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  “Open the boot please.” The first guard, passports in hand asked in a reasonable tone.

  “Of course, officer.” Snow had nothing, except his identity, to hide.

  The second guard now joined the first and peered into the open boot.

  “You Irishman?” The first asked Fox in English.

  “Yes Officer, I am that.”

  “Guinness, very good.” Replied the officer, with a 'thumbs-up'.

  Fox smiled back. “Ah, I hear Belarusian Vodka is also very good!”

  The guard laughed and pushed the boot close. He thrust the passports back into Snow’s hand and once more switched back to Russian. “You are his interpreter?”

  “Interpreter, driver.” Snow shrugged.

  “O.K. Come to the office and we will stamp his entry visa.”

  Out of the guard’s earshot Fox spoke. “I personally think Guinness tastes like shit.”

  Snow furrowed his brow in mock incomprehension. “How would you know?”

  KGB Headquarters Skaryny Avenue, Minsk, Belarus

  Sverov looked at the emailed report he had been sent from Abu Dhabi. An anonymous caller had telephoned the local Police stating that a known Belarusian assassin, living in Dubai, had just been murdered. Due to the very odd nature of the call the Police had thought it was a hoax until they had arrived at the address and discovered a body. The houses on both sides were empty investment properties so there had been no eye witnesses. The Police had then decided to contact the Belarusian Embassy in Abu Dhabi on the strength of the photograph found beside the corpse and a piece of paper giving the dead man’s name, nationality and KGB identity number.

  The embassy liaison officer stated that Belarus knew nothing of the deceased but the Police had insisted that they be given a copy of the information and check their records. The photograph of the corpse was now on Sverov’s screen along with a copy of the image found with the body. Sverov studied the two images and felt sick. It was a message. Voloshin had been assassinated by someone who knew of the plot; why else would they have placed the old photograph of Sukhoi at the crime scene? His hand hovered over the desk telephone until he forced himself to make the call.

  “Yes.” It was answered on the second ring.

  “We have some worrying news.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Sverov.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “Voloshin is dead.”

  “Who?” The line was cut.

  Sverov looked at the phone in disbelief. Did the Russian not care for his safety? Sverov dropped his head into his hands and took comfort in the warmth of them on his face. He couldn’t think, his mind simply had stopped working. If the assassin knew what Voloshin had done to Sukhoi, they then knew why! If they knew why then they would know about him. Sverov sat up straight. No. No! He had done nothing wrong. He had been acting in the best interests of the nation of Belarus. He was the Director of the KGB, he was feared not fearful.

  In Moscow, Gurov knew that the Belarusian Director was a weak link, but the trail would stop there. In Minsk, in his KGB headquarters, Sverov was safe from any foreign investigation regardless of what evidence they had. Besides, Sverov had no information about him, didn’t even know his real name and the number he had called would tomorrow become inactive. For Sverov to accuse him was impossible. No, much better that Gurov himself leak information later to implicate his Premier Minister and the Belarusians. Although not his own doing, Voloshin’s death had been timely. Gurov played once more the covert and purposefully jerky footage he had taken of their meeting at the dacha. The meeting, at which the Director of the Belarusian KGB had received orders from a close adviser to Russian Premier Minister Privalov. An adviser who did not sound at all like Gurov.

  FOURTEEN

  Minsk, Belarus

  After crossing the border the two former SAS men drove directly to the GPS reference they had been given by Patchem. This turned out to be in a forest near the outskirts of Minsk. They arrived just before midnight. Snow guided the Lada down a rutted path and into the woods, once he was sure that the car could not be seen from the main road he switched off the engine. Snow stood guard whilst Fox set about finding the dead drop. As Snow looked back down the path he heard the occasional Scottish curse from behind.

  It took ten minutes of searching with a torch but Fox found the cache. It was a in a DPM holdall hidden under a pile of leaves. It contained new number plates for the cars, a couple of bottles of mineral water, a syringe of ‘sedative’, two silenced pistols with ammo, a few Belarusian bank notes and another GPS coordinate, the drop off point. Fox heaved the bag towards the car and set about unscrewing the Ukrainian number plates and fitting a pair of Minsk region, registered ones.

  The plan was simple. Snow and Fox were to lay up in the car and then drive into central Minsk around noon, just another car on the capital’s streets and find a place to park near to Sverov’s flat. They would then wait until an unseen contact sent a text message indicating that Sverov was on his way home from ‘the office’. By snatching the director in the evening, they hoped that his disappearance would not be noticed until mid-morning the next day. This would give the interrogators perhaps twelve to fifteen hours before any alarm was raised.

  Snow opened the tailgate and removed a heavy woollen blanket. “You sleep, I’ll take first stag.”

  “You saying I, need my beauty sleep more than you?”

  Snow stretched, the upright driving position had not done his back any good. He chucked the blanket at Fox. “Shut up ugly and get your head down.”

  Fox made no attempt at any further banter. The truth was he wasn’t twenty five anymore, he wasn’t thirty five anymore and he was buggered. He climbed into the back and curled up, as best he could on the back seats. They’d sleep two on and two off each getting six hours sleep, in theory. Snow had no illusions that come first light both of them would be knackered but unable to close their eyes.

  *

  In Minsk, Sverov was called into a meeting with the President of Belarus and ordered to explain how it was possible that a deniable operative, Voloshin, had not only been assassinated but publicly named as an agent of the KGB? The President was furious that the Arabs were accusing him personally and Belarus secondly of conducting espionage on their soil. The Millions of dollars in potential trade between the two nations could not be put at risk. Like all meetings with the President, Sverov’s opinion meant little if it did not tally. The President, who was still livid that his ambassador to Ukraine had been so unceremoniously expelled, wanted to know if Sverov thought the Ukrainians may be responsible. It was a paranoid thought from a paranoid man but Sverov gave his opinion that this may be possible. This was readily accepted by the President who vowed to make their meddling southern neighbours pay. Sverov simply nodded. He was used to his leader’s hollow threats.

  After joining the lunchtime traffic into Minsk, Snow and Fox parked their Lada on a street several hundred meters from Sverov’s apartment building. Just out of the city centre, there were no parking restrictions. Their unremarkable car had not been paid the slightest bit of attention to. Minsk did not seem, to Snow, that much different to Kyiv. Some of the words on signs had different spelling, Russian, Belarusian and Ukrainian all being distinct languages and the people seemed to lack some of the sophistication that Kyivites, now eighteen years after the fall of the USSR had accumulated. That was it Snow realised, time had certainly not stood still in Belarus but definitely slowed. Keeping his observations to himself Snow went to get some lunch from a Gastronom whilst Fox pretended to be asleep in the passenger seat. The fact that Fox did nod off while Snow was gone, he kept to himself. Boredom was a factor in all operations but all the more so when the options were limited.

  They moved the car twice, each move to a new location a similar distance to the target address. In between this both men made a pass of the target apartment checking on security personnel, signs they had been compromised and parking spaces. D
arkness came at not long after three p.m. bringing with it a light rain. Rush hour came again and the streets were bright with myriad of tail lights. Then, at a quarter to six, Snow received a text message on his single use phone.

  “Here we go. We’ve got forty minutes.”

  “Jolly Good.” The reply from Fox came with much sarcasm.

  They were going in half blind. The only information they had about the apartment had been what had been left for them at the dead drop. It gave the address, a rough floor plan and the combination for the alarm, which may or may not have been changed.

  It was early evening when an exhausted Sverov arrived at his apartment. He removed his overcoat and jacket and placed them on hangers. He then took off his highly polished shoes and swapped them for a pair of slippers. It was only then that he noticed the door to the lounge was ajar. He tutted at himself for not shutting it and entered the room.

  “Good evening, Director Sverov.” The masked intruder was sitting in his leather arm chair as though it was a job interview.

  Sverov involuntarily froze. The door was shut behind him. He spun.

  “Sit down.” The language was English, the man large.

  Sverov remained standing. “You are both making a big mistake.”

  Snow continued in Russian. “And you have made a bigger mistake, but we are here to give you the chance to repent.”

  Sverov’s eyes darted around the room. Snow continued. “We switched off your alarm; we did not want to be disturbed.”

  “Who are you?” Sverov demanded, disdain masking fear.

  “Friends of Leonid Sukhoi.”

  “The traitor.” Sverov spat the word but the fear rose inside. It was his turn, they had come for him.

  “The man behind you is an animal. He was an interrogator for the IRA. You would not like it, if I were to leave you alone with him.” Snow shook his head then switched to English, but kept the Moscow accent. “Mr Matthews, hit this gentleman for me.”

  Fox stepped forwards and swung a haymaker at Sverov’s jaw. Shocked, the Belarusian made no attempt to deflect the blow and dropped like a stone onto the wooden floor.

  “What do you want?” His voice was coloured with pain as he shuffled towards the coffee table.

  “Your confession, the truth.”

  “Fools!” With speed, Sverov grabbed something from under the table and brought it up, a Makarov pistol. If he was quick, he could get them both. His trigger finger pulled. A Click, he pulled again. Click…Click… Sverov stared at the weapon as if not quite believing that it had been emptied.

  “Would you be so kind now as to take a seat?” Snow’s words were condescending.

  Sverov held up his hands in a half surrender, half placatory manner. “Ok...OK.” He sat on the settee facing Snow’s chair and held his jaw. “Who sent you?”

  “We sent ourselves director. We know that it was you who ordered the assassination of our dear friend. Now if you would be so kind as to tell us, in English if you may, who it was that ordered the terrorist attacks in Saudi Arabia?”

  Sverov went rigid. He was shocked. Finding out about Sukhoi was one thing, in fact it was almost to be suspected, but establishing that they knew about Saudi Arabia had confirmed his fears. Killing the old man had been in vain, as he had attempted to tell the Russian it would be beforehand. Had there been a leak?

  Regaining some composure Sverov snorted. “Let me remind you who you are addressing and where you are!”

  Fox stepped forward and used his Irish accent. “We’re talking to a piece of shit in a shit hole.”

  Sverov jerked his head as the meaning of the insult hit him.

  Snow pretended to scratch his own chin; it was an attempt to hide a smirk.

  Sverov was livid. “I am the Head of the KGB and you are in the Sovereign State of Belarus!!!”

  “Bela-shite”.

  Sverov’s eyes narrowed. He had never been insulted like this; it had not been in any KGB training session.

  “Just tell us what we want to know. Then me and my Russian friend over there can get the hell out of here and go somewhere where the beer is fresh and the women don’t have beards!”

  Snow laughed, he couldn’t help it. “My Irish associate has a very good sense of humour, no? But we are not joking.” He placed a recording device on the coffee table along with a contact sheet containing the photographs of eight men. “Tell us what we want to know and there is no further reason for you to get hurt.”

  Sverov’s eyes caught the face of the man who’d given him orders, the man whose name he didn’t know. He felt a strength inside and stood defiantly. He couldn’t tell them his name. “I have been highly trained in both interrogation techniques and resistance. I will not tell you anything!”

  “You will Director, this is not in question. What you now need to decide is, where you will talk and how much of yourself you wish to lose.”

  Sverov’s fears suddenly became physical, he could feel them grabbing at his throat. This whole series of events had overstepped the line and he was going to pay for it. But he was a patriot. He swallowed hard and mustered his courage. “I will die before I betray my country!”

  “You’ll die afterwards.” Fox hit him in the stomach causing the wiry director to fall back onto the settee. “Shall I start?”

  “Yes, Bernard, this man has wasted too much of your energy.” Snow fixed his eyes on Sverov, “You will find Mr Matthews is very persuasive”

  Sverov started to inhale deeply as though he was about to dive into a pool.

  Fox pulled a lightweight Glock 19 from his pocket. “Don’t do anything that we would consider aggressive or I’ll shoot you in the knee cap. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  Sverov flinched, a look of hatred creeping onto his face.

  Snow retrieved a small package from his coat and opened it to show a loaded syringe. He advanced.

  “You think that drugs will make me betray my country? I pity you for even thinking that I would be receptive to such a thing!”

  Sverov held no fear of any truth serum, they didn’t work. He should know, the Soviet KGB had invented many of them. At best these fools would achieve either his death by heart failure or his loss of consciousness. He could think of no more noble way to die than defending his country. But he did not want to die. His legs started to shake.

  “Mr Matthews, will you please help our friend remain still?”

  Fox pushed the Glock into the Belarusian’s head pinning him back against the settee. “My pleasure, Mr Brezhnev.”

  Now fear gripped Sverov as never before in his adult life. “You are wasting your time I will never talk…you seem like well-trained men there could be a place for you in one of my units?”

  Snow thrust the needle into Sverov’s bicep. Almost instantaneously the tension in the director’s body lessened.

  “This is a waste of tiiii...” Sverov became unconscious.

  Snow and Fox laid him out on the settee and began to search him for anything that may contain a transponder. There wasn’t one.

  Fox wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He’d been sweating. “I’ll check the exfil route.”

  He stepped into the bedroom and carefully looked at the small courtyard that was formed by the space behind Sverov’s building and two others. A small fenced grass play area was in the middle. Their Lada was adjacent to this.

  “Clear.” Next checking the hallway, Fox put his eye to the spyglass. “Clear.”

  Snow pulled Sverov to his feet, as Fox roughly forced him back into his overcoat. Carefully checking that they had left no visible trace of their visit, the two operatives exited the flat propping up Sverov. Two friends helping a third. In the lift, then out into the courtyard towards the car. An elderly women, depositing rubbish into a dumpster, looked scornfully at the trio.

  Snow smiled in response, “Birthday.”

  The woman snorted and carried on with her chores. At the Lada they eased Sverov into the backseat. Fox sat next to him, Snow
took the wheel. The Russian built estate car coughed into life and pulled away. Now was the time they would be challenged, now was the time they would hear shouts, rounds fired…nothing.

  Snow followed the access path onto the main road and joined the Minsk traffic. Heart rate slowing, his eyes met Fox’s in the rear view mirror. “Mr Brezhnev?”

  Fox wiped a bead of sweat from his brow “Bernard Matthews.”

  Both men allowed themselves a moment to alleviate the tension.

  The rain became heavier as they followed the Majakovskogo road south out of the Leninski region of Minsk towards the suburbs. The wipers rubbed the screen each time they moved making smudges rather than cleaning the rain away. The traffic started to slow. Snow peered through the ever increasing rain and saw the last thing he needed.

  “Militia Checkpoint up ahead, they’re checking the cars leaving the city.”

  “You think they already know he’s gone?”

  Snow was tense. “Can’t say.”

  “I’ve got the whiskey. Ok now, nice and easy. Remember we’re just friends on a drive.”

  Their turn came. Snow edged the car forward before stopping next to the roadside militia box. As he wound down the window rain blew in.

  “Documents, please.” Water dripped from the brim of the officer’s cap.

  Snow handed him the Russian passport.

  “And theirs?” The officer asked as he flicked through the red booklet.

  “My friend has left his at home, which is where we are heading now.”

  The officer’s eyes looked up from the passport. “Then I will have to arrest your friend.” He peered into the car. “Do you not know, that it is an offence not to carry ones documents?”

  In the back Fox’s hand tightened on the concealed Glock, as he furrowed his brow in ignorance. He didn’t understand a word but knew what was being said.

  “Officer, do you not know who the man in my car is?” Snow had to take the chance. “This is Director Sverov of the KGB. We are his friends and as you can see he is not feeling well.” Snow handed the officer Sverov’s identity card.