Traitors Read online

  ‘Super-spy?’ Snow smirked.

  ‘What is Racine?’ Iqbal repeated. ‘Is she CIA?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She’s too fit to be British.’

  Snow smirked. ‘She’s not CIA.’

  ‘What then?’ Iqbal persisted. ‘French? You mentioned Paris.’

  ‘Hot,’ Snow stated, with a straight face.

  Iqbal burst out laughing, and then started to cough.

  Snow handed Iqbal the can of Fanta. ‘Drink that. You need the sugar.’

  Iqbal emptied the can speedily and then said, ‘Dog shit.’

  Snow frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘I went to Paris once. She’s right – the streets are covered with dog shit. I blame those women with little dogs in big handbags.’

  Snow tried not to laugh. He noticed a plastic hotel laundry bag by the side of the bed. ‘See if there is a half decent pair of socks in there you can borrow.’

  Iqbal put the bottle down, leant forward, and picked up the bag. He pulled out a pair of grubby grey socks. ‘These’ll have to do.’

  ‘I hope our Dutch friend hasn’t got athlete’s foot.’

  ‘Don’t even joke.’ Iqbal feigned disgust. ‘Look … I know it’s your job, but thanks. Really … thanks for rescuing me.’

  ‘It’s what I do. We’re not out of the woods yet though.’

  Iqbal shook his head. ‘All those people dead, Russians and DNR, just to get me out.’

  ‘Mo, it was their choice to hold you against your will. They knew the consequences. And after all—’ Snow put a hand on his shoulder ‘—you’re a very important person.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Iqbal snorted. ‘Do you know the real reason why they sent you to get me?’

  ‘Because you are a UK national held illegally by terrorists.’

  ‘But who did your boss get the order from, the Foreign Secretary?’

  Snow replied, ‘I can’t comment.’

  ‘Robert Holmcroft is my father. My birth father.’

  ‘The Foreign Secretary is your father?’ Snow was shocked.

  ‘Yep. That’s the big secret. My mum and dad and Robert used to live on the same street and knock about together as teenagers. My mum and dad were promised in an arranged marriage, and when Robert got Mum pregnant, she pretended it was Dad. The date was near enough to their wedding that no one twigged. Robert Holmcroft went back to finish his last year at university, became posh, and joined the Foreign & Commonwealth Office. A couple of years later he used his connections to make sure my dad was offered an ex-pat medical job in Qatar. That meant we were happily out of his way for a few years. I found out who I was when I was eighteen. That was some birthday present I can tell you.’ Iqbal drained the remainder of the water. ‘I know what you’re thinking – skin colour, right? Robert is a white bloke, yeah, but Mum’s genes were dominant. This whole thing is a secret, but I’m telling you because … oh, I don’t know why I’m telling you.’ Iqbal shook his head.

  It made no difference to Snow who Iqbal was. ‘Did you tell Strelkov or Vasilev about this?’

  ‘No, they hadn’t a clue.’

  ‘Mo, you are one cool customer.’

  ‘Tanya used to call me “cool” …’ Iqbal stopped mid-sentence.

  ‘Tanya was your girlfriend?’

  Iqbal bobbed his head. ‘Before I was taken.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Snow got to his feet and checked the hallway through the spyhole. There was nothing he could do about Tanya. He wasn’t going to search Donetsk for her.

  ‘Bugger,’ Iqbal grunted in pain as he laced up his boots.

  ‘Right, let’s go.’ Snow took the lead with Iqbal hobbling behind. They turned left out of the door and walked past the lift to the stairs. When they entered the stairwell, Snow paused and looked at a plan affixed to the wall showing the emergency exit. He traced the path with his finger. As the hotel was on a slight hill, the goods exit was a floor lower than the reception. As they reached the reception floor, raised Russian voices wafted in. Snow pushed on until they reached the bottom where the floor was littered with cigarette butts and the walls were unpainted plaster. Snow pushed open the fire door and saw a door to the kitchens on his immediate right; on the left was the exit to the loading area.

  ‘Stay close,’ he whispered before he chanced a glance into the kitchen. Apart from two men in chef’s whites, it was empty.

  Approaching the back door, he heard subdued voices. Snow took a deep breath and opened the door. Sunlight streamed through the gap and he squinted. In front of him was a white vehicle with OSCE stencilling on the side; next to it, were Benscoter and a second man. The man was thin and, over a grey three-quarter length coat, wore the distinctive blue OSCE vest of a senior member of personnel. Snow remained still for a moment to scan for possible threats before he spoke. ‘Gentlemen.’

  The man with Benscoter jerked and turned to see who was there. ‘I’m Gordon Ward, Chief Monitor. You are the men that Freek told me about?’

  ‘Yes,’ Snow confirmed, ‘and we need you to get us out of Donetsk.’

  ‘While I do sympathise with your predicament, as I told Freek, I’m afraid that ferrying you across the lines is really out of our scope.’

  ‘Your scope is to facilitate the release and repatriation of prisoners.’

  ‘That is quite so; however, did you know that there are currently in excess of two hundred and forty-five military prisoners alone held by the Donetsk People’s Republic? We are working hard with both sides to negotiate their release and the many more civilians they have incarcerated. I cannot, and will not, jeopardise the integrity of the OSCE for the sake of two men.’

  ‘Gordon, we as the OSCE have a moral duty to help here,’ Benscoter reasoned.

  ‘We are neutral observers.’

  ‘The Russians know we’ve made contact with you. If you don’t help us you will have chosen a side … theirs,’ Snow warned.

  ‘And if we help you, following your logic, we will have chosen a side too.’

  ‘No. You will not. You will have fulfilled your mandate.’ Snow heard diesel engines growing louder. ‘As an officer of the Secret Intelligence Service, I am officially asking on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government for your assistance.’ Snow fixed his eyes on Ward’s. ‘Please immediately drive us out of Donetsk and to the Ukrainian lines at Marinka.’

  Ward bristled. ‘What identification do either of you have?’

  ‘How many other Brits have you bumped into on the streets of Donetsk recently?’ Snow was exasperated; the man in front of him was a jobsworth who would have been much better suited to working as a parking attendant.

  ‘Look, much as I would like to help—’

  Snow took a step forward, his nose almost touching that of the older man. ‘You either help us or, God help me, I’ll find out where you live and when you finally return to the UK, I’ll pay you an unsocial visit. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  Ward was silent.

  Iqbal broke the stare-off. ‘Listen, fellas, I’d walk home if I was able to.’

  ‘Gordon, I’ll drive them myself.’ Benscoter held out his hand for the keys.

  ‘Very well.’ Ward reached into his pocket, retrieved a set of keys and handed them to the tall Dutchman.

  Benscoter blipped the locks on the Land Cruiser. ‘Get in.’

  Snow helped Iqbal into the back and followed him in. Snow instructed Iqbal to sit low in his seat. Benscoter drove smoothly away from the hotel, with his boss riding shotgun, and joined the road that led through the park. Snow saw no new DNR vehicles or personnel. It was too soon to relax, but he had started to feel better about their chances of escaping Donetsk.

  Chapter 23

  Kalinins’kyi District, Donetsk

  A crowd had gathered outside the apartment building and DNR militants had started to arrive, not quite sure of what to do. Knowing as they did who lived in the top floor, t
hey formed a loose cordon and waited for their Russian masters to arrive. Racine had slipped through the front doors with a group of worried residents. Her taxi driver had been edgy but also eager to see what had been happening in the apartment building, so he had waited for her. He now ended his phone call and popped his handset back into his pocket. ‘That was my brother, Slava. It’s not good news. All the checkpoints out of Donetsk are locked down. Every car is being examined and every passenger is being searched. I’m afraid you chose an extremely bad day to leave the city.’

  Racine had anticipated as much, and having it confirmed made her choice of route easier. If security at every checkpoint was increased, the most heavily guarded would need the least; in theory, her theory, it would become the weakest link. ‘Which of the checkpoints normally has the most men guarding it?’

  ‘That would be on the H15 before Marinka. It’s the busiest road leading to the Ukrainian army lines. There is always at least one armoured vehicle there and lots of men.’

  ‘Can you take me there, please?’

  The driver threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Lady, didn’t you hear? All roads are now blockaded by the DNR. You wouldn’t be able to get through.’

  Racine noticed a Mercedes G Wagon had turned into the street and was heading directly for the front of Vasilev’s building. ‘I’ll give you another two hundred dollars if you take me.’

  The driver turned in his seat. ‘Why do you want to escape so badly?’

  Racine looked down at her lap and let the tears stream from her eyes. If money wouldn’t work, emotional blackmail might. ‘My husband took our daughter, Masha, to Kyiv. I was to follow with my mother, but she fell ill and …’ Racine put her head in her hands.

  The driver let out a sigh. ‘It’s OK. There, there, my little one.’ The driver’s tone changed. He leant over and stroked her head.

  ‘It was my mother’s heart. The noise of the shelling and the worry. It just stopped and it wouldn’t start again.’ Racine started to sob. The tears and the pain were real enough, even if the reason for them was not.

  ‘I’ll take you there, but I’ll have to drop you before the checkpoint.’

  Racine blinked and took his hand. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  The taxi driver’s face softened. ‘How old is Masha?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Ah, that is the best age, when they are so innocent yet think they are worldly wise. I have two daughters, Oxsana and Natasha. They are teenagers now.’ He turned in his seat and started the engine.

  ‘I’ll still pay you the extra two hundred dollars.’

  The driver glanced at Racine in the rear-view mirror. ‘Just give me one hundred. I would do this for free but, as you must understand, here we all need the money.’

  The taxi rejoined the flow of traffic and Racine wiped her eyes. She saw her mother, and she saw her aunt – Celine. She saw her laughing and pretending to be her sister. Racine’s chest heaved and the sobs continued. Too numb to cry as a child, it was the first time she had properly cried since Celine’s death. She hated herself for it but knew that it had to come, her grief could be held back no longer. She was crying for her dead aunt and for the loss of her mother, the woman who had left her weeks after her own sister’s death. She now vowed to track down her mother, and explain what she had done, that the nightmare was finally over.

  She thought about her father now – her brave, proud father who had looked after her ever since and who she knew would give anything and do anything for her. She had to get back home to him. She had to explain it all, even if it broke every law in the land, and if it did her father the lawyer could represent her. She wiped her eyes again and feeling an odd, unfamiliar sense of insecurity pulled her beanie hat down further over her ears and aching forehead.

  The tears had stopped. She now focused her attention on the world outside the taxi. She started to recognise the route she had taken less than two hours before with Aidan Snow. She imagined he and Iqbal had made it out; given his level of training, yes, she was sure he would have. Racine focused on her own escape now and cut away from all other thoughts or concerns. The traffic on the roads was very light and by the time they neared the H15, there was nothing at all passing them in the opposite direction.

  The driver turned into an empty service station that in happier times had stalls outside selling seasonal products, including watermelons. ‘That’s it; this is as far as I can take you without being questioned. Are you sure you want me to leave you here, in the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Racine handed the driver two one-hundred-dollar bills.

  ‘We agreed on one.’

  ‘I insist. I have a feeling there won’t be many fares for a while.’ Racine opened the door and climbed out.

  ‘God be with you.’ The driver crossed his head and chest.

  Racine shut the door. The only god she needed with her right now was Ares. She quickly moved into the cover of the shadows given by the cinder-block building. She watched the taxi swing across the highway and head back in the direction of Donetsk. The road was silent – no traffic passed in either direction. Racine felt a chill, as if humanity had vanished. This close to the checkpoint, the highway was naked and lined only by waist-high hedgerows. She had no idea if the trees had been removed or if they had never existed. Racine pushed through the hedge at the back of the parking area and made her way slowly parallel to the road towards the checkpoint half a mile ahead. She would have much preferred to have moved at night, but the longer she took to make good her escape the harder it would become.

  The soil in the field was dry underfoot, slowing her progress and making it almost impossible to run. She would have to get back on the highway sooner or later and hoped that when she did, she’d be able to use the elements of stealth and surprise to pass the militants manning the checkpoint.

  She checked her Makarov: a single clip less the rounds she’d used on Vasilev. No good in a firefight, no good at all, but at least it was small enough to conceal. She startled as the first mortar shells of the evening landed in the distance to the north. Hunkering down, she waited. There was no return fire from the checkpoint or anywhere nearby, and the evening became still once again. A wind started to blow and brought with it voices from farther up the highway. At this distance, the words were unintelligible, lost on the breeze, but the meaning was not. Short, sharp, staccato instructions given by men.

  She’d once heard a linguist describe French as reminiscent of doves cooing. If that was the case she’d add that Russian sounded like dogs barking. Racine came level with the last car in line at the checkpoint, still some hundred yards from the barrier itself. She proceeded at a slower, more deliberate pace, each step held with it the risk of discovery, the risk of setting off a flare tied to a trip wire or stumbling into an IED left by either side.

  On the opposite side of the highway, she saw a green, soft-sided Kamaz truck. Several young Russians stood outside it talking amongst themselves. She drew her Makarov. If spotted, a fraction of a second would be all the advantage she would have. She pushed on, unseen.

  The sun was still in the sky, but cold shadows fell across the fields, just as the cold shadows of death covered Eastern Ukraine. Racine moved closer to the hedgerows to take full advantage of what little darkness there was. Twenty yards ahead the foliage abruptly stopped and empty fields met the highway on either side, stretching into the distance against a big, brooding, sky. The road carried on ahead in a straight line, which fell and rose with the undulating countryside, causing natural areas of dead ground. On her side of the road, a makeshift guard hut stood angled across the grass verge; on the other side, a BMP-2 sat with its barrel pointed at the Ukrainian lines in the distance, invisible behind the trees.

  Racine stood immobile by the last piece of cover. She could hear the intense male voices much more distinctly, and the higher-pitched, less forceful replies of women. Racine got to her haunches and gently burrowed into the hedge. Dry, stubborn twig
s pricked at her and scarred her already battered leather jacket. Once on the other side, she saw men in military fatigues on the highway itself with assault rifles slung on their shoulders searching the waiting vehicles. She prayed they didn’t have dogs.

  The car at the head of the line was a shabby, silver Ford Granada – a refugee from the 1980s. Its boot and all four doors were open, and its two elderly occupants were arguing with the militants. Racine considered her position. There was no way she could creep into a vehicle and cross the checkpoint without being detected. She spotted a drainage ditch butted up to the highway but disregarded it as too exposed and too shallow. What she needed was a diversion.

  A white Toyota Land Cruiser trundled past the line of cars and stopped in the middle of the road. The DNR men searching the queuing civilian vehicles switched their focus and advanced on it. Racine wriggled backward into the hedge, emerging again on the side furthest from the road. She ran at a crouch to where the hedge ended. She crept around the edge and watched. Like bees to honey, the white Toyota was soon engulfed with a ring of DNR militants.

  ‘The checkpoint is closed, I tell you,’ one of them said, his forced English loud in the quiet evening air.

  ‘And I tell you … you do not have any legal authority to impede the passage of an OSCE vehicle carrying out its monitoring mission,’ a voice, tinged with a guttural accent, boomed in reply.

  More militants joined the discussion with looks of amusement on their faces. One moved to stand directly in front of the Land Cruiser and, using internationally recognised hand signals, told the driver to turn off the engine. The driver initially ignored the instructions and amusement started to turn to exasperation. The English speaker with the deep voice got out of the vehicle. He was a giant, obviously from Northern Europe, perhaps Scandinavian or Dutch. Towering over the assembled militants, his OSCE tabard glowed under rays of evening sunlight. His voice thundered as he read them the riot act. All eyes were on the confrontation. This was her chance.

  Racine took a deep, calming breath and moved forward. Her Makarov was in her right hand and her arms and legs were loose. Daring not to turn her head, she fixed her eyes on the barrier ahead and the makeshift guard hut. Suddenly, voices raised and she imagined fingers tightening on triggers, yet she continued to move and she saw a militant step out of the guard hut. His hand, which held a green apple, had frozen en route to his mouth. He stared dumbfounded at Racine. Makarov extended in front of her, she broke into a sprint. Racine covered the last few feet to the guard hut before the militant could spit the bite out of his mouth and voice a warning. He dropped the remainder of the apple and raised his fists but was too slow. Racine shoulder barged him to the ground. His arms flailed out and his head struck the tarmac with a nauseating crack. He started to choke on the apple still in his mouth. Racine rolled left and came to a halt behind the guard hut, weapon up. She counted to five before breaking cover and looking back at the checkpoint. The OSCE monitor was now gesturing angrily, as was the nearest militant.