Cold East Page 24

  ‘I promise, if you give up the location of the bomb, SIS will do all it can.’

  Needham sighed. ‘I would never have let him use it on a civilian target – you know that.’

  ‘Do I?’ Snow’s mind span – what was the target?

  ‘Harris said it was strategic. It was to be a bloody nose to the bear to teach it some manners. “Russia needs to respect its neighbours,” he said, and hell, we both agreed. But then things started to change when Kishiev got involved.’

  ‘Kishiev?’ Snow said and instantly realised his mistake.

  ‘Shit. You didn’t know, did you? Snow, you almost had me there. I want a guarantee of immunity from prosecution and I’ll happily tell you all about Kishiev, his men, the target, and the nuke.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ Gorodetski said. ‘Harris is on his way.’

  ‘Cuff him,’ Snow ordered. ‘I’m going to call Casey personally.’

  ‘You know him?’ Needham seemed surprised.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? He’s also on his way.’

  *

  A steady stream of frigid air blew in through the shattered kitchen window, making the single bulb sway. Ice started to form on the worktop as night arrived and the temperature fell. Kozalov sat on a kitchen chair, wrapped in his heavy wool coat. His head was spinning; he still needed more alcohol. There was a second bottle of cognac in the cupboard but he couldn’t reach it. His hands had gone numb from being cuffed to the metal handle of the kitchen cupboard, and the fake dressing on his right leg was tight. Unable to move and unable to speak because of his gag, Kozalov was angry and resentful. This wasn’t how things were meant to be! How dare they treat him like this! Kozalov had no idea what was happening. The Russian and the Englishman had left together, taking the new arrival, and he didn’t even want to think about the dead body in the next room! The dacha was still, save for the rhythmic ticking of his trusted clock and the occasional whistle as the snow blew in through the window. His head started to drop… but then another sound reached his ears: engines… vehicle engines. Their headlights beamed in through the broken window before abruptly switching off. Car doors opened and closed loudly, feet crunched in the frozen snow and were accompanied by raised voices.

  ‘Kozalov!’ A yell and the front door banged against the wall as it was thrown open.

  He looked up as a group of men burst into his kitchen. He recognised them as the local Mafiosi from the Gastronom. Kozalov’s eyes went wide – Eliso was with them!

  Pavel started to laugh. ‘Look at him! Tied up in his kitchen! What have you been up to, you filthy old man?’

  Kozalov shook his head and tried to speak but the gag stopped him.

  ‘Search the house like Vanya told us to!’ Pavel commanded.

  Two of the Mafiosi raced upstairs, while Kirill and another went into the living room.

  Eliso stepped forward and removed the gag. ‘Yuriy, are you OK? What happened?’

  ‘What happened?’ spluttered Kozalov. ‘Everything happened!’

  Pavel strutted around the kitchen. ‘Where is your drink?’

  ‘Shit! Oh, my God!’ Kirill reappeared, ashen-faced, from the living room. ‘There’s a dead body in there!’

  ‘Dead body?’ Pavel repeated. ‘What, a real one?’ Pavel pushed past Kirill to see for himself.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs as the remainder of the group came back.

  ‘No one upstairs,’ the first stated.

  ‘Just full of old clocks,’ the second added.

  ‘You three stand by the front door,’ Pavel instructed over Kozalov’s shoulder, ‘and you two by the upstairs windows like Vanya told us to.’

  ‘Why are you with them, Eliso? Why are they in my house? Who is Vanya?’ Kozalov was confused, half-drunk, and angry.

  Eliso stroked his head to soothe him. She then undid the top two buttons of his coat to reveal his neck and stroked the exposed skin. ‘Our buyer is here. He sent Pavel and the boys to see if you were all right.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Pavel moved back in front of the pair; it was now his turn to look confused. ‘You told me he tried to molest you!’

  ‘He did, and I encouraged him.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘It was business.’ Eliso reached into her pocket and retrieved a pen-like device. Without warning she plunged it into Kozalov’s neck. His reaction was delayed, he tried to push her away, but she was too strong.

  Alcohol and shock making his love evaporate, Kozalov yelled, ‘You crazy bitch!’

  ‘That’s right, I’m a bitch…’ She made eye contact with Pavel. ‘And a whore.’

  Pavel held up his hands, shocked. ‘Whoa…’

  ‘And Vanya is my boss, not my uncle.’ She put the autoinjector back into her pocket, exchanging it for a subcompact Beretta pistol. ‘And this is my friend. You and your friends are going to be paid by my boss, as agreed, to help us. So, you listen to me. Understand?’

  Pavel was slack-jawed. ‘Y… yes.’

  ‘Good. Now join the others outside the house, keep watch.’

  Pavel moved, his swagger gone.

  Eliso dragged a second chair to Kozalov and sat down facing him. His head was rocking and his eyes were wide. She’d seen him drunk, and she’d seen men drugged before, but it interested her to see the drugs working on him. ‘Where is the package?’

  ‘What have you done to me?’ Kozalov asked, his voice trembling.

  ‘I’ve given you a tonic for your tongue.’

  ‘Tonic?’ He stared at Eliso; she had a strange expression on her face. What was going on? He had no idea what to say, what to think. ‘Why are you doing this? We were going to leave together.’

  Eliso stared into his bloodshot eyes. She couldn’t be bothered to explain to him, there really was no point. The drugs would make him talk; they always did. ‘I’m going to call Vanya and he is going to speak to you.’

  Kozalov now had a smile on his face. ‘That is good. Is he going to bring me my money?’

  Eliso pressed speed dial on her phone and then the speaker button. Harris’s voice filled the room. ‘Is it done?’

  ‘I’ve given it to him.’

  ‘Make sure he can hear me.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Eliso held up the phone.

  ‘Good evening, Yuriy,’ Harris said in accented Russian.

  ‘You know my name?’ Kozalov asked the phone.

  ‘Of course, you are my most important supplier.’

  ‘You are the SBU come to trick me!’ Kozalov became indignant.

  ‘Where is Needham?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy I sent to get the package.’

  ‘The Russian?’

  ‘The Russian? No, the American!’

  ‘The Russian who tried to kill me took him away with the Englishman.’

  ‘They took Needham away?’ Harris asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yuriy, tell me about the Englishman.’

  ‘He was a tall man, he threw me on the floor – he said his name was Aidan. He knew the other man, the Russian CIA agent.’

  ‘He knew him?’ Harris’s voice registered surprise. Kozalov seemed to know everything.

  ‘Yes, it was something about saving each other’s lives, and brothers. I wasn’t paying much attention.’

  At the other end of the call, Harris’s brain frantically recalculated. How could Gorodetski know Aidan Snow? There was no possible way unless Gorodetski was a patsy, a plant, and Casey was onto him. But there had been nothing at all to suggest that his boss and friend of convenience knew anything. ‘Think now, think carefully,’ he asked Kozalov, ‘and tell me exactly what they said to each other.’

  Kozalov shrugged. ‘It is as I said, I wasn’t really listening.’

  Harris lost his temper. ‘Just tell me what they said!’

  Kozalov stared at the phone that had just shouted at him. ‘Sergey said he did not shoot Aidan as he recognised him.’

  ‘From where?’


  Kozalov explained as best he could. ‘Will you tell her to untie me now?’ Kozalov pleaded. ‘I have answered your questions.’

  *

  Hidden in the treeline, Snow and Gorodetski had observed the group arrive, the noise and number taking them by surprise. The Mafiosi were easily recognisable, as were their cars, which were left nonchalantly parked half across the road. What threw Snow, however, was Eliso’s presence. This changed things; Harris now had hired muscle and two potential hostages, both of whom were civilians. ‘Harris knows something’s up. He must have an eyeball on the dacha, but where is he?’

  ‘Here…’ Gorodetski handed Snow an IR scope. ‘I came prepared.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Snow scanned the treeline either side of them and drew a blank. He then turned the scope on the dacha. He instantly made out ‘warm’ shapes by an upstairs window as well as the very visible yobs by the front door. He doubted anyone inside had IR equipment, but if so he and Gorodetski would be exposed. ‘I’ve got one, two in the upstairs window. Three outside.’

  Gorodetski shifted ever so slightly. ‘So we wait it out?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ Snow had briefed Nedilko and Blazhevich on the true nature of the threat. Nedilko was in a house overlooking the back of the dacha, and Blazhevich was parked in the Passat along the road. They were each wearing a set of SBU comms links. ‘Harris needs that component and I don’t want to spook him. We have to wait and see what his move is, and the longer he takes, the nearer Casey gets to us.’

  Gorodetski looked up at the sky. ‘The conditions are better now; he shouldn’t have any problems.’

  ‘I agree.’ He had no idea where Casey had managed to get a helo from, but he had been in the air and en route when Snow updated him on Kishiev’s involvement. It was an eighty-minute flight south for someone who wasn’t in a hurry, but Casey was. Snow moved his arm slowly to reveal his watch. By his estimation Casey was still an hour out. Snow handed Gorodetski the scope back and depressed his pressel switch. ‘Nedilko, anything at the back?’

  ‘Nothing. All quiet here.’

  ‘Got that. Vitaly, where’s the Audi?’

  ‘Still static,’ Blazhevich added. ‘The woman got out, no one else.’

  ‘Keep an eyeball on it.’

  ‘Understood,’ Blazhevich replied.

  ‘Movement,’ Gorodetski noted quietly. ‘The front door. It’s Kozalov. Human shield?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  As the two men watched, Kozalov slowly walked down his steps past Pavel’s group and shuffled into his front garden. After crossing halfway towards the neighbour’s fence he stopped, turned around to face the dacha, and then pointed at the ground.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Snow thought aloud.

  ‘It’s not Tai Chi,’ Gorodetski said.

  Kozalov then walked to the side of the house and disappeared.

  There was a squelch of static in their earpieces. ‘I have Kozalov,’ Nedilko reported. ‘He’s opening the outhouse. Waiting… OK, he’s got a spade.’

  Snow and Gorodetski observed Kozalov return. He walked back to the front garden, cleared the snow from a patch of ground, and started to dig. After several swings of his spade he straightened up and held his back, clearly out of breath. Pavel joined him and pushed him in the chest. Kozalov resumed his labour feebly until Pavel grabbed the spade and took over.

  ‘I think we can safely say he’s buried the package,’ Snow stated.

  ‘Unless he’s looking for potatoes?’ Gorodetski replied.

  Snow shook his head; he was beginning to like the Russian. There was another reason Kozalov had been sent out, and Snow knew it. Harris was exploring, wanting to see who was outside and where they were. Snow checked his watch again; Casey was still a long way out.

  After another few minutes of slow digging, Pavel heaved a bundle out of the ground and swung it over to Kozalov. He stumbled back towards the front door with Pavel at his side.

  Snow had a decision to make. He couldn’t let Harris acquire the missing component. ‘Cover me. Don’t shoot unless you absolutely have to.’

  Gorodetski shifted his position. ‘Copy that.’

  Snow retrieved his silenced Glock, pushed himself backwards, and then leopard-crawled to his right. He put the BMWs between himself and the bulk of the dacha, got to his haunches, took a deep breath, and ran towards the Lada. Three, four, five quick strides through the frozen snow. The air was still and his feet seemed to clatter like hooves on cobblestones, but neither Kozalov nor the locals had noticed him yet. Snow hit the car; his arms rested on its roof and he opened fire. A 9mm round instantaneously hit Kozalov in the right leg, spinning him like a top before he fell flat on his face. The package whirled away into the snow. Immediately there was a pinging sound like heavy hail as the car and ground around Snow were peppered with suppressed rounds from an unseen shooter. The thin sheet metal offered Snow no protection; he threw himself into the frigid ground and crawled under the Russian-designed 4x4. He was pinned down; he risked a look at the dacha. The kitchen light had been extinguished. The Mafiosi had scattered, leaving Kozalov where he had fallen. He was groaning and dragging himself to the side of the garden, his leg leaving a bloody trail behind. Snow felt no remorse for shooting the former KGB officer; he knew what he’d been trying to sell and was well aware of what his weapon could do. As far as Snow was concerned, Yuriy Kozalov was a terrorist. Snow focused on the package; it was out in the open in front of the Lada. He couldn’t reach it without being seen, but he could shoot it. Snow raised his Glock and squinted. There was no guarantee his rounds would penetrate whatever casing surrounded the firing unit decoder, but he had to try. He took second pressure on the trigger, but then he heard the ground crunch behind him. As Snow span around, a gunman came at him out of the woods, wielding a Kalashnikov. More suppressed rounds slammed into the Lada. Snow brought his Glock up as the gunman jerked sideways, taking a round from Gorodetski in the torso. Falling to his knees, he kept the assault rifle facing Snow. The man’s features were now visible in the weak street lights – it was Mohammed Tariq. Gorodetski fired again and the Afghan sank.

  Snow took a moment to steady his breathing.

  ‘Aidan!’ Gorodetski shouted.

  In a mirror of the scene earlier in the day, Snow saw the Russian walking towards him with his hands held aloft, but this time someone was nudging him from behind with an assault rifle.

  ‘Drop your gun, Snow, or your new friend gets it in the back of the head,’ Harris said calmly.

  Snow swore under his breath. By firing on Tariq, Gorodetski had given his position away.

  ‘Ah, OK, you want me to kill him? Sure.’

  Harris moved the AK towards Gorodetski’s head.

  ‘Wait!’ Snow crawled out from under the Lada and threw his Glock aside.

  ‘Smart thinking, son…’

  With explosive speed, Gorodetski ducked, pivoted, and grabbed the barrel of the AK. He heaved it forward and down, pulling Harris from his feet. The American landed heavily. Gorodetski reversed the AK and swung it, but the covert CIA operative raised his arms and kicked out with his legs. Gorodetski took the impact in his shin and fell to his knees. The Kalashnikov dropped away.

  ‘Come on, boy, or are you still a puss?’ Harris goaded, getting up.

  Gorodetski sprang forward and shoulder-barged Harris onto his back. Harris clung on and slammed his fists into the side of the younger man’s head.

  Snow saw the two men grapple. Gorodetski had now thrown Harris aside and was delivering a fist to his face. Snow reached for his Glock and got to his feet, but then something hard hit him on the back of the head. His legs wobbled, he turned, and as the ground rushed up to meet his face he saw Pavel standing over him with a shovel.

  ‘Are you ready to die?’ Gorodetski asked the American.

  ‘Take your hands off him!’ Eliso ordered, aiming her Beretta at Gorodetski. ‘Now!’

  Harris took a step away and brushed off his jacket; he tasted blood in
his mouth. ‘Never underestimate a pretty face, James.’

  ‘My name is Sergey,’ Gorodetski stated as he looked between Harris and the woman.

  ‘Yep, and that’s what I’m going to tell the militia.’

  Gorodetski frowned. ‘So what now? You kill us all and escape with the girl?’

  ‘And we ride off into the sunset…’ Harris retrieved his Kalashnikov. ‘Now, if you’d be so kind as to get inside the house, the story for the militia works better if you’re found inside.’

  Harris and Eliso led Gorodetski across the frozen garden towards the dacha. They met Pavel halfway; he had a spade in his hand.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Pavel leered. ‘He’s over there. I hit him hard with this. He’s never getting up.’

  Harris shot a glance at the Lada and Snow’s body lying motionless next to it. ‘Where’s my stuff?’

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘Help me… I’ve been shot!’ Kozalov wailed as they neared him.

  ‘Leave him,’ Harris ordered.

  Kirill met them in the kitchen. He had found Kozalov’s cognac supply and was swigging freely.

  ‘Where are the rest of you?’ Harris asked

  ‘They got scared, they ran off,’ Kirill replied. ‘We were in the Ukrainian army. Nothing scares us.’

  Harris knew it was an empty boast. All the Mafiosi would have been conscripted into the army for national service. ‘Where’s my stuff?’

  ‘Here.’ Kirill removed the package from under his coat; it was the same size as a large jiffy bag.

  ‘You opened it?’

  ‘No, I just took it out of the sack it was buried in. Do you have our money?’

  Harris pointed at the bottle. ‘Does that stuff give everyone who drinks it big cahoonas?’

  Pavel became confused and pointed at the envelope. ‘It’s what you wanted. Now, if you pay us, we’ll leave and forget all about tonight.’

  ‘Eliso, take care of this, please,’ Harris ordered.

  Eliso raised her Beretta and shot Pavel in the face. Kirill’s eyes went wide in disbelief; he tried to move, but then the side of his face was blown away too.