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  Russia once more, could stand tall, an equal, if not better, to the West. Gurov’s actions however were to be unknown and unrewarded. The plan which had been a decade in the making was now almost complete. He nodded as the sun started to slip below the skyline to the West. In forty eight hours or a less a new day would dawn for his Russia.

  Central London, United Kingdom

  There was a buzzing in his ears, Snow felt as though his head had barely touched the pillow yet he had slept for ten hours. It was just after nine p.m. and it wasn’t his alarm. He swung his legs out of bed and looked at the video intercom. It was Patchem. He buzzed him up. Barely having time to throw on a t-shirt and splash water on his hair, there was a knock at the front door.

  “Evening.” Patchem stepped into Snow’s central London crash pad and marched into the lounge, where un-bid, he sat.

  “Evening.” Snow followed and sat opposite him.

  Patchem picked up the half empty bottle of Cognac from the glass top table in front of him to study the label. He wasn’t surprised, it was Cyrillic. He looked at the former SAS man. “Sleep well?”

  Snow held his neck and tried to massage out a crick. “Better than on that damn sub.”

  “I need you to go to Belarus.”

  Snow blinked, he still wasn’t with it. “When?”

  “You are booked on the Austrian Airlines flight to Kyiv via Vienna. It leaves from Heathrow at 06:05. That will give you plenty of time to drive into Belarus before nightfall.”

  Snow continued to massage his neck, having been back in the UK for less than a day he was now off again. “OK what’s this about?”

  Patchem gave Snow a long stare before answering. His operative now had a right to know. “We believe that what happened in Saudi was orchestrated by the Russians. We have found links to Belarus; we now need to confirm the link from Belarus back to Moscow.” Snow’s theory had been confirmed. “So what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Carry out an interview in Minsk. You’ll be a two man team.”

  “And the other member is?”

  “Fox, if you think he can handle it? I’ve chosen you two as you are already involved. This is a non-attributable operation.”

  “Black op?” Snow frowned, no record and no support if it went tits up. “Who do you want us to interrogate, President Lukachev?”

  Patchem ignored the sarcasm. “No. The General Director of the KGB.”

  Snow blinked and waited for Patchem to smile, he didn’t. “You’re serious?”

  “His voice is on a recording we have. He was responsible for carrying out the attacks but you need to ask him whom he was taking his orders from. We know it is one of the Russian PM’s closest advisers. We don’t have a name and without a name we can’t pin it on the Russians.”

  “No pressure then?” Snow took the bottle and considered having a shot. “I’m not an interrogator.”

  “But these men are.” Patchem retrieved the piece of paper Casey had given him and placed it on the table along with a new British passport and an envelope. “Aidan, if anyone gets wind of this then there will be severe consequences all around. You know this. HM Government will deny all knowledge of either of you and I will be powerless to help. I wouldn’t ask you to do this unless I knew we had no alternative. Travel as Aidan Mills, the cover hasn’t been compromised, to Kyiv. Once there you’ll use a Ukrainian passport in the name of Andrei Shamanov. He’s ethnic Russian.”

  Snow could pass for Russian or indeed ethnic Russian but Fox?

  Patchem read his mind. “Fox will be Irish. Twice.”

  Snow thought about the innocent men and women that had been killed or injured so far by the attacks in Saudi and the desire he had for revenge against those who had perpetrated it. He had felt cheated when ordered to hand Khalid Al-Kazaz over to Casey, but the intelligence he had given far outweighed their right to revenge. The desire for revenge however still burnt. “I’ll do it.”

  “I know you will.”

  THIRTEEN

  Jumeirah Beach Hotel, Dubai, UAE

  The old man sat at the bar next to the very attractive Russian girl. He showed her the photograph. “So, my dear have you seen this man?”

  The prostitute shrugged, non-committal. Her accent was sharp, Muscovite. “I have seen many men here.” She looked away uninterested, he wasn’t going to pay her for sex.

  He took her hand and placed a $100 bill in it. “Are you sure?”

  She faced him again, money without sex? “Yes. I’ve seen him. He always orders a bottle of Smirnoff Black.”

  “Always?”

  “He is not a tourist. He comes here to get Russian girls.” She lit a cigarette and looked away again, feeling a little ashamed explaining herself to this old man, who looked like her grandfather.

  The old man noticed. “I am his uncle, it is very important that I find him.”

  “Oh?”

  He pretended to be saddened and looked into her eyes. “Do you often see your mother my dear?”

  The girl became slightly defensive before answering. “Not for three years. Not since I came here.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. My sister, this man’s mother is very, very ill. She may even…” He let his voice trail off and drank a little of his beer before continuing. “He is her only son and…well I am sure you understand.”

  She touched his hand. “I can tell you where he lives. I have been there.”

  The old man smiled appreciatively. “If he has enjoyed your company my dear, then he is really a very lucky man.”

  The girl was embarrassed; she sensed that he was being sincere. “Have you got a piece of paper and a pen?”

  Boryspil International Airport, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Snow had enjoyed breaking the speed limit on London’s ring road, the M25, to get to Heathrow. He cared little for speed cameras or police patrol cars. The police had a list of all SIS vehicles that they were not to attempt to stop. Snow was not a big music fan and as usual was listening to BBC Radio 4, the news and current affairs channel, as he sped towards one of the world’s busiest airports. The news of the Russian diplomatic airliner shot down over Riyadh with a SAM was still a newsworthy story. Reactions from various parties were discussed and pundits were talking about the implications for the future of air travel safety. At Heathrow itself, security had been once again tightened up. The UK took terror threats seriously.

  Once on board the flight the passengers had been jumpy, understandably so with news that Al-Qaeda had boasted that other air liners would soon follow. Snow’s flight first to Vienna and then to Kyiv however was uneventful. He sat in his business class seat, which was marginally larger than the economy class, a row behind and annoyingly sipped water, as he was ‘on duty’. As the plane lost height and approached Boryspil airport Snow looked out of the window at the city below, he had once called home and then the rows of dachas nearer the airport. It was the first time he had returned to the country where he had been shot and had almost died.

  Still sipping his bottled water, Snow showed his ‘Aidan Mills’ passport to the Ukrainian immigration officer before walking through customs and out to the crowded concourse full of both licensed and unlicensed cabs. He was accosted by local men saying ‘taxi’. He shook his head and gave the reply he had always given ‘I’m an English Taxi Driver.’ Once outside the terminal a familiar face stood beside a black Audi saloon. Snow stepped in through the open rear door and the diplomatic car pulled away.

  “Aidan, good to have you back and actually working for us now.” Vickers smiled at the man sitting next to him and grimaced, his jaw still sore. “Fox is being collected by a second car.”

  Patchem had given Snow the bare minimum about Sukhoi’s assassination and Vickers involvement. The physical appearance of the once debonair SIS officer had nonetheless surprised him. “You OK?”

  “Nothing a few pints of Guinness wouldn’t cure.”

  “Really?”

  Vickers shrugged, then looked out of the wind
ow before speaking. Sukhoi’s death had affected him more that he wanted to admit. It was the first time that anyone he had been responsible for had died. An SIS enquiry was underway as was a Ukrainian police investigation. Sukhoi would have been the highest ranking defector of any country for over ten years. It was only his own boss’s actions that had stopped Vickers from being suspended until the investigation had been completed. Patchem had said that Vickers was ‘a vital component in the on-going operation’ and therefore his suspension would be both ‘a nonsense and counterproductive’. Vickers however remained despondent and considered his future.

  “I failed, Aidan. A man died. Any pain I’m in is justified.”

  Snow knew how Vickers felt. Unable to help, unable to stop the inevitable from unfolding before his eyes. His own nightmares had haunted him. “This is ironic coming from me, but take the counselling Alistair, it helps.”

  “Maybe.” Vickers closed his eyes and pinched his nose. One of the ‘headaches’, that he had been getting since the attack, was coming and he’d forced himself not to take the tablet for fear of becoming drowsy. “So what did Jack tell you?”

  “Drive to Belarus and ask a man a few questions.”

  “Aidan you know that this operation is blacker than black?”

  “Is that term still PC?”

  Vickers tried to smile but didn’t manage to. “If you had asked me two weeks ago, I would have said that this op was too much but not any-more, not after what they did to Sukhoi and those innocent people in Saudi Arabia.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, I was there.”

  Vickers squinted as if a light had gone on. “Ah, I see. I didn’t realize, I knew about Fox.” He paused to again massage the bridge of his nose. “Look what I’m saying is that if this goes ‘Tits Up’ you’ll be on your own. The Embassy in Minsk knows nothing of the op, won’t be able to help and I’ll be in Kyiv.”

  “Alistair, I’ve no intention of joining the ‘Tits Up Club’.”

  The car pulled off the Boryspil-Kyiv Highway and into the car park of a roadside restaurant. The lunchtime customers had left and only a few cars dotted the bays.

  “I’m going to need your Aidan Mills passport.”

  Snow handed it over.

  “Thanks.” Vickers nodded at a white Lada Riva estate. “That’s yours. The passports are in the glove compartment. Good Luck.”

  Snow was joined at the Lada by Fox as the two diplomatic saloons pulled off to leave the former SAS men with the battered Soviet car.

  “Welcome to Ukraine.”

  Fox looked around and noticed an eight foot tall cartoon style bear made of painted concrete on the other side of the highway. “1980 Moscow Olympics?”

  “Misha was the emblem, some of the sailing events happened here.”

  “Before the road was built?” Fox said without a trace of sarcasm.

  Snow shook his head. “Get in the car.”

  Snow opened the glove compartment and studied the Ukrainian passport. It was real and bore his photograph as well as several stamps for entry and exit into Russia, Turkey and Bulgaria. Holidays and business trips.

  Fox, flicked through his own. “They could have given me a better name.”

  “If I were you I’d have asked for a better face.” Snow smirked.

  Al Sefri, The Palm, Dubai. United Arab Emirates

  Voloshin stood on his balcony and looked back at mainland Dubai, a mile away. The Arab had been right, this place was not natural, but unlike the Arab he had now started to appreciate all it had to offer. A man could go mad living in a place as artificial as this but he was not such a man. His retirement had started and this villa on Al Sefri, the Palm’s fourth branch, was his pay off. His cover had been blown by the British Diplomat he had not killed. But he bore the man no ill will nor had he possessed any malice to those he’s killed in the line of duty, for that is what it had been. He had not been the ‘plaything’ of businessmen he had been an instrument for Belarus and had served his country with both honour and pride. He shut his eyes and felt the heat linger on his eyelids. He did not miss the abysmal weather of his homeland…something hit his cheek. Instinctively, he touched it and felt a cut. There was blood on his hand and then the window behind him exploded.

  Voloshin threw himself to the ground, as a white hot searing pain erupted in his chest. He hit the wooden decked concrete, a wave of cold swept over his entire body. His saw the quickly darkening sky above and knew that his time had come unless he moved. He tried to sit and on the second attempt managed to raise his head just in time to see a large figure emerging from his beach steps in front of him. He pushed his arms with all his effort and slid backwards into the villa, smashing the back of his head against the patio rails. Now his feet worked and he pushed faster, his shoulder hitting a chair. Wildly he grabbed at the chair legs and managed to roll into a kneeling position. He scrabbled forward until there was a dull thud and he felt a sensation like a hot poker burst through his upper back.

  Voloshin fell forward, smashing an ornate glass table. Needles of pain dug at his face. But still, as stars erupted in his head and blood burned his eyes he moved on, desperately trying to get away from his assassin. Summoning the remainder of his strength from a fading body he pulled himself up onto an armchair.

  “That’s enough.”

  He recognised the voice, but it was out of place. He turned and fell into the chair. Voloshin’s eyes bulged. Across the broken table, a man sat down. Director Dudka, of the Ukrainian SBU.

  “That’s far enough.” Dudka had a silenced pistol aimed at the Belarusian. Voloshin’s bare chest was a wet, red mass. His cream linen trousers had become dark with blood.

  “You, old man? It is you who would kill me?”

  Dudka said nothing.

  Voloshin spoke again. “You herd me into the house like a wounded animal to finish me off?”

  “I was aiming for your head. I missed several times.” He stared into the eyes of the man who had destroyed an entire family, his friend’s family that he had loved as his own. “Why did you kill my friend?”

  “Orders.”

  “His daughter?”

  Voloshin thought back to the pretty girl in Belarus, that act had been harder. “Orders.”

  Dudka ran his tongue over his lips. They had gone dry. “So you admit to killing them both, Director Sukhoi and Masha?”

  Voloshin had not known her name. “I was following orders, like you. I was an instrument of the state Dudka that is all.”

  Dudka saw a bottle of expensive imported vodka on a side unit. “I need a drink.”

  “What?”

  Dudka stood and placed the bottle on the table and two glasses that had stood in a set next to it. Voloshin tried to move but found that he couldn’t. He now noticed that the Ukrainian was wearing surgical gloves. Dudka poured two measures. He held one up to the light and peered at it.

  Voloshin’s mouth formed a sneer. “What now, Dudka? Are you so weak? You need a drink for courage?”

  Dudka downed the shot. “No. I’m toasting absent friends.”

  Before Voloshin could reply Dudka pulled the trigger. Voloshin’s head snapped back.

  Dudka stood and kicked the body with all his might, as tears now formed in his eyes. Reaching inside the pocket of his summer jacket, he removed a copy of photograph of Leonya and Masha. It had been taken at his dacha in one of those summer's all so many years ago. He kissed the photograph before placing it over the face of the corpse.

  Ukrainian - Belarusian Border Crossing Point

  Having left the small town of Skytok, the battered Lada bounced along the pot holes on approach to the border crossing between Ukraine and Belarus. Fox and Snow had their passports ready. Fox, the Irish travel writer William Burke and Snow his Russian interpreter Andrei Shamanov. Both passports were the work of experts and could not be faulted. Without a single coherent word of Russian Fox felt nervous. Meanwhile Snow, with his Moscow accent, pretended to be at ease.

 
“You know how many words I know in Russian?” Asked Fox.

  “No.”

  “Five. Babushka, Vodka, Da, Niet and Kalashnikov.”

  Snow smirked as he slowed for the checkpoint. “You’ll be fine then if you get into a fire-fight with a bunch of drunken grannies.”

  The Ukrainian border guard waved the car to a halt and approached the door. Snow wound down the window and became Russian. “Good Afternoon, officer.”

  “Good Afternoon. Your passports, please.”

  Snow placed the documents into the hand of the border guard.

  The guard gave Snow’s passport a cursory glance before talking more time to look at Fox’s. After checking that he had a visa for entry into Belarus then returned them. “All ok.”

  Snow thanked the guard, started the car and drove towards the Belarusian side.

  “That was easy enough.”

  “The Ukrainians will spend more time checking us when we come back. They don’t mind us leaving the country, but getting in is another matter.”

  There was a line of traffic ahead, three cars waited to be cleared before them.

  Fox craned his neck. “Have I missed something? Has Belarus become the new ‘Club Med’?”

  “Actually I saw a documentary on National Geographic the other day, ‘The Bearded Ladies of Belarus’. Right up your street, after Saudi.”

  Fox cast Snow a sideways glance. “Yeah and I saw one you’d be interested in ‘The Mincers of Minsk’.”

  It was their turn to be checked. Once again Snow wound down the window and handed over the passports.

  “Please step out of the car, both of you.”

  Fox felt his pulse rate increase as Snow translated. Both men got out. A second border guard was standing at the side of the road watching.