Cold East Page 26

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  Chapter 15

  Dnipropetrovska Oblast, Ukraine

  Kishiev checked his watch and gave another nervous glance at the road. The ERV had been well chosen. It was a mothballed vehicle repair depot, on a disused road west of Kryvyi Rih. Any vehicles approaching him would be instantly seen, giving him ample opportunity to make good his escape. His own tracks had now been covered by fresh snow, as had the rented Nissan which stood outside. Kishiev thought back on the events of the last few weeks: his transferral from Black Dolphin, his betrayal of those loyal to him who had attacked Moscow, and most of all about his wife and daughter. Kishiev knew he would not see them again. His path was different, preordained by almighty Allah, peace be upon Him; he was to be the instrument of justice and vengeance against the infidels. The device stood next to Kishiev, looking innocuous in its metal case. Even without the missing components it would still be the deadliest weapon deployed in the name of Islam. As a dirty bomb it would cause chaos and render the targeted area useless for decades. The Russians would truly fear the name of the Prophet, and brothers would rise up to destroy the infidels. This would be the start of the real war between the Caliphate and Russia.

  His phone buzzed, an incoming call. Harris. Kishiev answered. ‘Where are you?’

  There was a pause and some static before Strelkov spoke. ‘Kishiev, we have Harris, and now we are coming for you!’

  Kishiev opened the handset and removed the SIM card before dropping it on the floor and crushing it under his boot. He cursed himself for not getting rid of the phone earlier. Through the window the outside world was black; no headlights or lights of any sort. Kishiev picked up the case and made for the door. He unlocked the Nissan with the remote and swore as the indicator lights flashed once to confirm his action. He carefully placed the case in the passenger footwell, raised his hand to shut the door, and then he heard it. A faint but familiar sound: rotor blades. His eyes widened and he slammed the door, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away from the depot. He made for the small road leading into the woods around the Karachunivs’ke reservoir. Perfect. The helicopter wouldn’t be able to follow him in there. He floored the accelerator pedal; the large engine pushed all four tyres hard into the fresh snow. The Nissan fishtailed before finding enough grip to propel it faster down the road. Now he couldn’t hear the helicopter, nor could he see any lights in the sky. He slowed enough to make the turn and then slewed the 4x4 right and into the woods. The path was narrower than the metalled road and thick with ice. Kishiev slowed the Nissan to a crawl before finally stopping within sight of the water.

  ‘Nice place for a picnic.’

  Kishiev jerked and then the cold barrel of a handgun pressed into the back of his neck. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Aidan Snow.’

  ‘You will never be able to stop the Caliphate!’

  ‘Perhaps, but I can stop you. Turn off the ignition and place your hands on the wheel.’

  Kishiev moved his hands slowly.

  The passenger door opened. ‘Good evening,’ Blazhevich said.

  ‘Cuff him, Vitaly.’

  Blazhevich snapped on a pair of cuffs and then picked up the attaché case. ‘Get in the passenger seat.’

  Kishiev awkwardly struggled over the centre console and gearstick; all the while Snow kept the Glock pressed against him. Through the open door Kishiev could once again hear the sound of rotor blades, and they were getting nearer. Blazhevich climbed into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and put the Nissan into reverse. He scraped against a tree branch as the 4x4 retraced its route back towards the road.

  ‘I hope you paid extra for the accidental damage insurance,’ Snow quipped.

  The Nissan bumped onto the road. Blazhevich tugged the wheel left, and then they turned back towards the depot. And then a helicopter landed in the car park. Kishiev started to mumble to himself; Snow didn’t recognise the language.

  Casey pulled his hat down tight. He hated the cold weather and his feet were already soggy from the snow that rose above his brown brogues, but he would endure any temperature on earth if it meant reacquiring the missing nuke. He waited for the Nissan as it came to a stop a few yards away. Snow quickly got out and opened the passenger door. He hauled Kishiev by his coat collar and marched him over.

  Kishiev’s eyes were now wide. ‘You are not Russians!’

  ‘And thank God… sorry, Allah… for that,’ Casey said with a smile.

  ‘Any news on the Russian helo?’ Snow asked.

  ‘Safe and sound in Crimea from all accounts.’

  Parnell and Gorodetski appeared from the other side of the helicopter and secured Kishiev. Blazhevich locked the Nissan and handed the device to Casey.

  ‘Have you checked this?’

  Snow shook his head. ‘I doubt it’ll go bang.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Casey blew his cheeks out with a huge sigh of relief as his hand gripped the handle. He gestured at the helo. ‘Get in, boys; I’ll give you a lift back to Kyiv.’

  *

  Embassy of the United States to Ukraine, Kyiv, Ukraine

  The sparsely furnished conference room was dominated by a huge table in the middle and a large flatscreen monitor on one wall. For their guests’ enjoyment, the monitor had been tuned to an American sports channel. Snow, Gorodetski, and Blazhevich sat on padded conference chairs drinking strong American coffee and eating imported muffins. Needham and Kishiev were being held in different rooms; both had a US Marine stationed outside. Casey had told the three operatives to make themselves at home while he spoke to Langley. Now the mission was over, the bomb retrieved, and the terrorists in custody, each man felt their body succumbing to post-action exhaustion.

  Snow drained his second cup of coffee and stretched in his chair. The pain in the back of his head had been reduced to a dull throb, thanks to two codeine tablets, a mild concussion having been diagnosed by the US Embassy medical staff. Blazhevich sat hunched over the conference table, propped up on his arms and eating a muffin, while Gorodetski, who had been quiet ever since they’d landed in the embassy car park, watched the television.

  Snow managed a smile. ‘We won.’

  ‘The game’s not over.’

  ‘I didn’t mean the football, or whatever American sport that is.’

  Blazhevich looked up. ‘We won this time, but only just.’

  Snow walked over to the coffee station. He helped himself to another cup, added cream, and took a muffin. ‘Any more for any more?’

  Blazhevich waved the request away and Gorodetski shook his head.

  Snow observed the others for a moment. ‘I need to thank the pair of you again.’

  ‘For what?’ Gorodetski asked.

  ‘Both of you saved my life on the same day, on the same Kyiv rooftop.’

  Blazhevich studied Gorodetski. ‘It was you who shot Pashinski?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was you, Vitaly,’ Snow continued, ‘who found me on the roof and stopped me from bleeding out.’

  ‘Now it all makes sense,’ Blazhevich noted.

  ‘I still don’t understand how you ended up in the Agency.’

  Gorodetski shrugged. ‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Blazhevich leaned forward.

  ‘Shopping.’

  Snow and Blazhevich traded looks.

  ‘Do you remember the terrorist attack on that New Jersey department store?’ Both Snow and Blazhevich nodded. ‘I was the customer who stopped them. It wasn’t that difficult; they were very badly trained. Vince approached me afterwards. My cover was blown; he knew who I really was and he made me an offer.’

  ‘And who are you, really?’ Snow sipped his coffee as he returned to his chair.

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You gave me your first name.’

  ‘My full name is Sergey Pavelevich Gorodetski.’

  Snow’s caffeine-assisted brain took a moment to process the n
ame. ‘Gorodetski?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘And you shot Bull Pashinski because he killed your brother?’

  ‘I told you that. He and his men murdered my brother, Misha, in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Misha was Spetsnaz?’

  ‘Under the command of Pashinski.’

  Snow took his encrypted iPhone out of his pocket and opened his email. ‘This is a little hard to believe.’

  ‘What is?’ Blazhevich queried, his mouth full of muffin.

  Snow clicked on an attachment, opened a pdf file, enlarged the image, and then handed it to Gorodetski. ‘Do you know this man?’

  Gorodetski’s eyes widened and his mouth opened. He was silent for several seconds as he stared at the image before he asked, ‘When was this taken?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘But it can’t be true.’ Gorodetski felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed as his eyes became moist. ‘This is Misha.’

  ‘Your brother Mikhail is our informer; he told us about the RA-115A. He’d been safeguarding it in Afghanistan until Al-Qaeda stole it.’

  Now oblivious to the presence of Snow and Blazhevich, tears rolled down Gorodetski’s face as he stared at the photograph of his brother, Mikhail ‘Misha’ Gorodetski. It was the first new image of his brother he had seen for over twenty-five years, but it was unmistakably him. The hair had changed colour, the face was thinner and lined, but the eyes were exactly as he remembered. He wiped away his tears angrily. ‘My mother died because of Misha. She couldn’t accept he was dead, it drove her insane. She was put in an institution.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is your father still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gorodetski’s features seemed softer, younger. ‘He teaches businessmen in Moscow how to speak English.’

  ‘Did he teach you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s American, Sergey, not English,’ Snow chuckled.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Casey greeted them as he opened the conference room doors. ‘Do we have a shitstorm or what?’

  ‘What?’ Snow said.

  Casey poured a coffee and sat at the head of the table. ‘I’ve been on a call with Langley’s seventh floor. The Director has made it clear to me, unequivocally clear, that we must get Harris back from the Russians. Harris knows where the bodies are buried – hell, he was one of the people who made the bodies! If the Russians realise just who he is, and what he knows, it will be the start of some very dark times for the Agency. If he does a Snowden it’ll blow our operations and jeopardise the lives of countless assets and operators. Neither the Agency nor our allies can afford that.’

  ‘So what does he suggest?’ Snow blamed himself for not being able to prevent Harris’s abduction.

  ‘He suggests, and I agree, that we trade Harris for Kishiev.’

  ‘We can’t do that, Mr Casey. Kishiev was captured in Ukraine, and he is a prisoner of the SBU!’

  ‘Ya think?’ Casey gazed down the table at Blazhevich. ‘We’d have let you “interview” him for a couple of days first, but after that he was on a one-way ticket to Gitmo.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Gorodetski asked.

  Casey checked his watch; it was almost 3 a.m. ‘The President of Ukraine is going to have a press conference tomorrow and Russia isn’t going to like what he has to say one iota.’

  *

  Presidential Administration Building, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Ukrainian television news cameras stood side by side with those from Russia and the West. Flashes of light bounced off the faces of the men in suits as they entered. The President of Ukraine was the first onstage followed by the Ambassadors of both the United States and the United Kingdom. Director Dudka brought up the rear. They sat at a long table, set up with nameplates and microphones.

  The President nodded and silence fell among the assembled members of the press. ‘Yesterday, at approximately eleven-thirty in the evening, the Security Service of Ukraine, in close co-operation with our partners from the British Secret Intelligence Service and the United States Central Intelligence Agency, prevented a major terrorist attack from occurring within the territory of Ukraine.’ He paused to add gravity to his statement. ‘In the course of preventing this attack we apprehended Aslan Kishiev, the Chechen leader of the Islamic International Brigade, who, as you may remember, recently escaped from Russian custody. His group was responsible for yesterday’s terrorist attack in Grozny and the recent attacks on the Moscow metro system.’ The President paused again and this time took a sip from a glass of water. ‘The attack was to be radiological in nature and was to take place within the territory of Ukraine, in the Crimean city of Sevastopol. We believe that the target was to be the base of the Russian Black Sea Fleet.’

  There was an immediate storm of flashbulbs and shouted questions as the enormity of the President’s last statement sank in.

  He held up his hand. ‘Deputy Director Dudka of the Security Service of Ukraine will now provide you with further details regarding this operation.’

  Dudka cleared his throat. ‘As the President stated a moment ago, the SBU, working with our partners from the SIS and the CIA, prevented a radiological terrorist attack from taking place in the Russian-occupied Ukrainian city of Sevastopol. The delivery method was to be a Soviet-era tactical radiological device.’ Dudka glanced offstage and gave a nod. A man wearing a white laboratory coat over a suit entered the room. He was carrying an aluminium attaché case. He stopped to the left of the table and then opened the case to reveal its contents.

  Dudka continued. ‘This is an RA-115A. It is what has been referred to as a “suitcase nuke” and was designed by Soviet scientists to be used against Western targets. This is a dummy device, but I hope you will agree with me that if a real such device had detonated in Sevastopol, the casualties and the consequences would have been unimaginable.’

  Snow watched the conference from Alistair Vickers’s office at the British Embassy. He had a wry smile on his face. Dudka’s delivery was perfect. He praised the SBU while making the FSB look incompetent. As he watched, Dudka went on to explain that the device had been made safe, and that there was no reason whatsoever to believe that any terrorist organisation, including the Islamic International Brigade, the Mujahideen of the Caucasus Emirate, Al-Qaeda, or Islamic State, could gain access to another. He then delivered the hammer blow to the ‘Hammer and Sickle’ by confirming that this particular RA-115A had been discovered in Afghanistan by Al-Qaeda after being taken there on Kremlin orders by the Red Army. Dudka explained in his final statement that an American intelligence officer, who had been instrumental in the discovery of the terrorist plot, had been mistakenly arrested by the Russians but was now to be exchanged for Aslan Kishiev. The Ukrainian government had consented to Kishiev being returned to Russia.

  ‘All’s well that ends well, eh, Aidan?’ Vickers said in his precise, clipped diction.

  ‘For us,’ Snow replied, ‘but I bet the Russians are spitting feathers.’

  ‘Yes. I expect their foreign ministry will announce this is all a farce concocted by the CIA to weaken Russia.’

  ‘And they’d be right,’ Snow said.

  A large smile split Vickers’s face. ‘Only we know just how true that is.’

  *

  Ukrainian Checkpoint, Crimean Border, Kherson Oblast, Ukraine

  Casey sat in the black, armour-plated Cadillac Escalade. The heating was on, enough to prevent a chill, but low enough to keep him sharp. Kishiev was in the back, guarded by Parnell. Both Americans were silent while Kishiev quietly recited prayers in Arabic. Through the toughened windscreen the sky was blue and cloudless, but outside the air was frigid and the wind blew viscously across the steppe. This part of Crimea was desolate, arid grasslands; difficult to farm and even harder to live on, yet the native Tatars and Ukrainians had done so. The hastily fortified border ahead now separated Ukraine from its territory illegally annexed by Russia. The border gua
rds had vowed to protect Ukraine from all invaders, and even in the face of the Russian army had remained resolute, proud, and defiant. Via the SBU, the border guards had been advised of the prisoner exchange. The Ukrainians knew they were to let the men from the Escalade through unimpeded into the narrow strip of no-man’s land between their post and the Russians’. Casey drummed his fingers on the Cadillac’s steering wheel as he waited for Strelkov. The full consequences of Harris’s deceit on both his CIA unit and career were as yet unknown. All Casey could do was hope the Russians kept their side of the bargain and delivered Harris. Once back in Langley he’d start to worry about his future. On the other side of the border a vehicle came into view: a square, black Mercedes G Wagon. It rumbled up to the Russian-manned checkpoint and paused briefly before proceeding onwards and coming to a halt thirty feet short of the Ukrainian side.

  ‘Showtime,’ Casey said.

  Parnell shifted in his seat, opened the door, and manhandled Kishiev out of the Escalade. With Casey two steps ahead, they started to walk slowly towards the barrier denoting the unofficial border. The Mercedes disgorged its passengers. The Russians, led by a man with a neat moustache, approached Casey’s group.

  ‘You must be Strelkov.’

  ‘And you are the elusive Vince Casey.’ Strelkov extended his hand.

  Casey kept his hands firmly in his coat pockets. ‘I don’t shake hands with invaders.’

  Strelkov sneered. ‘But you engineer regime change and fund mass demonstrations?’

  ‘The Maidan movement wasn’t us, Strelkov, it was the Ukrainian people. They ousted the puppet-President, not us.’

  ‘Of course they did.’ Strelkov looked past Casey at Kishiev. ‘But let us waste no further time with realpolitik. Give me the Chechen and I’ll give you your man.’

  ‘That is the essence of a prisoner exchange,’ Casey noted with undisguised sarcasm.

  ‘Bring him,’ Strelkov ordered.

  With Boroda holding one arm and a second FSB commando the other, Harris was dragged forward. The men let go and Harris almost fell, swaying like a drunk.