Читать книгу Cold East - Alex Shaw - Страница 10

Kabul, Afghanistan

‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.

The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.

Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.

Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.

‘Are you going to the West?’

Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’

‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’

‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’

The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’

‘Insha’Allah.’

With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.

*

British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine

Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.

An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.

Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’

‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.

Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’

‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’

Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’

‘You too. How long are you back for?’

‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’

‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’

‘Correct. I’m free this evening and then I’ve got meetings and business lunches until I fly out on Wednesday.’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Phew, I’m glad I just teach a few English lessons here and there. No stress and lots of time to drink, smoke, and observe the local wildlife.’

Snow shook his head at the fifty-something Welshman. ‘How’s Ina?’

‘Not bad. She lost her job, though.’ Jones’s wife of sixteen years was a banker – and her husband’s banker.

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Eh, but she got a new one with a Canadian investment group. She may have to fly out there next month. I don’t mind, it gives me a chance to rest.’ Jones’s diction was lilting and slow, as always after he’d had a few pints. ‘But great to see you, eh!’

‘You too, Mr Jones.’ Snow became serious. ‘So, how have you been this last year?’

‘Fine. We obviously skipped Crimea this summer and thought for a while of coming back to the UK. But then I saw the house prices. I can’t bloody afford to get on the housing ladder at my age! So we didn’t. Our area was pretty isolated from the violence and unrest, thank Christ. But eh, it’s a shocking business, isn’t it? Who are the Kremlin to say Ukraine can’t join the European Union? Ukrainians are good people who were led by a corrupt president. Russians are good people but… people are people, let them live.’ He waved his hand and then drained the remainder of his beer.

Snow agreed with Jones’s statement, even if the wording was a little off, but he didn’t want to get political or morose. For once all he wanted to do was sink a few drinks, reminisce, and relax. And from the look of it, Jones was several drinks ahead of him. Snow caught the attention of the barmaid, who trotted over with menus.

‘Is this your friend, Michael?’

‘This is Aidan. He used to teach with me.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Snow said in Russian. ‘Two beers, please.’

‘Is Obolon OK?’

‘Fine.’

She smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar with a wiggle that Snow tried but failed to ignore.

‘Service with a smile,’ Jones remarked happily.

‘So, what brings you to this place then?’ Snow asked.

‘One of my students, Vlad, runs it. He’s a good bloke and the beer is so cheap for Kyiv prices!’ Jones was always counting his money. His love of bargains coupled with his love of alcohol had made him an expert on the cheaper watering holes of Ukraine’s capital city.

‘I’m not surprised it’s cheap – it’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘It’s not far from the metro and if you’re near the metro you’re near everything.’

‘That’s true.’ The beer arrived and Snow held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘You too.’

‘What time does Ina want you home?’

‘Whenever. She doesn’t mind me drinking with you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.’

Snow smacked beer from his lips. ‘I thought she knew me better than that.’

The door opened and a hulking figure ducked his head to enter.

‘He’s a big boy,’ Jones noted, ‘and I thought you were tall.’

‘I am tall. He’s a giant. Do you know him?’

‘No.’ Jones returned his attention to his beer.

The giant, dressed in a tracksuit under a leather box jacket, strode to the bar and, with a booming voice, ordered vodka. He knocked back his drink in one and then demanded a beer.

Snow’s training kicked in as he scanned the bar. The other ten or so customers weren’t making eye contact with the new arrival, especially the table of women Michael had been watching. Two of them discreetly turned their chairs away. The man was dangerous, and by the way people reacted to him, known as being such.

‘Another?’ Jones asked.

‘Silly question.’ Snow winked.

‘Pani!’ Michael called out the Ukrainian word for ‘miss’, also used to mean waitress. ‘Two beers, please.’

The giant turned and leant against the bar, swivelling his large head to stare at them.

Snow involuntarily felt himself tense, ready for action. ‘So, where is this Vlad then?’

‘He’s probably in reception; it’s a family business. His dad owns the hotel; Vlad’s just taken over here and his two sisters work in both. The one at the bar is called Svetlana.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know him?’

Jones sniggered. ‘Not the giant, the barmaid.’

‘Here.’ Svetlana brought the beers. She no longer seemed happy and hurried back to the bar.

Jones took a long swig and then stood. ‘I’m sorry, I need a slash. Bladder can’t keep up with me anymore.’

Snow continued to assess the threat and the giant continued to stare, until another man appeared in the bar. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with ‘Café Bar Standard’ printed on it in burgundy. On seeing the giant, he paused before walking to the bar. Snow watched as the new arrival started to polish glasses as the giant spoke to him.

‘Hokay, Vlad!’ Jones shouted as he emerged from the bathroom a minute later.

Vlad held up a tea towel but said nothing as the giant now glared at Jones.

Jones sat and noticed the expression on Snow’s face. ‘What’s up?’

‘I think the big fella is bad news, Michael.’

‘What, him? He’s just a bloke having a drink. You’ve been away too long.’ Jones produced a new packet of Ukrainian cigarettes from his jacket pocket and fiddled with the polythene wrapper.

‘Maybe.’

A glass smashed at the bar. The giant was pointing at Vlad with his index finger.

‘Shit.’ Snow sighed, getting to his feet. He’d seen enough shakedowns in his time to understand what was happening. ‘Michael, stay in your seat.’

‘What?’ Jones looked up from his cigarettes. ‘Oh, I see.’

Snow placed his empty glass on the counter. Svetlana was sweeping the floor with a dustpan and brush while Vlad stood, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Snow spoke in Russian. ‘Two more beers, please, and…’ He studied the face of the giant. ‘…Whatever you’re having.’

The big man’s heavy forehead furrowed. ‘Vodka.’

Vlad looked between the two men as he pulled the beer and then poured a shot of vodka.

‘Two vodkas.’ The giant grabbed Vlad’s wrist and scowled at Snow. ‘One for you, too, unless you do not want to drink with Victor?’

‘I’d be honoured, Victor,’ Snow said.

With a shaky hand, Vlad placed the glasses on the bar before retreating. Victor took his glass and Snow copied. There was a moment’s hesitation and then both men threw the contents against the backs of their throats. Victor checked Snow’s reaction to the harsh spirit. There was none.

‘Who is your foreign friend?’

Snow shrugged. ‘He’s an English-language teacher.’

‘I have always wanted to learn English.’ Victor’s face became whimsical. ‘So I can tell foreigners to get the fuck out of my country.’

‘That’s a good reason,’ Snow said.

‘I am sick of seeing all these Westerners around Kyiv! They swagger like they own the place, throwing their money about while, in the East, our men without the correct clothing or equipment or weapons die fighting for Ukraine. And what do the foreigners do to help Ukraine? They call the Russian President and tell him he must stop!’ Victor rubbed his face with his palms before placing them on the bar. ‘Another!’

Snow knew Victor was right, but what could he say? He just nodded at Vlad who again quickly poured two shots.

Victor raised his glass. ‘Ukraine.’

‘Ukraine,’ Snow repeated

Victor swivelled his head. ‘I am from Kamyanka; it’s a village to the south of Donetsk. The DNR have destroyed it. And why couldn’t the Ukrainian army defend it? Because they did not have the equipment! Do you understand?’

Snow remained silent; Victor was dealing with some powerful emotions and likely to explode at any moment.

‘I hate foreigners. They sit, drink, shit, and pay to screw our women. That is all.’ Victor looked now at Snow and said mockingly, ‘Thank you for the vodka.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ Snow replied as he collected his beers and moved back to his table.

‘You made friends then?’

‘He’s from the Donbas. He likes me, I’m a nice guy.’

‘That’s because your Russian is too good; ironic, eh?’

‘What’s ironic is that he doesn’t like foreigners, and he thinks you’re foreign.’

‘Well, as an ethnic minority, I am offended! Does he not know about the significant historical links between Wales and Donetsk? Donetsk was founded by a Welshman who opened Ukraine’s first mine and steel works. Ukraine’s first state school was opened in Donetsk, and the first English-language school.’

‘You looked it up?’

‘Of course. Ukrainians like it.’

‘Well, big Victor wants to learn English.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘He wants to learn English so he can tell all us foreigners to eff off.’

‘Make him the Minister for International Relations.’ Jones puffed on a new cigarette.

Snow slurped his beer. ‘Seriously, Michael, he’s trouble, but he’s not sober so his guard’s down. I suspect he’s part of a local protection racket.’

‘Roof insurance.’ Jones used a well-known euphemism. ‘Aye, that’s one thing I thought Maidan got rid of – the crime and corruption. I got stopped by a militia officer the other day who wanted to see my passport. I told him I didn’t carry it around with me for security reasons. So he said I had to pay a fine of $50.’

‘What did you do?’ Snow was sure he’d heard the story before, but now it was updated for modern times.

‘I did nothing. I was walking with Ina. She told him to piss off or she’d report him.’

Snow smiled. ‘You don’t argue with Ina.’

‘Too right. When we got home she did report him.’

There was another crash at the bar and Victor wobbled. He staggered towards Snow and Jones. ‘Teach me.’ His two words of English were slow and slurred. He raised his voice. ‘Teach me!’

Snow got to his feet and held up his palms. ‘OK… OK, have a seat and we can discuss this. We’re not the enemy.’

‘Enemy?’ A grin appeared on Victor’s face. ‘Tell the foreigner to give me his money, and you give me your money. You then can both fuck off.’

‘I’m Welsh,’ Jones said. ‘A Welshman founded Donetsk!’

The giant frowned and, without warning, but with unexpected speed for a man of his size, dropped his shoulders several inches and shot his mammoth right fist out at Snow. Snow instinctively took a step back and, with both arms working at once, his left palm swatted Victor’s arm down while the back of his right fist slammed into the giant’s nose. It was a simple but effective move; no one throwing a punch expected to receive another back before theirs had struck. Victor blinked and retreated a half-step. Snow reversed the momentum of his right fist and struck the man in the jaw. Victor’s legs buckled and he landed on his knees. He had to go down; Snow didn’t want him to be able to fight back, given his size and inherent strength.

‘I am from Oleg. He says you don’t come here anymore. Oleg is in charge here!’

‘Oleg who?’ Victor was dazed.

‘Oleg.’ Snow high-kneed Victor under the chin; his head snapped back, his eyes closed, and he fell. ‘Michael, we’re leaving.’

‘Hokay.’ Jones stood and shrugged at Vlad.

‘Call the militia quickly. Tell them the SBU are on their way.’

Vlad looked at Snow in confusion. ‘SBU?’

‘Yes.’ Snow reached into his pocket, withdrew a $100 bill, and handed it to Vlad. ‘This is for your trouble; any friend of Michael Jones is a friend of mine.’

Michael stared down at Victor. ‘Don’t mess with the SAS.’

Snow grabbed Jones by the sleeve. ‘Time to go.’

Outside, darkness had fallen and they took the path round to the front of the hotel. ‘Who’s Oleg?’

‘There’s always an Oleg.’

Michael pointed down the street. ‘Sviatoshyn metro station is ten minutes that way.’

‘OK, we’ll go back to the centre and drink in a place full of foreigners.’ Snow tapped Jones on the back. ‘Don’t worry – I’m on expenses.’

‘Oh, that’s great. But can you hang on a minute? I need another slash.’

‘Fine.’ Jones walked down the side of the hotel, opened his flies, and urinated into an evergreen shrub. Snow had ceased to be embarrassed by his friend’s antics years before, so took the opportunity to call Blazhevich.

‘Aidan? What’s up?’

‘I’ve had a bit of a problem with a guy in a bar – a giant to be exact. Can you send someone to collect him? I don’t think the local militia would be up to the job.’

He heard the Ukrainian sigh. ‘Where is the giant?’

‘He’s in a hotel on Horenska Street, not far from Sviatoshyn metro.’

‘Was this giant called Victor?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Kyiv really is a small village. He’s known to the SBU, and you were lucky.’

‘Why?’

‘Victor Krilov is a former professional boxer, a good one.’

‘Nice.’

‘Aidan, stay out of trouble. I’ll see you and Mr Iqbal tomorrow, at the debrief.’

*

FBI Field Office, New York

Vince Casey looked up from the computer at FBI Deputy Director Gianni before placing his thick index finger on the laptop screen, the display changing colour under the pressure of his digit. ‘This guy’s a “pro”, no doubt in my mind.’

Gianni stared at the frozen image of the member of the public who had taken down four gunmen.

‘Look again at how he moves.’ Casey clicked and rewound the surveillance tape.

Both men watched as the figure travelled with an economy of movement, without any hesitation or lack of purpose.

‘So who is he?’ Gianni asked.

‘That’s why your Bureau and my Agency are interested.’

Gianni sat back and folded his arms. The speed of the man was impressive, as was the way he had terminated the X-rays. ‘Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’

‘I don’t think it’s any different to yours.’

‘Humour me. Spell it out.’

‘Definitely SF or SF-trained.’

Gianni valued the opinion of the CIA black-ops veteran. In the corridor outside the office they heard footsteps. Both men remained silent from force of habit until the footfall faded away. Gianni leaned forward, dragged his laptop nearer, and tapped the keyboard. He glanced across at his long-time friend from the Agency. ‘The fingerprints come up as belonging to a banker from Boston.’

‘Let me have a look at that?’

‘Sure.’ Gianni pushed the laptop back towards Casey. ‘Just scroll down. All we have is there.’

‘Thanks.’ Casey read the report, although he already knew the basics. James East. Born in Boston, put up for adoption by his mother, no record of a father. Placed in a state orphanage, never adopted. There was a grainy photograph taken from a high-school yearbook, which showed East as a bespectacled, blond-haired teen. How was East’s eyesight now, Casey wondered – he’d better check. He read on. After graduating from high school East travelled to the opposite side of the country to study at UCLA. Upon completion of his degree, he volunteered to teach English for charities in Romania and then Bulgaria before returning to the US several years later.

‘Again, Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’ Gianni asked, deadpan.

‘Again, the same as yours.’

‘Too convenient?’

‘Exactly,’ Casey stated wryly. ‘No family, no ties, out of the US, and then no real job until three years ago when he comes back?’

‘And, as you see, no record of any criminal activity, or military service.’

‘So he’s not one of ours,’ Casey confirmed. His initial thoughts had been that East was a ‘NOC’, an agent with ‘No Official Cover’, a black operative. But his CIA database had thus far come up blank as regards any facial recognition match. In his experience even the blackest of NOCs left some record. He’d continue to search.

‘So what do we have?’ Gianni leant back in his chair and rolled his shoulders.

‘Someone else’s asset?’

‘Perhaps, but we’ve got the local office in Boston digging deeper into his background; if there’s anything fishy, we’ll find it.’

The hard lessons learnt from the 9/11 terror attacks had now been fully implemented; the varying arms of the US intelligence and law enforcement services worked together, transparently and harmoniously. At least that was the official line, but Gianni and Casey did find the activity of their organisations more and more linked. The Bureau’s remit was ‘domestic security’ and the Agency’s the interests of the US abroad; however, each organisation was keen to keep tabs on suspects, wherever they might be.

Gianni continued. ‘We got a court order to open his safety deposit box. There was nothing in it apart from a few thousand dollars in cash. I’ve asked the NSA to look for any recent calls made on the iPhone he was carrying.’

Casey got to his feet and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot in the corner of the room. ‘Whoever Mr East is, he’s got some explaining to do.’

‘Oh, he’ll talk. Hero or not, he’s facing four counts of voluntary manslaughter at the very least.’

‘And how many innocent shoppers did the bad guys get?’

Gianni held up his palms. ‘I know… if it hadn’t been for Mr East we’d have had a full-scale massacre on our hands. The fact still remains, however, that he killed four men. Justice cannot be blind.’

Casey pretended to agree. ‘How did we miss them?’

‘Hey, if we knew that we’d have stopped them ourselves.’

‘Why couldn’t just one of them have lived? At least until we bled him a bit.’

It angered and annoyed Casey that the shooters had appeared from nowhere. The leads from the increased chatter following Bin Laden’s kill/capture even now had them all chasing their tails. And, added to this, new threats from Islamic State to take their fight to the West had, in short, created so much chatter that it had become a shield. ‘The bigger question is, how many more have we missed?’

‘You know as well as I do how much traffic the NSA is looking at, the volume Echelon is sifting. My question is, why attack a store in Morristown, New Jersey? Why not hit the branch opposite Ground Zero?’

Casey had been wondering the same thing and had no answer. Was it random, opportunistic, a mistake, or personal? ‘We may never know.’

‘Yep,’ Gianni agreed. The identities of the four men remained unknown. There had been no IDs found on the bodies and the fingerprints had thrown up fake legends, the origins of which were still being traced. ‘How is Mr East?’

‘Why?’

Gianni gave Casey his no-shit stare. ‘I need to talk to him. Remember, we are in the USA; the rule of law has to be followed, otherwise we’ll be no better than them.’

Casey raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, I’m not farm-fresh, remember? We have laws, and sometimes they bend.’

‘OK.’ Gianni sighed imperceptibly; he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Casey had an agreement with the Commander in Chief that Gianni wasn’t meant to know about. ‘Someday, Vince, you’re not going to get what you want. This isn’t a pissing contest; we’ve both known each other too long for that. East has to be under my watch. I’ll pull my agents back a bit. After you’ve finished talking to him we’ll resume our perimeter and he’s mine. OK? Any intel you get, copy me in.’

‘Thanks, Gino,’ Casey said affably, ‘but I wasn’t asking you for permission.’

Gianni was about to reply when Casey’s Blackberry pinged. Casey retrieved it from his pocket and read the alert. ‘Shit. They’ve hit Moscow again.’

*

SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Vulitsa, Kyiv

The room chosen by the SBU for Iqbal’s debriefing was much more elaborately furnished than any at Vauxhall Cross. The walls were clad in ornate, gilded, hand-painted panels, and the chairs were highly padded and covered in an array of exotic leather. The large table in the middle could hold twenty guests, but today it had seated only five: Mohammed Iqbal and the intelligence officers responsible for his rescue – Aidan Snow, Alistair Vickers, Vitaly Blazhevich, and Ivan Nedilko.

At the start of the meeting Vickers officially presented Blazhevich, who was deputising for Director Dudka, with copies of Iqbal’s and Snow’s statements. It had taken most of the day to meticulously go through these, the SBU being loath to miss anything that could potentially be of use in their ongoing antiterrorist operation against the DNR and possible future international indictments. Photographs of known DNR members were shown in turn to both Iqbal and Snow, and videofits were created of as yet unidentified men. All in all, Iqbal’s illegal incarceration had provided the SBU with valuable Humint (human intelligence) they wouldn’t otherwise have been able to gather.

Blazhevich signalled Nedilko to switch off the digital tape recorder as he closed the folder in front of him. ‘Gentlemen, I think that’s it. We have finished here.’

The official part of the debriefing complete, Snow let out a long sigh. ‘I could murder a beer.’

‘Me too,’ Iqbal said.

Nedilko was confused. ‘But aren’t you a Muslim?’

‘Yes, but some of us do drink, you know.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Vickers stated, ‘we can’t be seen in a bar together. People will wonder who you are, Mo, and then, well, you know how it is.’

‘I see.’ Iqbal had been made to sign the Official Secrets Act, the SIS’s involvement in his rescue being classified and having to remain so.

‘So, your flat it is then, Alistair?’ Snow added quickly, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘Right, votes for Alistair’s place; let’s see a show of hands.’

Vickers pursed his lips as all hands but his own were raised in the air. ‘Very well, my flat it is.’

Blazhevich shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I am going to have to bow out on this occasion. My wife is expecting me home.’

Snow raised his eyebrows but made no further comment – it wasn’t like Blazhevich to pass on a booze-up.

The five men left the conference room and took the steps down to the ground floor. Blazhevich hung back and pulled Snow to one side. ‘By the way, my colleagues took “the giant”, as you called him, into custody. It was the same guy Nedilko and I arrested a year ago.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘He wanted to press charges against the guy from Kharkiv who’d attacked him.’

‘Kharkiv?’

‘He assured us that his attacker was a Russian-speaking Ukrainian.’

‘Looks like my Moscow accent needs a bit of work then?’

‘No, it’s his cauliflower ears. So we’ve charged him with racketeering, for the second time. You do know you were extremely lucky? He was a dangerous individual before, but now that he’s started to rage about the Donbas he’s become completely unhinged.’

‘Then I’m glad you’ve put him away.’

‘So am I, but you did hit him quite hard.’

‘Whoops.’

‘So this used to be the old KGB building then?’ Iqbal asked as he stared at the armed guard manning the reception desk.

‘Yes, and I wouldn’t like to think what happened in the underground levels,’ Vickers replied.

‘What, they’ve got catacombs?’ Iqbal’s eyes widened.

‘No, a basement with cells.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Yeah, they threw me in one once,’ Snow called out, catching up with the others.

‘You were a person of interest, Aidan,’ Blazhevich stated.

‘What do you mean “were”; aren’t I interesting anymore?’

‘Did you meet the ghost?’ Nedilko asked.

‘Ghost?’ Iqbal repeated.

Vickers enjoyed the banter which over the years had formed among the group as the SIS and SBU had been forced to work together. He’d miss it all when he was eventually forced to move on to a new post at a new embassy.

As they reached the door to the street, the guard’s desk phone rang. He answered it and called over to Blazhevich.

‘Hello?’ the SBU officer asked. ‘When? I see. Thank you, Gennady Stepanovich.’

Snow noticed the expression on his colleague’s face was now grave. ‘Bad news?’

‘Yes. That was Dudka. He’s just been informed that another terrorist attack has taken place on the Moscow metro system. They are still counting the dead.’

‘Bastards,’ Snow hissed; it was the height of rush hour in the Russian capital.

Vickers and Snow both felt their phones vibrate. Vickers checked his screen, a secure email. ‘Aidan, we’re needed at the embassy. Vitaly, Ivan – thank you. Mo, you have to come with us.’

Outside, a distinct chill hung in the air as winter tried to replace autumn. The British Embassy on Desyatynna Street was a brisk, five-minute walk away up Volodymyrska Vulitsa and across Sofiyivska Square, and at this time of day an embassy car would take much longer to negotiate the Kyiv traffic. Vickers led the trio through the commuters returning home, with Snow bringing up the rear as ‘tail-end Charlie’. They weren’t expecting any problems, but experience had taught both SIS men to be vigilant. Arriving at the embassy, Mo went to the room assigned to him while Snow joined Vickers in his office, where they called Patchem.

‘Aidan, Alistair, it’s the same modus operandi as before: a suicide bomber on a commuter-packed tube train.’

‘Any warnings this time?’

‘No, Alistair, none. None at all. Whoever is doing this is going to have the full force of the FSB brought down on them from a great height, and rightly so. These are innocent people, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Has anyone claimed responsibility?’

Patchem shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘What are the Russians saying, Jack?’

‘Nothing new, Aidan. If it’s not the same group then it’s a very meticulous copycat, and when I say meticulous, I mean disturbed.’

‘The SBU are now going to start to panic,’ Vickers noted. ‘After all, Kyiv does have a metro system built by the same people, but hopefully not the same enemies.’

‘So,’ Patchem reasoned, ‘if there were to be any attack upon Kyiv it would be a copycat.’

‘Or a false flag,’ said Snow. ‘The Russians getting in an attack and blaming the International Islamic Brigade.’

‘Well, let’s hope none of these scenarios comes true. Alistair, has the debriefing been completed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Aidan, I’d like you to fly back here tomorrow with Mr Iqbal. The DNR have already started to talk about his “negotiated release” on their VKontakte page. I’ve had Neill Plato take it down and put the page offline, but even though he’s a technical whiz, Neill doesn’t know how long it will stay off for. That’s the problem with this social media madness; anyone anywhere can retweet or repost. The last thing we want is a group of tabloid paps waiting for you at Gatwick.’

‘Can’t we fly into Brize Norton?’

‘The simple answer is no. Our Director General has been told in no uncertain terms by the Foreign Secretary that we’ve spent far too much time and resources on Mr Iqbal’s rescue.’

‘I bet he wouldn’t have complained if it was his arse I was saving!’

‘Aidan, I wouldn’t have ordered you to save his pompous arse.’

*

New York, USA

East opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a thin line of light spilling in from under the door. He tentatively sat up and removed the drip from his arm. The medical staff had ‘settled’ him for the night and, bar an emergency, wouldn’t be troubling him for several hours. This was his window, his chance. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the pain that was about to hit him, East swung his legs out of the bed and let his bare feet make contact with the linoleum. He shook as a wave of cold shot around his head before turning into a hot pain at his temples. He opened his eyes and gasped, but managed to grab the metal bedframe and push himself to his feet as the pain moved to the back of his head. He swayed for several seconds and, had the room been illuminated, would have noticed the edges of his vision grey out as he fought to remain conscious.

Once steady, East took a step towards the exit, then another and another, until he was certain he wouldn’t fall. He held his breath as he prized the door open a fraction of an inch. The light blinded him and made him nauseous. He stood stock-still until it passed and his vision adjusted. He opened the door further, looked left, and saw a corridor. Several other doors led off to what he imagined would be rooms like his; further along was a cleaning cart and then double doors at the end. The corridor led on to a junction – he didn’t know what was around the corner. Unable to turn his head with his neck alone, he swivelled his shoulders to the right and saw two empty chairs. Whoever had been guarding his door was gone.

Taking a deep breath, East edged out of his room and towards the cleaning cart. It contained supplies and spare towels. He picked up a towel and held it over his arm, as though he were looking for a shower room, and continued forward. He heard a door open somewhere behind him. He didn’t look back, but continued on, head throbbing as he tried to move faster. Just as he reached the double doors two large men in suits burst through them. Their eyes widened at the sight of the semi-naked man before them, the man they had been told to guard, the man who could not get out of bed. East saw the sidearms on both ‘suits’ and knew instantly they were there to guard him. Doing the only thing he could, he threw the towel. The first man automatically raised his arms to protect his face while the other took a half-step sideways. In the same instant, East moved forward and kicked the second man in the groin. Caught completely off-guard, suit two doubled up and dropped to the floor. Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain in his head, East reversed his momentum and stiff-elbowed the first man’s throat. With both men down, East grabbed the nearest suit’s sidearm and, struggling to remain conscious, pressed it into the man’s forehead. ‘Get up slowly and keep your hands above your head.’

Coughing, the suit pushed himself to his feet as his colleague continued to hold his throbbing genitals. East was about to speak again when a round impacted the door inches above his head, the repeat sounding like thunder in the enclosed space.

‘Put the gun on the floor, Mr East.’

Dizzy, East did as he was told and within seconds the suits had secured him.

Casey approached and holstered his Glock. ‘Very impressive, for a banker from Boston. Perhaps you were in ad-venture capital?’

‘Thanks.’ East’s vision had started to blur.

‘You OK, Beck?’ A grin creased Casey’s face.

‘Yes, Mr Casey, just hurt my pride, that’s all.’ The former Navy SEAL continued to massage his groin.

‘I’d get that seen to.’

‘He’s been asking the nurses to all day,’ Needham, the other suit and a former Delta, croaked.

‘Take Mr East back to his room. I’m gonna call the doc, Mr East, and have him give you a once-over. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

East tried to reply but blacked out.

*

East’s hospital bed had been raised, bringing him to a sitting position. Casey sat in a chair to one side, two manila folders resting on his lap. ‘Who are you, Mr East?’

‘Is that an existential question, Mr Casey?’

‘If you like.’

‘I’m an old soul in a young body.’

‘Cute. Who are you, Mr East?’

‘I’m an investment banker.’

Casey placed a folder on the bed. ‘Your legend is good, almost too perfect. James East from Boston who runs his own start-up investment consultancy based out of Yonkers. You’ve got some great recommendations from current clients, by the way. Where did you receive your combat training?’

East felt his pulse quicken. He was hooked up to monitoring equipment so could do nothing to hide it. ‘I’m a fan of the WWE.’

‘Yeah, that Undertaker.’ Casey didn’t hide his sarcasm. ‘James – I’ll still use that name for the moment – let’s not waste any more time. I know you’re not a banker, and possibly not even an American citizen. Now, I’m no fluent Russian speaker, but I understand enough to realise you probably are. Dr Litvin certainly believes so.’

‘I did a college course.’ East reached for a glass of water on his tray table and sipped.

‘I ran your prints through all our databases. I got one partial match. It was from an unsolved Interpol case. Would you like to take a look?’

‘Sure.’ He tried to stay calm.

‘Here.’ Casey handed him a folder.

East opened the dossier and saw a blurry surveillance photograph of himself at London’s Gatwick Airport. He turned the page to a report on the assassination of a British businessman named Bav Malik. It had several graphic images attached. East sped-read the document without showing any outward signs of emotion. After this came an image taken by a camera in an Austrian restaurant; this one was clearer and showed him wearing glasses and enjoying a drink with a beautiful woman. East felt his pulse race at the sight of her. He turned to another report. It was written in Ukrainian, a language he didn’t speak, and contained images of a second corpse – Jas Malik, Bav Malik’s son. East raised his eyes and saw an odd smile on Casey’s face.

‘I know what you are, but not who you are, James.’

‘What am I, Mr Casey?’

‘I think you are a contract killer. Possibly former Spetsnaz, gone freelance.’

‘Is that the official belief of the FBI?’

‘Did I say I was with the FBI?’

‘You didn’t say who you were with.’

‘Touché! I’m the only one who has this opinion, James. That’s why we’re having this conversation. You did a noble thing; you eliminated an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell – one we missed. You saved the lives of countless civilians.’

‘Do I get a medal?’

‘No medal, James. There are those who want to know more about you, the FBI included, and this file will come to light eventually. Unless I bury or lose it. I could potentially use someone like you, if you are what I think you are. I’m offering you a chance. I can protect you from all of this, the wolves here in the US, and Interpol, but in order to do that I need you to be honest with me. You are not James East. I need to know exactly who you are and what you were doing in New Jersey.’

East made a decision. ‘My name is Sergey Gorodetski, and I was shopping.’

There was a moment of silence as Casey held eye contact with Gorodetski before he replied. ‘The funny thing is, Sergey, I believe you. So, Russian or Russian speaker?’

‘Russian.’

Casey tapped the file with his index finger. ‘And so to this. Why did you assassinate these two British citizens?’

‘What guarantee do I have that you are not taping this? That you will not turn me over to the Feds for rendition to the UK?’

‘That’s a fair point.’ Casey took a Glock 19 from his jacket and placed it on the bedside table. He turned it so the grip was within the Russian’s reach. ‘Here, take it, it’s loaded. You have my trust, Sergey, and I hope I have yours.’

Gorodetski slowly reached for the gun and was surprised to see that Casey didn’t flinch. He aimed the sidearm at the American, felt the weight, and then carefully lowered it. ‘It’s loaded.’

‘I told you it was.’

‘I could have killed you.’

‘You still can, if you want. I’m a good judge of character, Sergey, and I know you won’t. Call me romantic – my ex-wife doesn’t – but I know who you are… on the inside. I can tell. You’re not a stone-cold killer. So enlighten me, ease my confusion, and tell me. Why did you assassinate that father and son, Jas and Bav Malik?’

‘I was of the belief they murdered my brother.’

Casey was surprised. ‘And did they?’

‘No.’ Gorodetski pushed the Glock back. ‘They were innocent. I murdered them. I am a killer. I deserve a bullet to the brain.’

‘I could shoot you, but I won’t. I think I can use you, if you agree.’

‘I agree.’

Casey smirked. ‘Tell me more; treat this as a confession, not to a policeman but to a priest. Why did you believe these two men killed your brother?’

Gorodetski took a breath and recounted what he had been told was the truth. ‘In 1989 my brother, Mikhail, was in the Red Army. His commanding officer said their unit was attacked by Mujahideen outside Kabul. Mikhail was wounded, captured, then tortured before being dismembered. Much later his CO told me he had found two of my brother’s killers. They were living respectable lives with British passports.’

‘Did you find the real murderer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Mikhail’s commanding officer.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Empty.’

‘I see.’

‘I was fooled, but that is no excuse. I executed two innocent men. There is not a night that goes by without me seeing their faces.’

‘We all make mistakes, Sergey – just ask my wife.’ Gorodetski scanned his fingers for a ring. There was none. ‘Exactly. Some mistakes are big, some small, and some monumental. I can give you a second chance, which no one else can; a chance to make a difference. Not many get that.’

‘Why should I believe you? You have thousands of SEALs or Delta or Rangers or Activity guys to choose from.’

‘Good question. I’m Agency. What I do, Sergey, is black – blacker than black. You could call it “Cold Black” – global counterterrorism. There are only four other men who know I have you, and one of those you kicked in the nuts. I get to choose my men, use Agency resources, and not get questioned. However, and this is where you come in, regardless of what you read in the press or see on WikiLeaks, we do not have unlimited resources – human or otherwise. In short, when the Cold War ended our threat radar was moved to point at the Middle East. Langley didn’t see a need for Soviet speakers, let alone native Russian-speaking operatives. But then Russia invaded Georgia, and then they annexed Crimea, and then they shot down a passenger jet while invading Eastern Ukraine. Langley made a mistake and I had a problem. I was thinking about how I could fix it when you appeared.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t go getting any grandiose ideas; it was coincidence not serendipity. Are you a patriot?’

‘To Russia?’

‘Who else?’

‘The people, yes. The country, perhaps. The Kremlin? No.’

‘That’s very good to hear, if you mean it. I need to assess you and, even if, after that, you were to pass, you’d be strictly on probation. Make a mistake or step out of line and this file gets updated and sent along with you on a one-way ticket to London. Or, failing that, perhaps I throw you in the nearest river; it all depends on whether I’ve had a bad day or not.’

Gorodetski allowed himself a half-smile. ‘You should work at the Army recruiting office.’

‘Who said I didn’t? Here is your first test – an act of good faith you could call it.’ Casey picked up the file containing the information on ‘James East’. ‘I need something for the FBI to, how can I put this, ease your transition into my custody and persuade me I’m not making a mistake with you.’

‘I understand.’

Casey tapped the file. ‘Who was responsible for your legend?’

Gorodetski frowned. ‘Responsible?’

‘Where did you get your false identity from?’

Gorodetski paused for a beat before he spoke. ‘Tim Bull. He’s a high-school science teacher in Miami and an old KGB asset.’

‘And he’s gone freelance?’

‘For the right price. He doesn’t like the current Russian President.’

‘Who does?’ Casey shrugged. ‘I’m going to need everything you have on him.’

‘Agreed.’

‘It wasn’t a request, Sergey.’

*

Sol-Iletsk, Russia

Penal colony No. 6 in the Urals town of Sol-Iletsk was known as ‘Black Dolphin’ and officially classified as a ‘final destination’ prison. It was one of five Russian facilities where criminals sentenced to death were held, but by far the most ominous. Inmates unlucky enough to be sent there had no chance of escape and, unofficially, no hope of parole. The Black Dolphin’s seven hundred inmates represented Russia’s most brutal criminals and included murderers, cannibals, rapists, paedophiles, and terrorists. One of the seven hundred was a Chechen, Aslan Kishiev. Sentenced to full life imprisonment for his part in terrorist attacks on Russian civilian targets, he was nicknamed ‘mini-Laden’. Kishiev had been the de-facto leader of the Islamic International Brigade ever since its founder, Shamil Basayev, had been killed in 2006. Kishiev had continued the jihad against Russia until he was finally betrayed by a close friend. Outraged at the manner in which he had been captured, at his trial Kishiev had openly vowed revenge by offering a bounty for the informer’s head. This, however, had only added to the charges levelled against him. To mock Kishiev further, the Prosecutor General ensured the weasel gave evidence no more than ten feet away from where he stood. Found guilty on all twenty-three breaches of the Russian penal code, which included murder, torture, hostage-taking, illegal arms trading, terrorism, and armed rebellion, he had then learnt of his fate. Kishiev would live out the rest of his days at the notorious Black Dolphin, where he would be monitored twenty-four hours a day, forced to sleep with bright overhead lights switched on, and, from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. every day, forbidden to sit on his bed. He would be liable to be checked every fifteen minutes by a passing guard and would live in complete isolation from the outside world. The Prosecutor General closed proceedings by stating that Kishiev would not be a martyr, he would simply be ‘forgotten’.

It had been a bitterly cold February afternoon in 2011 when Kishiev had arrived at his new home. Blindfolded with a black hood, he and the other new arrivals were made to walk from the prison truck to their cells, past a line of guard dogs barking viciously in their ears. Unable to see even his own feet, he had no idea if the dogs were on leads or if they would attack without warning. Once in his cell, a fifteen-day ‘educational introduction’ to his new life at Black Dolphin, a life that had been described as ‘death in instalments’, commenced. Each of the inmates of Black Dolphin had killed an average of five people; Kishiev, many more. The exact number of deaths his group were responsible for had never been truly calculated. He had been treated as a terrorist, but Kishiev saw himself as a soldier for Allah, a believer whose pacifist soul had been torn away, destroyed when his lands and faith had been mercilessly attacked by Russia. But as a terrorist, he had been thrown in with the worst filth Russia had to offer. He was forced to share a four-and-a-half-metre-square cell with a man from Murmansk convicted of cannibalism, a crime he hadn’t known still existed. Locked away in a cell within a cell, behind three sets of steel doors, it was a bleak, isolated, and hopeless existence.

As the roll call started for cell #174, both convicts adopted the ‘position’. Bending double they approached their inner cell door backwards, arms out to their sides with palms upturned, heads tilted up with their eyes closed and mouths open. The position made it impossible to move with any speed or launch an attack. It also made them look ridiculous. The prisoners in turn stated their full names, before two guards took a prisoner each and handcuffed them. Once done, each inmate was grabbed by the neck and pushed out into the corridor. They were then made to stand in a stress position holding their handcuffed arms above their heads, leaning forward with their foreheads against the wall. Kishiev heard two more guards enter his cell to commence the daily search and check protocol, while, no more than a metre away, he could feel the hot breath of an Alsatian pulling at its lead. Eyes shut until ordered to open them, Kishiev’s day had started again.

The man in charge of Black Dolphin, Lieutenant Guard Grigori Zontov, stood with his men outside Kishiev’s cell. It was exactly 6 a.m. It was his routine; he insisted on being present for morning inspection and roll call. Today, however, was not normal: they had a visitor. To be more specific, Kishiev had a visitor, something that was unheard of. A man from the FSB awaited them in Zontov’s office. The visitor had orders, from the Russian President no less, that he be granted immediate access to the Chechen.

‘Cell 174 at ease.’ Zontov studied the human detritus before him with unhidden disgust.

‘Yes, sir,’ Kishiev and Rasatkin, the cannibal, replied in unison. It was an order to open their eyes, but not to relax the stress position.

‘Do you have any forbidden items?’

‘No, sir.’ Without being ordered to, the men opened their jaws and stuck out their tongues while their mouths were searched for any concealed items.

Zontov had no sympathy for the pathetic pair of animals in front of him; to call them humans made his tongue curl. When the search of the cell was completed, he ordered ‘Convict Rasatkin’ back inside while his men placed a black hood over Kishiev’s head. As he was taken under the arms and led away, Zontov felt no need to inform the Chechen of the reason why he was now being separated from the other inmates. After five minutes of twists and turns, in silence except for the heavy breathing of the guard dog at his heels, the hood was removed. Kishiev squinted and, to his surprise, found he was in an office. Zontov quickly closed the blinds and switched on the light; he didn’t want his prisoner to have any idea where the office was located in the prison or to see the daylight outside.

The man at the table dismissed Zontov in a cursory manner. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’

‘I must stay here; it is what the regulations state.’

‘You will leave the room now, Lieutenant Guard Zontov. This is what I state.’

Zontov bristled. It was his office, his prison, his command. But the man sitting in his chair, at his desk, had a letter which carried the presidential seal. ‘Very well.’

Kishiev showed no outward sign of emotion but inside praised Allah as he started to realise his insurance policy might have been banked.

The man facing him wore an expensive suit and had a Moscow accent. ‘I had hoped you were already dead, Kishiev.’

The Chechen’s eyes burnt with hatred as he recognised the man seated behind the desk. It was the same FSB officer who had liquidated his brother Chechens and carried out a personal crusade against him. ‘Strelkov.’

‘There has been an explosion on the Moscow metro system. Many Russians have been killed and a further number wounded. Your group has claimed responsibility.’

Kishiev noticed a calendar on the wall with a red indicator showing the date. ‘That is because they are responsible.’

‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’

‘This is only the first. There will be a further attack tomorrow and then again in three days.’

‘You will give me the details of the planned attacks in order for them to be halted.’

‘No.’

‘I do not think that you quite understand my position, Kishiev. I report directly to the Director of the FSB.’

‘And I take my direction from Allah, peace be upon Him.’ Strelkov’s rank and title meant nothing to him. What was important was what he could offer.

Strelkov’s nostrils flared above his neat moustache. ‘You will give me the information I want or face the consequences.’

‘Shoot me.’ Death would be a welcome release from the monotony of his current existence.

‘I knew you would be unreasonable,’ Strelkov stated smoothly. ‘We are holding your wife and child. Unless I get the information I require their lives will become very uncomfortable.’

Rage flashed across Kishiev’s eyes, then fear tugged at his chest. His family had been hidden, had been living well away from Chechnya in Abkhazia. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Strelkov held up a photograph of a woman and young girl standing with two masked FSB commandos. ‘We found them in Sukhumi, enjoying the sea air.’

Kishiev’s jaw hardened. ‘I shall never leave this place or see them again, so I must accept that they are dead to me.’

‘If you would like to see them dead that can be arranged. Shall I bring you another photograph showing just that?’ He raised his voice. ‘Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for the death of your wife, of your own daughter?’

Kishiev noticed a vein in Strelkov’s neck throb. ‘What do I get if I speak?’

‘A guarantee that your family will not be harmed.’

Kishiev shook his head slowly. ‘No. What you will do is release me from here and reunite me with my family.’

‘That is not possible. Now tell me about the next attack.’

‘Those are my terms.’

‘You are in no position to demand terms!’

‘Then the attacks will take place, and the Great Sheik Al-Mujahid will hear of them and declare me a true warrior for Islam. He will proclaim that, even though I am in your most secure prison, I am still waging jihad, that I cannot be stopped! Allahu Akbar!’

Strelkov’s sneer returned. ‘By “Great Sheik” I take it you mean “Bin Laden”?’

‘He who is all powerful, the Lion Sheik. The infidels tremble at his name.’

‘Your Lion Sheik became a lamb to the slaughter. Bin Laden was captured by the Americans on the 2nd of May 2011. They executed him and tossed his body into the sea.’

Kishiev felt his jaw slacken and his mouth drop open. He had spent more than a decade training in Afghanistan, meeting and conversing with Bin Laden freely on several occasions. As a highly placed commander of an Al-Qaeda affiliated group, he was one of the few who had been privy to discussions on planning. ‘You are lying. The Americans will never find the Sheik. He is a great warrior and moves as the wind.’

‘He was living in Abbottabad, Pakistan. He was not living like a warrior, but like an old woman.’

There was a silence. Kishiev tried to read Strelkov’s face. He could see that the intelligence officer was too conceited to hide the satisfaction he was getting from informing Kishiev of the news. He was too smug to be telling lies. Kishiev let himself smile and then laugh. He laughed hard until it turned into an uncontrollable cough. Strelkov did not understand. Kishiev recovered and spoke. ‘If that is the case you have truly lost. The Hand of Allah shall be released and your capital cities shall burn to the ground!’

Strelkov shook his head dismissively. ‘Enough of your religious rhetoric. Bin Laden is dead and so is your cause.’

‘You speak of rhetoric; I speak of a real weapon.’ Kishiev saw little point in keeping it a secret any longer. ‘The Hand of Allah is a nuclear device. The Lion Sheik ordered it be deployed after his death.’ His laugh returned, only this time harder than ever.

The man from the FSB was stunned. Had Al-Qaeda finally got its hands on nuclear material? Was the Chechen lying? ‘What do you know of this device?’

‘I know that it is a suitcase bomb, and I know its designation. I am extremely surprised that it has not already been detonated, but then perhaps the timing is the surprise?’

‘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…