Traitors Page 7

  Propelled forward by the impact, she swerved left as an opening appeared next to the tanker. Roaring into the slow lane, she was temporarily hidden from her pursuers. The tanker now came at her, wanting the same piece of tarmac. She dropped a gear and pushed her right foot, almost forcing it through the floor in an attempt to gain extra speed. The tanker struck a glancing blow to the back of her car. She was momentarily on two wheels and the car twisted sideways before it crashed back down. She fought for grip and managed to stay on the road and out of the crash barriers. Behind her, the tanker jack-knifed, and there was an almighty bang as the pursuit car collided with it. When she looked in her mirror, she saw the tanker driver fall out of his door just before his vehicle exploded. She couldn’t see what had happened to the occupants of the militia vehicle.

  Racine took deep breaths to regain her calm. What the hell had she just done? What the hell had just happened? Had she caused the death of law enforcement officers carrying out their duty? There was no time to second-guess, and definitely no time to grieve. The sign for the restaurant – a dark red wooden placard – appeared by the side of the road. Racine slowed the car, killing the carnival lights and sounds. Her contact was named “Noah”, and she hoped that his ark hadn’t sailed without her. She saw the entrance and bounced the battered militia cruiser off the smooth highway onto the uneven, gravel parking area. She didn’t stop until she was at the rear of the car park, near some trees. It was the mid-afternoon lull between lunch and supper, and the parking area was mostly empty. She knew Noah’s face, as he knew hers, but she had no idea what type of car he’d be driving. Giddy with adrenalin, and shaking, she grabbed her bag and hustled away.

  ‘Either you’ve gotten rusty or I’ve got better,’ a voice whispered behind her.

  Racine spun and swung the Makarov pistol up in one fluid motion.

  ‘It’s me – Noah!’ He grinned, an action barely visible under his full, dark beard. The last time they had worked together had been eighteen months earlier, a mission that also involved the assassination of a Russian. The beard was new, however. ‘And it’s nice to see you too.’

  ‘We have to go; there was a problem with the militia.’

  ‘That would explain the stolen car. C’mon, Rambo, this way.’ Noah led her to an elderly panel van.

  They got back on the M1 highway as the distant sound of rotor blades hit their ears. Racine frowned as Noah took the first turn he could across the central reservation to reverse direction. ‘We’re heading back past the airport and then to the “cold east”.’ It was standard operating procedure to double back and check for tails. On this occasion, however, the tail was on fire. ‘There’s a bag in the back with some more appropriate clothes for you, and in the glove box you’ll find an envelope containing your new passports – internal and external and your press documentation.’

  Victoria Petrovska was now a wanted woman. Racine exchanged the old document for the new ones to become a new person and untraceable. Racine relaxed, slightly. ‘Any updates?’

  ‘No. Our sources say that the target is still operating in the same location and from what they have seen he seems to be enjoying himself.’

  ‘I bet he is.’

  A minute later black smoke billowed towards them as they drew near the tanker; a large line of traffic had already concertinaed behind it. ‘I take it that was your handiwork?’ Noah chuckled mirthlessly.

  ‘Yes,’ Racine stated, flatly. ‘I did warn them.’

  They passed the militia Niva and saw how her rounds had holed its windscreen. Across the highway, a crowd of militia officers stood by the taxi.

  ‘And that was you too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t change,’ Noah stated. ‘We can’t take you anywhere except to apologise.’

  ‘I’d forgotten you were a comedian. Now tell me exactly where you are taking me.’

  ‘Gomel. You’ll catch a train there across the border into Russia. Get off at Luzhki Orlovskie. There is a car ready for you; it’s parked at this address.’ Noah dictated the location to Racine and the vehicle details. ‘There’s a burner iPhone taped under the passenger seat; it’s got the location of the safe house saved in a message,’ he continued. ‘It’s a dacha in the middle of nowhere – it’s stocked up for you. You’ll be perfectly safe; at this time of year the neighbouring summer houses are empty and the nearest village is two kilometres away. Stay there overnight. In the morning, drive to the rendezvous with the Russian humanitarian convoy. The location is also in the phone. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘You’re going to have to leave that Makarov with me.’

  ‘Really? I was going to take it with me and pass it off to the border guards as a water pistol.’

  Noah sighed. ‘You’ll be joining the convoy unarmed.’

  ‘I told Baptiste I needed a suppressed Glock 26,’ Racine said, flatly.

  ‘And you shall get one once you reach your hotel in Donetsk.’ He took his eyes off the road to face her. ‘Strelkov is paranoid and The Shadows’ guerrilla tactics aren’t helping much. I’ve got word they’re planning more imminent attacks. On top of that the Russians are going to search you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Now it was Racine’s turn to sigh. ‘I’m just annoyed.’

  ‘Annoyance is good.’

  ‘A silenced 9mm handgun is better.’ A pair of military helicopters screamed overhead towards, Racine imagined, the scene of her attack. ‘And a gunship is better still.’

  Undisclosed location, Russia

  Racine killed the lights and stopped the car half a kilometre away from the target location. The chilly air drifted into the car through the open window of the old, midnight-blue Volkswagen Golf. The rural Russian night engulfed her. In the clear sky above innumerable stars twinkled as though bidding to outshine each other. She sat in silence and listened. She recognised the sound of the car ticking as the engine cooled and the local insects clicked. And then the loudest sound of all, the swish of the wind in the trees which hid the DGSE safe house from view.

  Racine had left the undulating and cracked highway and taken the turning for the dacha. Rather than follow the tarmac as it arched through the trees towards the house, she’d angled off and driven into the shadows of the wood.

  Racine got out of the car and started her tactical approach on foot. The gentle, precise steps meant that her rubber-soled boots made nothing more than a murmur on the worn asphalt. She stopped. Ahead, emerging from beyond the trees, she saw the safe house – a single-storey dacha, made ghostly in the moonlight, alone in an empty, flat landscape. Racine scanned the horizon in every direction and saw not a single light. She stepped off the road, moved down into the dip at edge of the field, and crouched.

  After the incident with the Belarusian militia, Racine’s insertion into Russia had been uneventful. As per the plan, Noah had driven her to Gomel railway station. At the border crossing point between Belarus and Russia, Racine hadn’t warranted a second glance from the guard who had lazily inspected the train’s passengers. Once in Russia, Racine had left the train and found the neglected-looking Golf parked in a residential street. Noah had assured her that the car was mechanically sound and drove much better than it looked.

  She had met Noah the exact same time she’d met Baptiste, and she’d attacked them both. This time, however, he’d hugged her as she had left the van, and anyone who had bothered to watch them would have perhaps taken them for brother and sister. But Racine couldn’t help but think there was something more to it. Noah had embraced her for too long, and when he had let her go there was a sadness in his eyes, as though he really was saying goodbye. Was there something he knew that she didn’t? Should she be even more vigilant, or did Noah share Baptiste’s belief that she wasn’t coming back? She was tired and fatigue brought with it paranoia.

  She snorted with derision. Men! Always so pessimistic, always thinking the worst, always believing they could do the job better. All except her boss. The head of The
Department. Deputy Director Jacob believed in her. He had pushed her, adding her to previously male-only training exercises, and refusing to accept any excuses when initially she faltered and fell short. ‘Warfare,’ he had told her, ‘is asymmetrical. You may be a woman, but the enemy may be a man and he will not make any allowances for your gender.’

  And that was why she had chosen to accept this mission, a mission that was to be the first step in salvaging Jacob’s legacy, but more importantly a mission that would bring closure for her. She knew it was an honour to be selected by Jacob and by extension her country; and she would do all she could to ensure that she succeeded, barring the odd run-in with corrupt law enforcement officers. She would make Jacob proud. Racine tutted. Pride was a very male emotion.

  In the dark stillness, as she listened, her mind moved from thinking about her director to her father. Her father was fifty-four and still physically imposing even though now he only battled his enemies in court. She really should have called him before she left Paris, not texted. For the past eight years she’d lied to him, pretended that she was indeed just a law graduate who inhabited the thrilling world of international HR consulting and he was the one person in the world that she felt awful lying to.

  Racine was overthinking again. Something her father had teased her about as a teenager, saying, ‘Always so serious, so earnest – you look like a judge about to pass sentence.’ All these years later here she was, handing out real death sentences. She frowned. There was no place for emotion or regret, not whilst she was working, but this assignment was different. What she had tried to push to the back of her mind and not acknowledge was threatening to destroy her, to eat her away. The mission was personal. It was her opportunity for revenge. For France, but most importantly for Celine.

  A distant noise reached her ears, jarring her back to the present. She continued to remain motionless, eyes now fully accustomed to the night, scanning the surrounding countryside. She tilted her head, using the more sensitive rods in the corners of her eyes to pick out any detail she may have missed, any movement. Night-vision equipment would have been great right about now, she mused, but travelling light with nothing apart from herself to hide had been the best operational decision.

  Eventually she became satisfied that there was nothing but the silent stars above and the sleeping fields below. She moved forward, like a scurrying nocturnal animal, knowing she was still visible to anyone with NVGs so moving as quickly as possible.

  With two quick strides she bounded up the slight bank and sprinted across the small piece of hard standing in front of the building. Each time her foot hit the cracked tarmac she expected a round to hit her in return, but the night remained still. She came to a stop, crouched under the window, to the right of the front door.

  Nothing. No sounds, no movements, no arrest team. She moved nearer the door, worked her key into the lock and pushed the door wide open. She counted sixty in her head before bursting into the interior, breaking left and low to avoid any potential shots. There were none. The dacha was unoccupied. She straightened up and looked around.

  The front door led into a single large room. In the starlight she could make out the kitchen on the right, a fireplace directly in front of her and then a bedroom to her left. The dacha had only two windows, one either side of the door, which were shuttered against the wind and snow that would surely arrive within the next month and stay until April. She shut the door behind her, and the room fell into darkness again. She nodded and then flicked on a light switch. A single, naked bulb flickered then came to life, flooding the interior space with a yellow glow that reminded Racine of fairy-tale postcards.

  She moved back to the front door. Switching the light off, she stood to one side of the door and waited. The wind had risen, and it whistled almost imperceptibly in through the crack between the door and its frame.

  Once Racine had collected the car and parked it out of sight around the back of the dacha, she went into the kitchen area. If there was one fact she had learnt about residents of the former Soviet Union it was that they loved their white goods, and the owner of this dacha did not disappoint. A full-height, white fridge stood, like an alien visitor against the wall next to a Belfast sink. Inside, next to several bottles of water, was a litre of milk, six eggs and a packet of pre-cooked ham.

  ‘How gourmet,’ Racine muttered.

  She took everything out, checked that it hadn’t been tampered with and then found a frying pan. She used three of the six eggs, half of the ham and a dash of milk to make an omelette on the solitary gas ring. Without oil it stuck and became scrambled eggs, but she was too hungry to care. Her mother definitely would not have approved. She sat down to eat and checked her watch. She would allow herself five hours to sleep before she made the same meal again then started the long drive to reach the aid convoy …

  Chapter 7

  Fifteen Years Ago

  Nice, France

  Sophie had continued to train, running most mornings and being taught how to fight Legion style by her father in the evenings. He was pleased with her progress and called her a natural, but she was just happy to be spending more time with him. Her mother’s behaviour meanwhile had become erratic. She continued to cook, the food piling higher, almost – Sophie thought – in an attempt to justify her existence, her place in the house. She’d heard her mother sobbing when she thought she was alone in the house. The sound was not like a human sob, more like that of a cat keening. It was unnerving yet whenever Sophie tried to put her arms around her mother and hold her and tell her she loved her, her mother would pull away, her face rigid and hard. Sophie didn’t understand. Was she reacting like this just because it was her father who was helping define her as his daughter? How had her mother become so cold? How had she become so distant? But then something happened to Sophie that pushed her mother away for good.

  It had been several months since Louis had hit her and she had consigned the event to the past. She’d seen him lurking at school and on the street just like he always had. The weather had started to improve, and with warmer weather came high spirits and thoughts of beach days and swimming; and this year she would finally feel comfortable in her own skin. It was Friday afternoon and Sophie was looking forward to the weekend ahead. Even though she was wearing her favourite Dr Martens boots, she felt light-footed, all but jogging into the alley where Louis had attacked her. And then she saw that it was blocked. And then she saw who it was blocked by.

  Two older girls, legally defined by their age as women, were leaning one against each wall and smoking. She vaguely recognised them from school the previous year; they had been four years above her and had gone off to college. And then there was sudden footfall and someone shoved her hard from behind.

  ‘You’re the bitch who attacked my brother!’ The voice was loud, the tone low. ‘We’ve been away, and now we’re back.’

  Sophie regained her footing, turned, and saw Louis’ older sister – Marie. She was eighteen, sporty-looking in her Adidas tracksuit, and her angry pandalike eyes were framed by a dirty blonde bob. These were her friends, her gang, the gang of three who had – schoolyard rumours alleged – viciously beaten up several of their classmates on their last day of school.

  ‘Yeah, it’s you. Sophie, isn’t it?’ Marie continued.

  Sophie felt her heart quicken and her mouth become dry. She swallowed and said nothing as her father’s words sounded in her head. ‘The best fight is the one you never have, the one you walk away from.’ She couldn’t walk away, could she?

  ‘Me and the girls don’t like people – especially ugly cows like you – who disrespect our families. Isn’t that true, Pascal?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said one of the two others, a giant woman with a round heavily made-up face, whose long, ginger hair was drawn back into a ponytail so tight it looked painful.

  Sophie found her voice. ‘Louis tried to rob me; he punched me.’

  ‘And you kicked him in the balls!’ Marie spat.

>   ‘Poor little love,’ the third girl said. ‘Poor little bits.’

  ‘Sylvie?’ Marie said. ‘Really?’

  Sylvie, who was smaller than the others and had wavy dark hair, shrugged and Pascal sniggered.

  ‘Your brother punched me,’ Sophie repeated, adamantly. ‘What kind of boy does that to a girl? You should be apologising to me for him.’

  Marie started to laugh. She opened her arms in a wide, exaggerated gesture. ‘Are you stupid? You disrespected him. Now we should beat some respect into you, but we may not if you give us all your money. Look at it like a tax. Your dad knows all about taxes, being a rich lawyer.’

  Sophie agreed, ‘He does.’

  ‘Yeah, hand it over,’ Pascal said with a smirk.

  Sophie’s backpack was hanging on her right shoulder. She couldn’t walk away. She couldn’t let them have their victory. She slowly shrugged off her backpack and let it drop to the ground. As all three women looked at it, distracted, she swiftly swung her left arm out across her body, scything through the air. She delivered a heavy, backhand strike to Sylvie’s face. Taken completely by surprise, the woman tumbled backwards and fell. Pascal was stunned but Marie was not and grabbed Sophie from behind and threw her against the wall. Sophie hit the brickwork hard and the air was forced out of her lungs.

  For a moment she was beaten but then she heard her father’s voice ringing in her ears, telling her that when she did fight, she must never stop until she was the last person standing. Sophie sprang forward, taking the smug-looking Pascal by surprise. Her right hand hit the older girl in the throat. A ‘knife-edge strike’ her father had called it. Pascal stumbled backwards over Sylvie’s leg, landing with a heavy thud. Sophie turned, and took a quick two steps towards Marie. The woman was now open-mouthed until Sophie’s right fist closed this for her. Marie’s head jerked to the left as Sophie’s jab hit her on the chin. ‘… and when you have to fight, don’t stop until your opponent is on the floor …’ her father’s voice continued. Sophie now shot her left fist into Marie’s stomach, doubling her up. And then she kicked her in the side of the head.