Cold East Page 8

  Eliso spoke also, of her late father and his stories about Soviet times. He had been in a KGB guard unit and had worked at a facility; she said the name and Kozalov knew it. It was another closed area that had ‘officially’ developed rockets. Unofficially, it was a research centre just like his. Several such centres – even now he did not know the exact number – had existed during Soviet times. His interest was piqued. It was an unexplained coincidence, but he took it as a sign that they were meant to be together. Then one evening she had come to him with an idea. A man had approached her sister in Georgia, a man who had worked with her father. He had a proposal. It was unthinkable, outrageous, but a chance for them both. An opportunity for Eliso’s mother to pay for the exorbitant treatment offered by an American private clinic in Kyiv and for Kozalov to live out the remainder of his days as a prince, with her at his side. Sitting on the terrace of his small house in the woods, he needed no time to think. His resentment of his former employer, of his former nation, had been bubbling under the surface for years, and now he was finally being given the means to strike back. ‘Yes’ had been his answer, and together they had decided upon a price. That night, elated, neither of them slept.

  He slowed the Lada as he reached the start of the small village and bounced over the potholes as the tarmac stopped and the dirt track started. This would be the last winter he would spend in Ukraine for, if all went as planned, by the spring he would be a wealthy man with the ability to choose where in the world to sit and drink his tea.

  *

  Moscow

  The Russian Interior Minister, Ruslan Pavlov, prepared himself to address the press. The media had been called to hear him make a statement on the spate of terrorist attacks in Moscow. The chubby Russian had a stern expression on his face as he stared into the audience. Numerous microphones adorned the lectern, each displaying the logo of a different news network. One of the most prominent was the green ‘RT’ of the Kremlin-sponsored Russia Today channel. Pavlov touched his tie, the flashes ceased, and he started to speak.

  ‘Today a raid by Alpha Group, Spetsgruppa A, of the Russian Federal Security Service counterterrorism task force apprehended those responsible for the atrocities that have taken the lives of many innocent Russian citizens. The individuals guilty of these cowardly bomb attacks have been identified as Muslim extremists. We have been successful in destroying this terror cell without further loss of life. Let it be known that Russia is not a safe haven for any form of terrorism and we shall not let further outrages happen on our sovereign soil.’

  Pavlov let his statement hang in the air and then again touched his tie, his idiosyncratic signal that he was now open for questions.

  Safely back in London, Aidan Snow watched Sky News’s live Kremlin feed with Jack Patchem. A simultaneous translation, given by a man with a monotone delivery, accompanied the audio feed. Snow, annoyed, tried to listen to the original Russian, as carefully vetted journalists asked Pavlov questions that he had rehearsed answers for. From these they learnt nothing new. As the conference drew to a close, a reporter who hadn’t spoken before shouted a question. Unaided by a microphone her voice was lost. Pavlov pointed and snapped his fingers. The camera turned to show a young woman being handed a microphone.

  ‘Please go ahead with your question.’ Pavlov’s voice could still be heard even though he was off camera.

  ‘Ruslan Ivanovich, can you confirm that a convict transport carrying the Chechen terrorist Aslan Kishiev was ambushed yesterday?’

  The camera quickly moved back to Pavlov; his face for the first time had lost its composure. His jowls wobbled as he shook his head, but his voice remained steady. ‘That is not true. Where did you learn of this?’

  The reporter was now off camera as the picture stayed with Pavlov. ‘There were reports that Kishiev was being transported on medical grounds to a specialist facility. The same reports stated that, en route, his transport was attacked and he was freed.’

  ‘I can confirm that you have been misinformed. Aslan Kishiev remains in a secure location; in fact, he is incarcerated in the most secure facility in our entire country.’

  ‘But Ruslan Ivanovich…’

  Pavlov held up his hand and the reporter’s microphone was abruptly switched off. ‘That is all.’

  For several seconds the camera stayed with the minister as he exited the state room via a large set of ornate, gold-edged, double doors. The Sky News studio then reappeared on the screen. ‘Some developing news there in Moscow and conflicting reports. I am joined now by Professor Oleg Gogol from the UCL School of Slavonic and East European Studies. Professor, tell me…’

  Patchem switched off the screen. ‘If the Kremlin says it’s true, it must be so. The terrorist cell has been captured and now we’ve not lost a convicted felon.’

  ‘It’s a bit clumsy, Jack, if you ask me.’

  ‘I agree. Pavlov is a professional; I’ve never seen him let the press get the better of him. He’s a master at delivering propaganda. In Soviet times he used to be one of the bigwigs behind Pravda.’

  ‘I never read it.’

  ‘The crosswords weren’t any good. Seven across, five letters, begins with L…’

  ‘Lemon?’

  Patchem smiled. ‘Well, that’s what Pavlov looks like. Whatever is happening is messy. First we have bombings the Islamic International Brigade claims responsibility for and then, apparently, the leader of said group is “sprung”.’

  ‘So what’s really happening?’

  ‘That, Aidan, is what we need to find out. Have you heard of the Black Dolphin penal colony?’ Snow shook his head, so Patchem continued. ‘It’s where the worst cases are sent to rot. No one ever leaves. If there was a medical emergency it would probably be ignored; they would rather the inmate die. This story doesn’t make sense. If Kishiev was moved, there was a very good reason for it.’

  Snow thought for a moment. ‘He gave up the bombers?’

  Patchem contemplated Snow’s words. ‘That, I believe, is it. He gave them up, got a deal.’

  ‘And then, what, escaped?’ Snow smirked.

  Patchem clasped his hands together. ‘No one would know if he had or had not left Black Dolphin, security is that tight there.’ Patchem’s eyes narrowed as he tried to think through the permutations. ‘Apart from an escape I see three scenarios: one, he’s still at Black Dolphin; two, he really has been transferred because of a medical situation; or three, he’s been moved because of a deal. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So he’s either on the loose or not, and he may or may not have escaped.’

  ‘If he has escaped, the Russians wouldn’t want to admit that their “most wanted” was on the run,’ Snow said.

  ‘So the FSB grants Kishiev a deal – “Give up the details of the cell and we’ll transfer you out of Black Dolphin.” They act on his intel, then he’s fortuitously killed in an escape bid. But where is the body and why have a delay? Hmm, I wonder…’

  Patchem pointed the remote control at the screen and then chose channel 512, Russia Today. Snow recognised the British anchorman who had previously worked on a satellite travel channel selling package holidays. He was talking to his own expert, a man dressed in fifty shades of beige and wearing glasses with Lucozade-orange-tinted lenses.

  The expert spoke, his diction slow and his English pronunciation exaggerated by his Russian accent. ‘It is impossible to escape from Black Dolphin. It cannot happen. But if we are to believe eyewitnesses, forces loyal to the Chechen terrorist Aslan Kishiev managed to overpower his guards and take control of a vehicle.’

  Patchem and Snow listened in silence until the segment finished. Patchem spoke first. ‘So, a state-sponsored channel is debating whether Kishiev has escaped or not. Why not give a definite answer? Why not just confirm either way? They either have him or they don’t; they either plan on eliminating him or they don’t.’

  ‘Perhaps we’re not looking at this the right way.’ Snow frowned. ‘Maybe we’re meant t
o believe he’s escaped and that the Russians are trying to cover it up?’

  ‘But who is the “we”?’ Patchem suddenly sat upright. ‘Crafty sods! The Russians want the Chechens to think he’s on the run! It’s a message to them, but really Kishiev is working for the FSB and leading them to another cell. It’s the only logical explanation.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a leap, Jack. Why would a Muslim fundamentalist negotiate with the FSB? If they were to kill him he would die a martyr.’

  ‘They must have something he wants, something he values. Family perhaps?’ Patchem once again turned off the television. ‘We don’t have any answers here, but one thing is for certain: I don’t need to send you to Moscow. If the Russians are cleaning house then we shall leave them to it.’

  The desk phone rang. Patchem picked it up and listened. ‘On my way.’ He replaced the receiver in its cradle and glanced at Snow. ‘Something’s up.’

  ‘To do with this?’

  ‘No idea. Go to the canteen, have a second breakfast. I’ll call you when I need you back.’

  Patchem hustled the two of them out of the room. Snow took the stairs down as Patchem took a lift up.

  *

  As section chief for the Russian desk and one of her oldest friends, Knight trusted Jack Patchem completely. She smiled weakly as he entered the office and sat opposite her. It had been just over four hours since the meeting at COBRA had finished. In that time she’d had a separate discussion with Burstow and in Afghanistan a UKSF team had been sent to verify their informant’s claim. It was as she had returned to her office, less than half an hour earlier, that she’d received a call from the Chief of Defence Intelligence. Naylor confirmed traces of radiation were present at the location the informer had provided. The radiation signature was consistent with that of U-235: enriched uranium. The threat, at least of a dirty bomb, was now verified. Knight’s green tea seemed unable to quench her dry mouth as she sipped and composed herself. She felt uncharacte‌ristically nervous; this was the most alarming piece of news she had ever had to announce. ‘There is a Soviet nuclear device heading for Europe and Al-Qaeda has it.’

  Patchem closed his eyes and let out a sigh. ‘So it’s happened. What do we know?’

  Knight explained the two separate pieces of intel, including the Echelon intercept naming Aslan Kishiev.

  ‘So Kishiev is allegedly on the run, but is actually helping Russian Intelligence?’ Patchem asked.

  ‘That would be a logical conclusion. We need to find this weapon. We believe it’s an RA-115A.’

  Patchem searched his memory. ‘A suitcase nuke?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know anything more?’

  Patchem pointed to an open file on Knight’s desk. ‘Very little apart from that report I wrote for your predecessor. Arzamas-16 in Russia’s Nizhny Novgorod region was where the majority of Soviet nuclear research and testing was undertaken, but there were rumours of other sites. There was an alleged experimental weapons research centre in Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine. The RA-115A was said to have been produced there.’

  ‘It now seems that at least one of their weapons stopped being “experimental”.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘Our informer states that, in 1989, he was tasked with taking a device into Afghanistan as part of a weapons cache.’

  ‘Who is our informer?’ Patchem asked.

  Knight explained the details relayed to Captain Webster of the Army Intelligence Corps.

  ‘So, project “Viru” did happen?’

  ‘Viru?’

  ‘It’s Russian for “believe”. The Soviets were trying to miniaturise their technology enough to fit a nuclear device into a suitcase. No matter how we tried, we could never get any intel on the project; we didn’t have any assets in the area. Kryvyi Rih was a closed city, in a closed country. The CIA believed this thing did exist and that one or more of them would eventually turn up in the wrong hands.’

  Knight frowned. ‘So, is this report all we have on the RA-115A and the Kryvyi Rih facility?’

  ‘Pretty much. The CIA went in disguised as weapons inspectors as soon as they could after Ukrainian independence, but the guy who “inherited” the plant from the state had already sacked the workers, stripped it bare, and sold off the land. There was no trace of any testing or design facility. As far as I’m aware the site was sold on quickly. Some of it was used for housing and the rest was later developed by an Austrian supermarket chain.’

  ‘What became of the scientists and technicians?’

  ‘The same old Soviet story: normal military records were mostly lost in the chaos of the Nineties. Classified documents, for personnel serving in black facilities, just vanished.’

  Knight paused again to drink more tea and willed her fatigued brain to operate. ‘How small could they have made this device?’

  ‘At that time probably equal to a suitcase or perhaps even an attaché case, but your guess is as good as mine. The problem isn’t the size of the housing, but rather what’s inside – the fissile material. It degrades over time. If this bomb has been hanging around the Stan since the late Eighties, you can bet it hasn’t been maintained. If it’s out there, it’s unstable.’

  ‘Could it still detonate?’

  ‘It’s possible, but not probable. Remember, this is a twenty-odd-year-old experimental weapon. The best bet, as you mentioned, would be to use whatever radiological material that remains as a dirty bomb.’

  ‘Or several dirty bombs,’ Knight stated gravely. ‘Jack, this is now a verified priority threat. Our intelligence has the device en route towards Iran.’

  Patchem balked. ‘Iran! It’s going overland? Do we know what the target or targets are?’

  ‘No. We have to assume that these are somewhere in mainland Western Europe. It could be any or several of our capital cities. GCHQ has been picking up some increased chatter mentioning an upcoming “spectacular”. One phrase has been repeated: “the Hand of Allah”. The PM is about to brief the American President and then EU leaders. The issue is that if the group holding the weapon gets the slightest notion we’re onto them, they could detonate it, regardless of where they are.’

  ‘If it were to detonate in Iran…’ He let his sentence trail off. Both intelligence officers knew the implications. Iran would blame the US and Israel. Israel would claim the explosion as proof that the Iranians had atomic weapons. No one would accept it as an unrelated terrorist attack. The region would then destabilise as both Iran and Israel sought to annihilate each other.

  ‘I think Al-Qaeda knows damn well that, even if we were alerted to their exact location, we wouldn’t dare to either attack or apprehend them within the borders of Iran.’

  ‘So they’re taking the same route as the clandestines?’ Patchem used a term coined by the UK Border Agency to refer to illegal immigrants. ‘Afghanistan – Iran – Turkey – Greece, then up through Italy to France, and finally here?’

  ‘That’s the current assumption, but once in the EU they could go in any direction, strike anywhere.’

  ‘Shit.’ This was as coarse as Patchem’s language ever became. ‘So anywhere in the EU could be targeted at any time within the next, what, month?’

  ‘Jack, this is what we’ve spoken about for all these years, our greatest fear realised. The PM wants me to activate all of our assets and get them out looking, chasing up the smallest scrap of intel. Someone must know something; someone must be helping them transport a radiological device across Europe.’

  Patchem was silent for a moment. If the cell were being clever, once in Greece they would hide among the thousands of illegals who roamed the streets awaiting their asylum cases to be looked into. This could be in the Greek capital or one of the many shanty towns littering the ports. ‘So we ask the Greeks to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious carrying a suitcase?’

  ‘I know. It’s not funny, is it?’

  ‘No. Where do you want me to fit in?’

  ‘You’re head of the Russian desk, the device is Russian, and you are my most
experienced section chief. I don’t think you’d be treading on anyone’s toes if you were to head this up.’

  ‘Good.’

  *

  New Jersey, USA

  Casey stood on the front porch swigging from a can of Coke as the sleek BMW M6 came to a halt at the end of the long driveway. The New Jersey mansion was one of many properties quietly acquired across the country by front companies for the Central Intelligence Agency after a spree of fortuitous bank foreclosures. Harris locked the vehicle. His nose was too large for his face and this, added to his unruly spikey hair, had once given him the nickname of ‘Rod’ – although, unlike Rod Stewart, he didn’t wed or bed supermodels. He gave Casey a nod. ‘Is he as good as you say he is?’

  ‘You’re here to find out.’

  Harris removed his mirrored sunglasses. ‘Damn right.’

  Casey looked the operative up and down and shook his head. ‘Is that the fashion now?’

  ‘Hey, I’ve just flown in from goddamn Tbilisi,’ Harris said to his boss and sometime drinking partner. ‘This is haute couture over there.’

  ‘Don’t bother changing – you’re flying back tonight.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  Casey strode into the safe house, Harris following. What could not be seen from the outside was that the walls had been reinforced with ballistic fabric and the doors were titanium. They entered a drawing room; Harris sat on an overstuffed leather settee and helped himself to a file that lay on the coffee table. Casey let him read it as he finished his Coke and busied himself with his secure Blackberry. After five minutes or so Harris replaced the file.