Traitors Page 27

  Racine put her handgun on the ground and reached for the choking militant. She grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him out of sight. His face was red and his eyes had started to bulge. He looked no more than eighteen. Racine cursed and gave in to her humanity, the little voice inside her head that was telling her he didn’t need to die today. She heaved the choking youth into an upright position, grabbed him around the chest, and squeezed. Fruit and phlegm rocketed out of the militant’s mouth and he started to cough. He doubled over and then, in a move that surprised Racine, grabbed her Makarov. He twisted his shoulders and swung his arm to bring the barrel to bear on her.

  Racine ducked left, grabbed his chin with her left hand and the back of his head with her right, and jerked her hands in opposite directions. The militant’s neck snapped and he slumped sideways. Racine fell backwards, and let the grass engulf her. She exhaled noisily; she was angry, not at the fact she’d killed him, but that she had almost paid the price for showing a moment of weakness, a moment of normal human emotion. Racine collected her Makarov and pushed herself away from the corpse.

  Shouts began to emanate from the checkpoint. Rising to a crouch, her breathing now controlled, she peered around the low, concrete block wall of the guard hut. The OSCE monitor climbed back into the Land Cruiser and sat at the wheel while the militants stood directly in the vehicle’s path, Kalashnikovs across their bodies. Their commander was several paces away talking animatedly on a cell phone and waving his arm at the vehicle.

  As Racine continued to watch the scene unfold, she saw a flash of someone in the rear of the Toyota. Not quite able to believe her eyes, she stared. Mohammed Iqbal. Her focus instantly switched to the commander. He was pushing his cell phone into his chest pocket with his left hand while his right was drawing his sidearm.

  Racine’s mission was to terminate Vasilev, which she had done. She had passed the checkpoint and was clear to exfil and yet Iqbal was not. His rescue had not been part of her operation. With her mission accomplished, she should leave now, but she knew what she had to do, not as a weapon of France but as a tool of justice. Racine raised her Makarov and shot the commander twice in the back. The retorts in the still, evening air served as a shock wave to the militants who dived in every direction possible, scrambling for cover.

  Racine ducked behind the guard hut, felt in her pocket for the second grenade she’d taken from the flat, and pulled the pin. She hurled it across the road and into the field just past the BMP-2. As it exploded, drawing attention away from her position, she ran into the guard hut. Inside she saw a Kalashnikov and, more importantly, an RPG. She dropped the Makarov. A smile creased her face. Without hesitation she raised the RPG to her shoulder, stepped out of the cover of the hut, took a long second to aim and pulled the trigger.

  The grenade left the launcher at one hundred metres a second and slammed into the BMP-2. The blast knocked Racine from her feet and hurled the launch tube away over her shoulder. Racine lay motionless for a blissful second before she hauled herself up to her haunches. Out of the blast range, the Land Cruiser was undamaged and the Dutch monitor sitting inside open-mouthed. And then Aidan Snow materialised next to him in the front passenger seat. He scanned the scene and then he saw her.

  The DNR men swung their rifles wildly. One spotted Racine and shouted a warning. Racine fell to her knees as a line of rounds flew over her head. She scurried backwards and grabbed the Kalashnikov from the guard hut. Still reclining, she fired a burst of 7.62mm lead into the men of the DNR. The AK had been left on fully automatic and the thirty-round magazine emptied almost immediately. Racine let go of the Russian assault rifle, picked up her Makarov, scrabbled to her feet and sprinted away from the checkpoint. She heard gunfire and shouts but nothing more.

  With any luck, the grenade and then the RPG round would fool the DNR into believing that they were being targeted by several attackers, perhaps The Shadows. Racine counted on the militants making sure they were safe before they pursued her. She also hoped that the OSCE Land Cruiser had got through the checkpoint. She glanced back but was already in the dead ground provided by a dip in the road. If she kept on running, she’d soon be out of small arms range but not of any motorised militants.

  Slowing her pace to one she knew she could keep up for miles if needed, she kept moving and prayed that the first vehicle to catch up with her would be one to offer her a ride, and not the DNR. She continued to run, concentrating only on the road ahead and covering the maximum amount of ground with each stride. The guttural grunt of an engine reached her ears and then changed into a whine. She cast a glance over her shoulder as a car appeared. It was the Ford Granada. Racine slowed and waved her arms.

  The driver came to a jerky halt, his window open. ‘Get in, quick!’

  Racine discarded her Makarov, fell onto the back seat and then the old Ford moved off. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank us,’ the driver replied. ‘It was you we need to thank.’

  ‘You are fearless, my dear,’ the elderly woman sitting in the passenger seat gushed.

  A white blur appeared in her peripheral vision. Racine turned her head as the OSCE Land Cruiser drew level and then sped past.

  ‘I’m not fearless,’ Racine said. ‘I’m female.’

  Chapter 24

  Unknown location, Donetsk

  Powerful hands pushed Weller into the chair and roughly removed his hood. Bright fluorescent lights hit his pupils like needles. He winced, the livid bruises around his face contracting as he screwed his eyes shut. Gradually he opened them and as they focused, an image swam into view in front of him. It was a man with an immaculate moustache, and a short back and sides.

  ‘I hope you feel as bad as you look—’ Strelkov was speaking English ‘—but you are alive, unlike my colleague Sasha Vasilev.’

  Weller opened his mouth to speak but it was so dry that it could make no sound.

  ‘Vasilev was murdered in his Donetsk apartment. We do not know who the assassin was, but I am sure you do.’

  Weller shook his head, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish.

  Strelkov produced a glass of water, leant forward and held it to Weller’s split lips. He drank greedily and started to cough.

  ‘Take your time.’

  The water was tepid and tasted oddly metallic, but Weller managed to speak. ‘I don’t know who killed Vasilev …’ he paused to cough ‘… and I didn’t know he was dead. You must believe me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s the truth.’

  Strelkov scoffed. ‘That would be a first, a journalist who tells the truth.’

  ‘Please. Don’t hurt me again and I’ll tell you all I know.’

  ‘You will tell me all you know however I treat you, but it was not I who beat you. It was my men. They know exactly where to hit a man to make him talk, or to make him die. I would rather prefer that you did not die.’

  Weller felt a sense of relief. He was going to make it. After being abandoned by Snow and the woman he had taken his advice and gone into the beauty salon, but he had not had his nails manicured. He’d paid the bemused assistant to first wash and then cut his hair. His trademark ponytail had been turned into an altogether more updated style, which made him look almost unrecognisable, but recognised he was. He was picked up by a DNR patrol on the eastern outskirts of Donetsk as he attempted to leave the city in the direction of the Russian border. A day later, after being beaten unconscious, he had woken in a small, dark room that smelled vaguely of fish. And then he’d been hooded and placed before Strelkov.

  ‘You know the answers to a couple of very important questions. You can answer these for me. Will you do that and save yourself an awful lot of pain?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I want to answer all your questions!’

  ‘Very well. Who assassinated Sasha Vasilev?’

  ‘What?’

  Strelkov repeated the question. ‘Who assassinated Sasha Vasilev?’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t kn
ow!’ Weller pleaded.

  ‘Admit the truth. You are a foreign agent.’

  ‘What, me? No … no … that’s just …’

  Strelkov checked his watch. It took a few minutes, depending upon the subject’s weight and susceptibility, for the drugs he had administered in the glass of water to take effect. Weller was rail-thin and as far as Strelkov was aware had not received any training in resistance to interrogation techniques. Or perhaps, Strelkov mused, he had? Was Weller really a sleeper for SIS? Had the pathetic persona been an act, a legend created by British intelligence?

  He noticed Weller’s mouth relax a hint and his eyes close ever so slightly. The drug invented during the times of the KGB and used on political prisoners had been refined, tested and perfected. The exact cocktail of the drug he had was highly classified; in fact he knew of only two others officially sanctioned to use it. It was a drug of last resort, because of the extremely high likelihood of permanent side effects. For this very reason Strelkov had not entrusted Vasilev to use it. And, Strelkov reasoned the man had after all been a traitor. Strelkov gazed at the useful idiot. Once he had retrieved the intel, he cared not a jot if the man’s mind was no more. ‘Tell me about the man who rescued you. What was his name?’

  ‘Aidan Snow,’ Weller answered without hesitation and then continued to speak, faster than before. ‘I knew him when I was in Kyiv. I used to see him around in the bars and at “The Hash”.’

  ‘What is “The Hash”?’

  ‘It’s a drinking club with a running problem.’

  Strelkov frowned, the drug made for the occasional misplacement of words, so he ignored this and asked. ‘What was Aidan Snow’s occupation in Kyiv?’

  ‘He was a teacher at an international school.’

  ‘A teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Four years ago, you knew him as a teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet two days ago he materialised in Donetsk as what, James Bond?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Strelkov paused. ‘What is your real name?’

  Again he spoke without hesitation. ‘Darren Weller.’

  ‘How long have you been working for SIS?’

  ‘Wh … who?’

  ‘MI6.’

  ‘I … I’m not a spy. I’m a journalist, you know I’m a journal …’ Weller’s head started to slump and a smile spread across his face, which was at odds with the tone of his voice. The drug was increasing its hold.

  ‘Did you know Aidan Snow was coming to Donetsk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Aidan Snow?

  ‘Two days ago.’

  Strelkov exhaled his frustration. ‘With the exception of two days ago, when was the last time you saw Aidan Snow?’

  Weller struggled to raise his head, the drugs making him unusually exact, like a child. ‘Three years and ten months ago.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In Kyiv, on the Maidan. He was drinking beer.’

  Strelkov inclined his head, ‘Maidan’ was short for ‘Maidan Nezalezhnosti’ – Kyiv’s Independence Square. ‘What else do you know about Aidan Snow?’

  ‘I think … he used to be in the Army.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘A friend told me.’

  ‘And who was this friend?’

  ‘Arnaud Hurst, a teacher. He worked with Snow.’

  ‘In the army?’

  ‘No, at the school in Kyiv.’

  Strelkov knew Weller would only be able to function for so long before the synthetic serum rendered him incapable of speech and then made him sleep, perhaps never to awaken the same. ‘Do you work for MI6, Darren?’

  ‘No.’ Weller shook his head, emphatically. ‘I am a patriot of Russia and Novorossiya!’

  Strelkov examined Weller’s face. It was chemically relaxed. He let a thin smile form on his lips, finally assured that the useful idiot was just that and not anything more clandestine. ‘Darren, I believe you.’

  ‘Thank you … Igor.’ Darren’s smile was large.

  No one called him ‘Igor’, but he let it pass – after all, they were now friends having a chat. ‘Darren, as one friend to another, who was the woman with you?’

  ‘She was gorgeous!’

  ‘But, who was she?’

  ‘I thought she was Olena Gaeva, but she wasn’t.’

  ‘So who was she?’ Strelkov persisted.

  ‘I don’t know. Snow thought he knew who she was, but he didn’t say her name.’

  ‘Did she give her name?’

  ‘No, but …’ Weller opened his mouth wide, and his eyebrows seemed to shoot skywards, as if he had just remembered something of vital importance. ‘She said she was in Donetsk to look for someone – her target. She said she had come for Sasha Vasilev!’

  Strelkov leant forward, interested. They were finally getting somewhere. ‘The woman was sent to assassinate Sasha Vasilev?’

  ‘I don’t know, she just said Sasha Vasilev was her target.’

  ‘Darren, think, search your memory.’ The serum was already doing this but if he could make the Englishman focus it may aid the process. ‘Do you know anything else about this woman?’

  ‘No.’

  Strelkov became angry. ‘Think!’

  ‘I … I …’

  Strelkov took a breath, brought his breathing under control. ‘When this woman spoke, did she have an accent?’

  ‘I’m not sure about when she spoke in Russian, but …’

  ‘English, Darren. When she spoke in English, did she have an accent?’

  ‘When she was pretending to be Olena she sounded like a Muscovite.’

  ‘And when she wasn’t, did her voice change?’

  ‘It was just no accent …’ Weller’s head lolled to one side, but then his head snapped up again. ‘Snow spoke to her in French.’

  ‘In French?’

  ‘Yes … in … Fren … ch …’

  Strelkov’s jaw tightened. French, of course, that made sense. Vasilev’s former masters had decided to dispatch him. Weller looked to be asleep, but it was too soon; perhaps the dose had been incorrect? ‘Darren,’ Strelkov shouted, ‘Darren! Listen to me.’

  Weller’s head jerked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was the woman French?’

  ‘The sexy wom … woman.’

  ‘Darren, was she French?’ But his head was lolling. ‘Are you loyal to the people of the Donetsk People’s Republic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you want to be a good journalist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. You must rest now. Tomorrow, you will file a full report to camera. It will be on how the Western intelligence services have attacked the Donetsk People’s Republic and those noble volunteers who have travelled here to give their assistance to its development.’ If the man was mentally still able to, Strelkov mused. He was angry that the footage of Snow and the woman Vasilev boasted of gathering, had in fact been destroyed by the woman. He let out a sigh; there was nothing he could do about that. It was a glass of spilt milk.

  *

  Strelkov left Weller and walked up a flight of stairs past an armed DNR guard, who gave him a passable attempt at a salute. He nodded in return as he entered the ground floor of what had before the conflict been the Donetsk town hall, but now had become the ‘Palace of the President of the People’s Republic of Donetsk’. The president was not in. It was mid-morning and too early for the drunken puppet to be out of his crowded bed. Strelkov found another set of stairs and took them to the very top of the government building.

  He pushed open the door to the roof and stepped outside. He was an outdoors man at heart and when on leave was rarely inside. Even in temperatures of twenty below he much preferred to be hunting or ice fishing at his dacha than wasting his time in bars, restaurants and shops. There was real beauty in Mother Russia, the wild Russia of a landscape unchanged for millennia. This, however, was not the case in Donetsk. Even the roof where
he stood now was littered with bottles and old cigarette ends from where DNR members had stood watch during times of heightened tension. When the winter snows arrived at least they would hide the ugliness around him. Strelkov was a realist; he understood and accepted that without the motherland’s umbilical cord of men, weapons and supplies, the pseudo state of The Donetsk People’s Republic would die. He was bitter – what could have been a truly great Slavic nation was, due to the ineptitude and indifference of its people, already starting to fail. He hated failing. It was time for him and his men to move on, but before he did it was his duty to report to his superior in Moscow.

  Strelkov retrieved his phone and speed-dialled a Moscow number. It was answered on the third ring, the encryption software at both ends shook hands and then his director answered.

  ‘Well?’ Regardless of the encryption, neither man used the other’s name on their official calls.

  ‘I have reason to believe that Sasha Vasilev was assassinated by the French.’

  ‘The French?’ The man’s rage was little tempered by the distance between them, ‘Is this the type of result I can expect from you? Not only do you allow a man, a valuable asset, who was assured safe haven by our president to be murdered in front of you, but now you tell me that a western power was behind the hit?’