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  ‘Where is it?’ Strelkov replied too quickly.

  ‘What will you give me?’

  Strelkov scrutinised the terrorist’s face. This was a ploy, he was sure, a ploy to gain his freedom. It had to be a fabrication. But what if he were telling the truth? What if one of the world’s deadliest weapons had fallen into the hands of Islamic terrorists? Strelkov had led raids against the terrorists in Afghanistan, in Chechnya, and in Dagestan. Rooting out and apprehending Muslim extremists had been the focus of his career, and he had won. But had they now achieved the impossible? Strelkov started to feel his heart beat faster and had to breathe deeper to control his rising fear. All the while the Chechen laughed at him like a circus clown, yet he had to take the statement seriously. ‘What is the designation of the weapon?’

  Kishiev became serious. He had a memory for numbers and specifications and had wanted to be an engineer before becoming a Mujahideen, before discovering a love for weaponry and the technology of weaponry. He knew how to dismantle, clean and repair any number of firearms and had created very effective IEDs. ‘The designation of the device that I know of is RA-115A.’

  Strelkov felt his blood chill and for a moment could not speak. What felt like a lifetime ago, when his employer had been known as the KGB, he had been assigned to a guard unit protecting the perimeter of a military base. Within the base had been a weapons-testing facility. He had never actually seen the device, or known where or if it had been developed, but talk among his unit, who met with other guard units at sporting events, was that a new type of atomic weapon called the RA had been created that was both deadly and portable.

  ‘Where is it?’ Strelkov demanded.

  Kishiev remained silent.

  Enraged, Strelkov leapt from the table and backhanded the Chechen across the face.

  Kishiev slipped sideways and fell onto the floor. In his weakened state, after three plus years in prison, the once fearsome warrior could not fight back. He tasted blood in his mouth as he spoke. ‘I know of the plans, the route it may take. I will tell you in return for my freedom.’

  Strelkov rushed out of the door. He already had his phone to his ear as two of Zontov’s men entered to secure the prisoner. Strelkov speed-dialled the FSB number, but it would not connect. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it before yelling at Zontov. ‘Why is there no signal?’

  ‘There is no signal for security reasons, Comrade.’ It humoured Lieutenant Guard Zontov to see the self-important FSB agent lose control.

  ‘What? Where can I get a signal?’

  Zontov inclined his head. ‘Two kilometres in that direction, I believe.’

  Strelkov balled his fists, his knuckles turning white. ‘Where is the nearest landline?’

  ‘Back there, in my office.’

  ‘Is it secure?’

  ‘It is a telephone in my secure office.’

  ‘That is not what I meant!’ Strelkov snapped, turned on his heels, and went back inside. He picked up the desk phone and was about to make a call when he noticed that Kishiev was still in the room, standing between the two guards. ‘Take that outside and wait.’

  The room empty, Strelkov lifted the handset to make a call to Moscow but then hesitated. Moscow was almost sixteen hundred kilometres away and two hours behind Sol-Iletsk. He checked his wristwatch; it was almost a quarter to seven, which meant it would be a quarter to five in the morning in his Director’s Moscow mansion. Strelkov sighed, shook his head, and called his chief, Director Nevsky, on his mobile phone. It rang out to voicemail. Strelkov ended the call and immediately redialled. This time it was answered on the fourth ring by a slumber-thickened voice. Strelkov took a breath and explained what he had been told by the Chechen.

  Several more time zones away at the headquarters of the NSA in Fort Meade, an analyst grabbed hold of his desk to stop himself falling from his chair. The Echelon system had picked up a phone call to a flagged and secure number, but, unusually, the caller was using an unsecured landline. This was surprising, but what was explosive were the keywords it had picked up on: Al-Qaeda… nuclear device… detonate… Western city… Hand of Allah…

  Chapter 3

  Mashhad, Iran

  At the town of Herat, the group of six Holy Warriors were met without incident by their Iranian smuggler. A man well known to the guards on both sides of the border, he received his orders from an Egyptian, who since October 2001 had lived in Iran, immune to US attacks, and continued to serve as head of Al-Qaeda’s security committee. The truck was used officially for cross-border trade, and unofficially to funnel foreign fighters through Iran. The relationship between Al-Qaeda and Iran was a complicated one, but one that for the moment favoured Mohammed Tariq and his team. At the Iranian border they were waved through after a perfunctory check while other potential Afghani migrants were hauled from trucks and beaten. Those who attempted to make a run for it were shot. Unlike the ‘soft’ borders of the EU, the Iranian guards were authorised to use lethal force to protect their beloved country from any undesirable visitors.

  Tariq tried to settle his mind. In the semi-darkness of the truck he peered at his five men, all of whom had taken his advice and succumbed to sleep. He, however, could not. Although their route into, through, and out of Iran had been specifically selected by the late Sheik and the management council, Tariq couldn’t get rid of the feeling that at any moment they might be ambushed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. However, he didn’t let his fears show when his men were conscious; he was the leader of a holy mission and, as such, had to remain resolute about their chances of success. He stroked the case as though it were a pet, oblivious to the potential oblivion its contents could bring. Eventually, fatigue triumphed over fear and he fell into a fitful sleep only to be awoken what felt like minutes later by the truck’s tyres crunching loudly on gravel.

  In front of him, Reza Khan was the first to react; he sat up with a start and reached for his knife. By the time the back of the truck had been opened all six men were awake and alert. The driver informed them that they had arrived in the holy town of Mashhad. They hopped down to find themselves in the courtyard of a large villa. Above, the sky was a piercing blue and a slight breeze lightened the midday heat. This was the residence of Yassin al-Suri, the Al-Qaeda facilitator who, granted some leeway by Tehran, was permitted to operate discreetly within the country. This included collecting money from donors, to be transferred to Al-Qaeda’s leadership in Pakistan, and facilitating the travel of recruits from the Gulf States to Pakistan and Afghanistan. Dressed in a grey, tailored suit, with neatly cropped hair that, if longer, would be curly, al-Suri resembled a banker not a terrorist. Yet he was both. He was one of only three men to know the true nature of the case Tariq carried. Any more would lead to security leaks and the mission being compromised. He was on hand to personally oversee their operation and grease palms. This was the highest-risk Al-Qaeda operation in history, surpassing even the New York attacks, for not only the infidels but the Iranians, too, would give anything to possess the device Tariq carried. ‘Welcome, brothers!’ Al-Suri held his arms wide to encompass the villa behind as he greeted them.

  Tariq kissed al-Suri on both cheeks and introduced his team: Reza Khan, Sharib Quyeum, Ashgollah Ahmadi, Lall Mohammad, and Abdul Shinare. All of them were proven fighters, devotees to the cause, and resourceful. ‘Is everything in place?’

  The edges of al-Suri’s mouth curled up. ‘Everything. Now let us eat. Tomorrow you shall continue on your path to martyrdom.’

  ‘Insha’Allah.’

  ‘Yes, my brother, Insha’Allah.’ Al-Suri’s eyes wandered to the case. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I hold it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Do not let it out of your sight and do not let anyone take it from you. Now let us all go inside. You must wash and then eat.’

  Tariq beckoned to his men. ‘Come.’

  New York, USA

  ‘This is most irregular.’ Dr Li
tvin glared at Needham and Beck, arms folded defiantly.

  Needham shrugged as though he had no choice in the matter. ‘I understand, Doctor, but it’s in the best interests of national security that Mr East be moved to a secure facility.’

  ‘This is against my medical opinion. There are further tests that need to be carried out.’

  ‘Rest assured they will be, Doctor. Our medical staff consists entirely of experienced specialists.’

  ‘Really?’ His nose had been put out of joint. ‘What is the name of the medical institution he’s being transferred to?’

  ‘I can’t reveal that, for reasons of national security, but he’ll be well cared for.’

  ‘Mr East, what is it that you want? Do you agree to be transferred?’

  Gorodetski looked from one man to the other. ‘I think it is best that I do go with them. Yes.’

  Litvin shook his head slowly. ‘Very well. Mr East, you have made a swift recovery thus far, but I warn you, head injuries are a very delicate area. Certain symptoms may be delayed in their onset for days after the time of injury. You may start to experience problems concentrating, have memory lapses, become irritable, unable to sleep, or be hypersensitive to light and noise. You mustn’t overexert yourself, and if you start to suffer from any of these symptoms you must immediately report this. Do I make myself clear?’

  Gorodetski nodded and was rewarded with a jolt of pain behind his eyes.

  ‘Goodbye then, or as we say in Russian: Dasvidaniya.’ Litvin held out his hand.

  Gorodetski took it and replied in Russian. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your care and advice. I did appreciate it. Until we meet again, all the best.’

  Litvin beamed at hearing native Russian. ‘Moscow?’

  ‘Tula.’

  ‘Ah. Tula once had a hearing aid factory. Take care, my friend from Tula, and I mean that.’

  *

  Beck and Needham flanked Gorodetski as they entered the underground car park. Gorodetski felt unsteady on his feet but refused to let it show. Needham pointed his remote at a black Cadillac Escalade; the lights blinked to confirm the alarm had been disabled and that they could now open the doors.

  Gorodetski glanced up at Beck as the taller man opened the sliding door. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’

  ‘Not for a week, according to one of the nurses.’ His face was unsmiling, but the eyes betrayed it wasn’t an issue.

  ‘Live by the pork sword, die by the pork sword,’ Needham added as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  On pulling out of the parking lot both operatives automatically scanned for possible threats. The NY traffic was heavy, but eventually gave way to the emptier roads of New Jersey.

  ‘It’s gonna be a while yet, James, I’d get some shut-eye if I were you.’ Needham didn’t know Gorodetski’s real name, and nor did the rest of Casey’s team. ‘Sleep when you can, eat when you can, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ It was a Special Forces motto the world over. Gorodetski needed no encouragement; the cocktail Litvin had administered already had him nodding.

  *

  Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  As one of the last units to leave Camp Bastion, Captain Mike Webster of the British Army Intelligence Corps had started to become bored with his posting. The frantic activity that had followed the target acquisition and execution of the Bin Laden kill/capture mission had long gone. There had been some infighting between rival groups, with splinter cells forming new alliances as their leaders vied to replace the late Saudi ‘Sheik’, but now, in Afghanistan at least, there was an eerie silence from Al-Qaeda. The West had turned its attention to the new threat: Islamic State, or IS, as British Intelligence officially called the new organisation. For their part, neither Al-Qaeda nor the Taliban had conducted any major attacks since the announcement that Camp Bastion was to close and ISAF were to pull out of Afghanistan. It was as though they were collectively holding their breath until Bastion’s decommissioning had become a reality. Regardless of the lull in hostilities, Webster was sure that some very fanatical men somewhere were planning the next 9/11. It wasn’t a matter of if – it was when. He supped his regulation milky tea and studied the US drone surveillance photographs. The most exciting things he had seen in months were the images in front of him. Known players in the Pakistani Taliban had been followed crossing into Afghanistan where they were recorded meeting local Afghani ‘Talibs’ and suspected members of Al-Qaeda. In Webster’s opinion, the group posed a perfect target for a hellfire missile, but someone high up, undoubtedly American, had decided to let it play out, to see what the ‘men in black turbans’ were up to. Webster shifted the photographs to one side and sighed. His room was stuffy and he was tired. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift… He was suddenly on a beach with his wife, sipping rum as the sun set. He could taste the alcohol and feel the warmth of his wife’s lips…

  ‘Captain Webster.’

  Eyes snapping open, embarrassed, he looked up. ‘Just thinking with my eyes closed. What is it?’

  Corporal Ian McAdam seemed a bit uneasy. ‘We’re holding a… er… local who wants to meet with a member of British Intelligence.’ It wasn’t an unusual request. Every Tom, Dick, or Halib thought they had vital intelligence, especially when rumours circulated about large cash rewards. What was unusual, however, was that Webster was being bothered. McAdam met his superior’s eyes. ‘This one is a bit different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He says he’s Russian.’

  ‘Russian?’

  ‘Soviet Red Army, sir.’

  Webster raised his eyebrows. An unknown number of former Red Army soldiers had remained in Afghanistan after the Soviets had withdrawn. A few had been prisoners of war, others deserters who had gone native, and some bandits who attempted to make money in the ‘Wild East’ as the Soviet Union had crumbled. He, however, had yet to meet one.

  McAdam held out his hand. ‘He was carrying this.’

  Webster narrowed his eyes. Puzzled, he studied the sheet of paper. It seemed to be some type of technical diagram. It was handwritten and contained words in Cyrillic. ‘OK, lead on, Macduff.’

  ‘McAdam, sir.’

  Webster sighed. ‘I know.’

  McAdam led the way out of the dark seclusion of Webster’s office into the dusty, blinding Afghan daylight and to an area designated for ‘interviews’. Both buildings reminded Webster of a Star Wars set. Two armed squaddies had been placed, as a precaution, on sentry at the entrance. They saluted; Webster returned it and entered the room.

  His guest was sitting with his arms folded and a hardness in his eyes. He was not to be intimidated. When the man spoke there was a recognisable Russian accent. ‘You are Military Intelligence?’

  ‘You can talk to me, Mr…’

  ‘Then that is a “yes”? My name is Mikhail. I have valuable intelligence that you must pass on to your superiors in London.’

  Webster kept his game face on. ‘What would that be?’

  Mikhail had no time for small talk. ‘Al-Qaeda has an atomic weapon.’

  ‘What?’ Had Webster heard him correctly?

  ‘Al-Qaeda has an atomic weapon. I brought it into this country in 1989. It is an RA-115A and is the size of a suitcase. The paper I have given you details the technical schematics of the device.’

  Webster tried not to smile. It was best to humour the loonies, not make fun of them. He’d let ‘Mikhail’ talk and pretend to take notes. ‘So you’re saying that the Red Army brought nuclear material into Afghanistan in the Eighties?’

  ‘That is correct. I was a lieutenant in the Spetsnaz. I was assigned a classified order to bring certain weapons into theatre. I was to maintain them until they were needed.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘How many nuclear devices?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I personally had one such device. There may have been more in other bases that I was unaware of.’

  Webster stared at the paper. He
neither spoke nor read Russian, if that was indeed what he was looking at, but the more he studied the diagram, the more something started to niggle him; the more he started to feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Mikhail wasn’t mental. What if this was real? ‘How did you come across this document?’

  ‘I created it myself.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From memory. I have perfect recall. What do you call it, “photograph memory”?’

  ‘Photographic memory.’

  ‘Yes. I was trained in how to use the device, how to maintain, and also, if necessary, adjust it. As such I saw the inner workings. If you have a basic technical knowledge it is really not complicated.’

  Webster remained silent and studied the paper again. It meant nothing to him. He could see the shape of a case with a tube and several small boxes inside it, but that was as far as his technical understanding went. ‘Mr Mikhail…’

  ‘Just Mikhail.’

  ‘Mikhail, this is of course a very serious accusation and one I will have to check the validity of before I take it further.’

  ‘You do not believe me; you think I am a crazy man? Perhaps I am crazy to stay in Afghanistan, but I am not crazy enough to let terrorists detonate an atomic weapon.’

  Webster noted Mikhail’s unblinking eyes; there was still no reason to believe this was anything more than the imaginings of a heat-crazed Russian deserter. It wasn’t his area of interest, but surely the notion that such suitcase nukes existed was one of fiction? ‘Where exactly is the weapon?’

  ‘Exactly, I do not know. Roughly? It is on its way to Europe, via Iran.’

  ‘And what is the target?’

  Mikhail shrugged. ‘If I knew that I would have told you. I do not want a nuclear bomb to go off, anywhere.’

  ‘Then why did you give the bomb to Al-Qaeda?’

  ‘I did not give it to anyone. I had been hiding it away from the world. The terrorists took it and have decided to use it, and I have decided to tell you so you can stop them.’