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  Snow agreed; it wasn’t going to be a simple case of ‘sightseeing’. ‘What about The Shadows?’

  Blazhevich sighed. ‘We have no direct control over them; however, our field officer in Mariupol has been in contact with their leader – Victor Boyko. He has reiterated their promise to assist you.’

  ‘I see.’ The Shadows had been launching a classic counter-insurgency campaign across the Donbas against the DNR and the Russian army. They attacked fuel depots, cut supply lines, and took out key personnel. If Snow hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn that his old regiment – the SAS – were operating in the area. ‘So where have they been recently?’

  ‘They claimed responsibility for attacking that Russian humanitarian convoy this morning. Apparently Russian bread and blankets are very explosive.’

  Snow smirked. ‘I bet the Russians loved that.’

  ‘Officially it didn’t happen – they initiated a media blackout.’

  ‘I imagine that didn’t stop locals from posting it on social media?’

  ‘Exactly … and Darren Weller.’

  ‘Darren Weller?’ Snow knew Weller; they’d crossed paths several years before when Weller used to ogle women in Kyiv’s ex-pat bars and pretend to be a photographer. ‘He’s an asset?’

  Blazhevich sniggered. ‘Of course not … he can barely tie his own shoelaces. We’ve been monitoring his phone and email. He really is a knob.’

  Now it was Snow’s turn to laugh. ‘Vitaly, your mastery of English continues to improve.’

  ‘He’s also a dick. See? I speak American as well. He was texting a friend in Moscow about a journalist he’s going to “bang”. Apparently, Olena Gaeva is very hot.’

  Snow pulled a face.

  ‘They’re both headed for Donetsk with the remainder of the humanitarian convoy. Strelkov is personally leading it to make a point.’ Blazhevich paused before he spoke again. ‘We believe this is why The Shadows attacked the convoy. Strelkov’s movements are usually, well, “shadowy” but he made this trip public knowledge. If The Shadows took out Strelkov it would be a substantial blow to Russia and the DNR.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Look, Aidan, even with your abilities, this is still a very risky mission.’

  ‘I know, and I do appreciate your concern.’

  The VW slowed to feed into the traffic crossing the Dnipro River via the Paton Bridge. The SBU had moved their aircraft to Kyiv’s international airport, Boryspil, which benefited from higher security measures than Zhuliany – the smaller national airport located in the southern city suburbs.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past The Shadows to attack again,’ Blazhevich stated, ‘now that they know where Strelkov is.’

  Blazhevich’s mobile phone rang. He switched to Ukrainian. ‘Hello? Now? OK, explain it to me … exactly what happened.’ Blazhevich listened intently. ‘Wait for us.’ He snapped the phone closed. ‘We have to make a detour.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘An operation has moved faster than expected. We have a suspected DNR agent under surveillance. She’s at the war museum; we think she has a bomb.’

  ‘So nothing major then?’ Snow asked.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, this must come first.’

  ‘Hey, don’t apologise, just get us there.’

  Blazhevich pressed a button, and a set of blue lights, hidden in the Passat’s front grille, started to flash. He dropped a gear and powered the VW across the bridge before turning around and crossing back. In front of them sat the Pechersk district, dominated by the large Lavra Monastery and the vast World War II Museum complex.

  ‘Tell me about the suspect,’ Snow said.

  ‘We’ve been monitoring a Russian agent, call-sign Raduga – “Rainbow”. We don’t know his real identity, but we believe he’s in Donetsk. Last night he put a known associate, a woman named Irina Kovalenko, on a coach bound for Kyiv. The surveillance team saw her meet with a Russian businessman on arrival this morning; he gave her a bag. It’s now been confirmed the man she met is a known Russian bomb maker.’

  ‘Where’s the bag?’

  ‘It’s a backpack and she’s wearing it.’

  ‘A suicide bomber?’ Snow blinked. ‘Why is she at the museum?’

  ‘That we don’t know.’

  Blazhevich weaved the Passat through the mid-morning traffic, negotiating both trolleybuses and indignant motorists until they reached the top of the hill and stopped at the World War II memorial and museum car park. A pair of politzia officers let them through the entrance. Set on a hill overlooking the river, the Motherland Monument was a huge iron woman holding a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Known colloquially as ‘Brezhnev’s Mother’, as it had been a present from the Soviet leader to the people of Ukraine, it dominated the skyline. The museum was housed in its base and a memorial park stretched around it. Blazhevich and Snow pulled up in the car park and got out of the vehicle. They were greeted by another SBU agent.

  ‘Where is she?’ Blazhevich asked his colleague.

  ‘Standing in front of the pink tanks, looking at the river.’

  Two Soviet tanks, their turrets crossed, stood in front of the museum. Painted pink with brightly coloured flowers stencilled all over, they were a long-standing tourist attraction and meant to represent peace and love. Snow couldn’t imagine them being driven by hippies.

  ‘Is she on her own?’ Blazhevich continued.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you evacuated the grounds yet?’

  The agent shook his head. ‘There is hardly anyone here, but we are stopping further visitors from entering. The bomb squad is on their way, ETA eight minutes.’

  ‘Where’s the bag?’ Snow peered across the park.

  ‘It’s still on her back.’

  ‘If it is a bomb and she detonates it, she’s not going to injure anyone apart from herself.’ Blazhevich frowned. ‘We need “eyes on”.’

  Snow and Blazhevich exited the car park and met up with an SBU man who, supported by the perimeter wall, had a scoped rifle trained on the suspected bomber.

  ‘Has she spoken to anyone?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  They stood in silence for a moment watching the woman who was clearly visible past the tanks. There was movement to the left, at the tunnel that joined this part of the war memorial park to the other. A group of people appeared, made minuscule in front of the ten-foot-tall granite tableaux depicting heroic Soviet soldiers.

  ‘What’s that?’ Snow pointed. ‘A television camera?’

  ‘They must have been inside one of the buildings earlier,’ Blazhevich stated.

  ‘That’s your reason,’ Snow deduced. ‘She wants to blow herself up in front of the cameras. It’s political; the footage will go viral.’

  ‘She’s looking the other way; she hasn’t seen them yet,’ Blazhevich confirmed. ‘Get to that crew and tell them to stop and turn around fast!’

  The agent handed Blazhevich his rifle, broke cover, and loped towards the oncoming group.

  ‘The bomb squad is still five minutes out.’

  ‘That’s five minutes too many,’ Snow replied. ‘Can you use that thing?’

  Blazhevich squinted. ‘We can’t take her out, not until the threat is confirmed.’

  ‘We’re out of time. I’m going to skirt around that side.’

  ‘Aidan, wait!’

  Snow stepped onto the grass and jogged around the back of the giant monument as Blazhevich held the rifle down at his side and moved to the edge of the memorial concourse.

  Facing the drop to the road and river below, the suspected bomber stepped up onto the low wall, which bordered the area and doubled as a bench seat for weary visitors. Her arms were by her sides. Then she abruptly turned and faced Snow.

  Tears streamed down her face. ‘Help me!’ The language was Russian, the voice panicked.

  Snow noted a wire leading from the bag into the collar of her coat and a trigger device dangling loose from her right sleeve. Ha
d she lost her nerve, changed her mind, or been coerced into carrying the device in the first place? Whatever the reason, Snow had a chance of saving her. He asked, in Russian, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Irina.’

  ‘It’s OK, Irina; you are going to be fine.’

  ‘Please, I don’t want to die!’

  ‘You’ve chosen not to. That’s good.’

  Irina’s words were fast and breathless. ‘He told me there was no going back … that it would be symbolic. He assured me I’d be a martyr for the cause.’

  ‘Who is “he”?’

  ‘His call sign is Raduga. Please – you have to help me.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Her eyes darted to her sleeve. ‘Please help me take this off.’

  ‘The bomb squad will be here in a couple of minutes. They’ll get you out of that.’

  Eyes now wide, she started to pull at one of the shoulder straps. ‘I need it off now. I’m scared!’

  ‘No.’ Snow fought to stay calm. An anti-tamper device may well have been fitted or even a timer set to detonate the device. ‘We need to wait for the bomb squad; they’re the experts.’

  ‘I’m a bomb … a human bomb,’ Irina wailed, her voice cracking.

  Snow’s gaze darted around. The TV crew was out of sight and he could see no other visitors. It was just the two of them who were within range of the device. ‘Irina. I need you to look at my face. Look at me.’ She met his gaze. ‘You are going to live a long life. One day you will be able to look back on this and remember how brave you were, and that you made the right decision.’

  Irina inclined her head slowly. ‘I always wanted to come and see this place … see the Iron Woman and look at the river. My parents told me they would bring me some time, but they never did. Now they never will. My parents and my husband are dead because of the Ukrainian army. They shelled our village. Why would they do that, attack their own people?’

  Snow had no idea where the woman came from but now knew it had to be somewhere within the Donbas. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, really I am.’

  ‘They destroyed my home … They destroyed my life!’ She glanced at the trigger.

  Snow couldn’t risk her changing her mind. ‘This is your chance to do some good. Tell the SBU about the man who sent you here, about the other people involved. You can’t bring back your family but you can save other innocent lives.’

  *

  Blazhevich blinked. Someone had entered the park from the southern entrance and managed to avoid being stopped. Blazhevich watched as he made his way up the steps towards the area housing the monument.

  As the man’s face came into focus via the scope, a panic gripped Blazhevich. He recognised the face. It was the same face he had seen on surveillance footage of a meeting that took place just hours before, and then the man had handed the woman he met what they now suspected to be a bomb.

  Rapid thoughts ran through Blazhevich’s mind; why was he here? Suddenly he knew. From this distance – using an unfamiliar rifle – he could hit him, but he couldn’t guarantee a kill shot. ‘Aidan!’ he shouted. ‘Get the bag off!’

  Snow looked back, as if he’d heard Blazhevich, and then his head turned to face the man approaching them. Finger on trigger, Blazhevich flinched as he saw Snow throw himself at Irina, knocking them both over the wall and down the steep grass bank leading to the treelined riverside road below. Now Blazhevich took the shot, but the man’s hand had already been moving, reaching for his pocket. He fired once, and then again. The first shot missed but the second hit the man in the chest and punched him sideways. He staggered and fell backwards. Blazhevich dropped the rifle and pulled his SBU-issue sidearm from his holster, sprinting towards him. He skidded to a halt, Glock fixed on the man’s head.

  But Blazhevich was too late.

  The man’s right hand was gripping an elderly Nokia 8210 and his thumb depressed the call button. The full force of the explosion was funnelled by the hill up into the air and out towards the trees lining the riverfront road below the museum. Blazhevich stood, rendered mute – afraid to look over the edge. At his feet, the man had a smile on his face even as blood frothed at the corners of his mouth. Blazhevich’s hand trembled, Glock still pointed at the man’s face.

  ‘Do it,’ the man croaked as smoke rose from over the wall to his right.

  Blazhevich didn’t reply; his eyes now stared through the smoke as the river beyond continued to meander past regardless, as it had done for millennia.

  ‘Hello? Can I have a hand please?’

  Blazhevich shook his head. ‘Aidan?’

  Snow’s head appeared above the wall; he had Irina Kovalenko by the arm. Two SBU officers now arrived and took the woman’s hands, hauling her back up and over the wall.

  ‘I’m glad it’s not muddy,’ Snow noted. ‘I’ve got to get on a plane wearing these clothes.’

  ‘Are you injured?’ Blazhevich regarded his friend, with a concerned face.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Snow reassured them. ‘But a couple of the trees down there aren’t going to make it.’

  Chapter 9

  Donetsk

  Sasha Vasilev drew heavily on his cheap Russian cigarette; he loved the taste. He let the smoke escape leisurely from his nostrils as he examined the British student who sat across the table from him. Mohammed Iqbal intrigued him. He had something; a quality that had enabled him to endure isolation, beatings, hunger, and boredom without breaking, without complaint. It was a quality that had been sought by DGSE recruiters, and Vasilev knew all about the DGSE. After all, he had been one of their best, many believed the best, at the art of ‘persuasive questioning’.

  But that was irrelevant; a trained monkey was better than the men he now called ‘comrades’, those who had not been able to get anything from Iqbal with their fists and were too intellectually limited to be creative. Vasilev derived no pleasure from inflicting pain on others. What he enjoyed was the thrill of outsmarting and outwitting the subjects he interrogated and ultimately their masters. The very fact that he was alive now was proof that he had outwitted those who sought to destroy him. He drew on his cigarette again before stubbing it out and flicking it onto the floor where it joined his others to create a smoking man’s Rorschach test pattern.

  ‘How are you today, Mohammed?’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘Apart from that?’

  ‘Ready to go home.’

  ‘As are we all. Where are you from?’

  ‘You know. I already told you.’

  Vasilev brushed errant cigarette ash from the sleeve of his brown pullover. ‘This is a polite conversation – refresh my memory.’

  ‘The UK.’

  ‘Your accent is unusual.’

  ‘Not for Birmingham.’ Iqbal’s eyes flicked to the discarded cigarettes. Vasilev knew he was no fan of smoking. ‘Why are you holding me?’

  ‘You know why. You attacked a man with a bottle; you hit him over the head.’

  ‘It was self-defence!’

  ‘A bottle, about the head?’

  ‘So why was I not taken to a police station? You’re not the official authorities.’

  Vasilev leant in closer. ‘Tell me about your parents.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That is a topic we have not discussed. They are British?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First generation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your father’s profession?’

  ‘My father is a doctor.’

  ‘Medicine is a family tradition?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Your father has a private practice?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘And does your mother work?’

  ‘My mother has always been a housewife.’

  ‘Which is also work.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m glad we agree. So, to recap, your parents are wealthy, yet you chose to study medicine at a university where the cost is many times less than in
the UK? Correct? This does not make any sense to me.’

  ‘Two of my uncles studied in Donetsk.’

  ‘Uncles from England?’

  ‘From Pakistan, on my mother’s side.’

  Vasilev nodded. Tens of thousands of foreign students from developing nations had studied each year in the Soviet Union in the Seventies, Eighties and early Nineties. ‘They are in Pakistan now?’

  Iqbal nodded.

  ‘Working as doctors?’

  ‘As doctors.’

  ‘That is excellent. Where would you work, if you had the choice?’

  Iqbal made no reply, so Vasilev continued. ‘Boroda told me you speak Arabic. How is that?’

  ‘I learnt it at school.’

  ‘In Birmingham?’

  ‘In Doha.’

  ‘You went to school in Qatar?’

  Iqbal nodded, but remained silent.

  Vasilev noticed a reticence to reply had now appeared. ‘Why were you in Qatar?’

  Iqbal didn’t reply.

  Vasilev pressed on. ‘I know your father was working there as a doctor, for the Hamad General Hospital. Which school did you go to?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘We are just chatting, you and I; I am just curious.’

  ‘Doha English Speaking School.’

  ‘Impressive, DESS was opened by Queen Elizabeth and the Emir of Qatar, was it not?’

  ‘If you’ve already checked up on me, why are you asking me the same questions?’

  ‘What about your brothers and sisters?’

  ‘You know I’m an only child.’

  ‘Is that not highly unusual for you people?’

  Iqbal’s nostrils flared. ‘British people?’

  ‘No. Pakistani.’

  The room became quiet as both men stared at each other. Vasilev was glad he was starting to annoy the foreigner. ‘So, your family has money. That is good.’

  ‘Is it? Are you going to ask for a ransom? I’m a hostage now? Is that it?’

  ‘No, we are not terrorists.’ Vasilev’s brow furrowed; Iqbal was not intimidated by him. This would have to change. ‘Before I arrived you were treated badly.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘My job, as I am sure you understand, is to ensure that you tell me the truth. Can you do that?’