘That’s the general gist. Your PM and my President are going to have a joint call in the next hour. They’re going to decide how, what, and when to tell the Russian President.’

  ‘And this intel is confirmed?’

  ‘They can’t lie to us, Jack, you know that. I’m sending my team into Ukraine.’

  ‘Snow is already there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Kryvyi Rih.’

  ‘Then I’ll have them make contact.’ Casey checked his watch. ‘I’m flying to Moscow; there’s nothing I can do here. Looks like London’s off the hook.’

  ‘Only if the Russians believe our leaders.’

  ‘Then may God bless us all.’ Casey stood. ‘Gentlemen.’

  Brocklehurst got up and opened the door. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  ‘Simon,’ Patchem said after Casey had gone, ‘I don’t need to remind you that this goes no further.’

  Scarborough nodded, numb, as what he had heard began to sink in. The FCO screensaver reappeared as Patchem ended the call. Patchem sat in silence for a moment. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he didn’t have time to get it checked out. The world had started to go mad and it was his job to preserve what little sanity he could. He punched in the number for Aidan Snow; he needed to be updated.

  *

  Black Sea

  Tariq had bade farewell to his brothers Lall Mohammad and Reza Khan in central Istanbul, and now sat queasily on the deck of a commercial cargo vessel bound for the Ukrainian port of Odessa. He hadn’t been on a ship of any sort before and was embarrassed to admit he wanted to vomit. Around him the crew seemed immune to the bobbing of the boat on the Black Sea’s choppy water, but he was suffering. The scent of the air, however, was magnificent, as was the colour of the sky, and the sea, which, fittingly, was turquoise. How he could feel sick to his stomach one moment and invigorated the next was beyond his comprehension but that was the effect the sea, sky, and swell had on him.

  ‘Is it indeed not a beautiful sight?’ Kishiev appeared at his side.

  ‘It is, Sheik.’

  They leant against the rails in silence, cresting several more waves before Kishiev spoke again. ‘I have some disturbing news regarding our brothers. The infidels have them.’

  Tariq turned his head. ‘They have been captured? I do not understand, Sheik. Were not their passports perfect?’

  ‘They were, my brother, but unfortunately Lall and Reza were not, for it was them who betrayed our glorious mission to the Russians. How else could they have known where you were?’

  Tariq shook his head and then paused as another wave of nausea washed over him. ‘No. I do not believe it.’

  ‘But, alas, it is a fact.’ Kishiev placed his hand on the Afghan’s shoulder. ‘Think… that is why they were not killed by the Russians. They were meant to survive in order to betray our cause further. We placed them on the coach to carry out their sacred mission, but as soon as we left they stepped off and into a waiting police car. I know this because I had men watching. They are talking to the infidels, working for them. I do not know for how long they have been doing so. That is why we gave them false information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the attack. The traitors will sing about our plans; they will say that the attack will take place in one direction while we shall attack from another. Tariq, our target is not Moscow; our target is not mainland Russia.’

  ‘What is our target, Sheik?’

  Kishiev took a deep breath. It was time to explain.

  *

  Vauxhall Cross, London, UK

  Patchem ate his canteen sandwich without enthusiasm as BBC 24 played on the wall-mounted display. A pair of journalists discussed a US Senate Intelligence Committee report heavily criticising the CIA’s interrogation techniques. The screen changed to show footage of a Democrat senator lambasting the CIA for carrying out a programme she alleged was internally known as ‘Rendition, Detention, and Interrogation’. Patchem listened sceptically. He wasn’t one to condone torture – to give ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ their correct name – but unlike the authors of the report, he accepted that it was a necessary evil. In some cases, he had to admit, intel resulting from torture could be unreliable, but in the vast majority of cases it had prevented further terror attacks. Regardless of the report, the rules by which his side played were far more stringent than the opposition. Would the Taliban, Al-Qaeda, or IS stop torturing their captives just because the West had? Did they care about the human rights of their enemies, who, even if they talked, would have their executions broadcast worldwide on YouTube? Patchem rolled his eyes now as the perma-tanned, self-righteous face of another American lawmaker half-filled the screen and stated, in words of few syllables, that the CIA must apologise and repent for the suffering they had caused. Patchem let out a sigh; if these idiots were listened to, the invaluable work carried out by the global intelligence community, including that of Casey’s unit and his own, would be greatly hindered or possibly halted altogether. Even Patchem knew little of his friend’s group or its make-up, but its mandate was clear: to actively counter the threat of global terrorism. The drugs Casey used on terror suspects were untested by the ‘official’ US authorities, but they worked and were untraceable. Was it morally right to pump a man full of narcotics to make him incriminate himself? Absolutely. Mistakes were rare, but on those occasions a severe chemical hangover was favourable to broken bones and bruises. The TV footage moved on to sport and showed someone, with what appeared to be an accident at a DIY shop for a haircut, kicking a football. Patchem finished his sandwich and rinsed his mouth with a swig of Irn-Bru, which the canteen manager had ironically started to stock after the Scottish independence ‘no vote’. Patchem closed his eyes for a moment, but a knock at his door snapped them open. He waved Plato into the room and pointed to a chair.

  ‘I’ve had a rather unexpected hit on the gait recognition program.’

  Patchem frowned. Plato tapped a tablet he had been carrying under his arm and placed it on the desk. ‘I ran the program at Istanbul’s Atatürk Airport and came up, as I had expected, with nothing, so I then expanded the search to cover the bus and ferry terminals. I got a hit for the two shooters at Istanbul’s main bus terminal.’ He touched the screen and footage played of two men watching passengers board a bus. ‘This then led me on to their faces and that’s where I ran into a wall… well, a firewall to be precise.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They’re US Special Forces.’

&
nbsp; Patchem paused, thought. ‘Are you sure of this?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. It’s a complete match on the faces and an eighty-nine point six on the gait that led me to the faces.’ Plato brought up their official headshots.

  ‘What do you know about them?’

  ‘I retrieved their names, but apart from that nothing more.’

  Patchem read the names: Karl Beck and Stephen Needham. ‘Can you penetrate the firewall?’

  ‘Jack, are you asking me to hack the Pentagon?’

  ‘No. They’ll already have a record of your search, won’t they?’

  ‘Yep, sorry, I should have used a false trail.’

  ‘We have nothing to hide.’ Unlike the CIA, it appears, he didn’t need to add. ‘It’s best to be transparent. Right, I need to take this upstairs.’

  Patchem shut his door and took the steps to the floor above two at a time. Arriving slightly pink in the face he strode past her PA and opened Knight’s door without knocking. His boss was midway through a cup of green tea and looking down at a newspaper, aided by a pair of half-moon spectacles.

  ‘It’s the CIA!’ Patchem blurted out before Knight managed to say a word.

  She pointed at a chair. ‘Sit. Explain.’ Knight didn’t interrupt until Patchem had finished. ‘What is Vince Casey playing at?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  Knight frowned. ‘So the suspects in the shooting were CIA and they took the bomb, took out half of the Al-Qaeda cell, and also spirited away the two gentlemen apprehended at the border, who happen to be the remainder of the cell.’

  ‘Do you think Vince lied to us about what they said?’

  ‘That would be the easiest explanation, if not the most palatable.’

  ‘Well, anything is preferable to having a rogue nuke detonated in Moscow!’

  ‘If it detonates,’ Knight reminded her colleague and old friend. ‘If.’

  ‘That could be it!’ Patchem suddenly realised. ‘It won’t detonate; it needs to be fixed.’

  Knight pursed her lips. ‘Explain to me what you’re thinking, Jack.’

  ‘Aidan Snow had this idea that, rather than build a dirty bomb, Al-Qaeda would want to get it fixed. That’s where he is now, running down anyone who might be able to do just that.’