Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Lansbury took a breath and steeled himself. Then he said, ‘Tomorrow afternoon, at the G7 summit in Loch Lomond, President Drummond will inform his peers that the United States intends to withdraw from NATO with immediate effect.’

  A hundred metres away, Porter and Bald sat in the front of the Volvo, listening to the speech in stunned silence.

  Bald said, ‘Did we just fucking hear that right?’

  Porter didn’t reply. He stared at the iPad, his mind processing the implications of what he had just heard. The signal was jumping between two and three bars. They were out in the sticks. Not an ideal location. But it was close enough to pick up most of what was being said in the conference room.

  The sound quality is fine, thought Porter. We didn’t mishear anything.

  The American president wants to pull the plug on NATO.

  Jesus.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  He thought back to the news items he’d seen on TV. The president giving a speech in the Midwest, railing against America’s traditional allies for not contributing more to the NATO coffers. At the time he’d dismissed it as hot air. Empty talk, designed to provoke a reaction and energise the voter base. But now he realised the sinister truth.

  The president hadn’t been bluffing at all.

  Bald said, ‘Why would the Yanks quit NATO?’

  Porter said, ‘I don’t know.’

  They kept listening.

  The silence lasted for what felt like several minutes. Lansbury let it play out, closely gauging the reaction of his peers. There were gasps of shock and looks of astonishment from several faces around the conference table. Some of those listening through headphones pressed them closer to their ears and frowned, as if not believing what they had just heard. One or two reacted with predictable delight to the news: the Bulgarian fascists, the Greeks. Others seemed less pleased: De Jong, the lily-livered Scandinavians. There were no obvious signs of dissent, Lansbury noted. Not yet.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’ asked Marveaux.

  ‘Outside of this room? The president, his eldest daughter and his chief strategist. Other than that, no one.’

  ‘Not even his defence secretary?’

  Lansbury belted out a laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That old fool knows less than the White House janitor.’

  ‘What does the president want from us?’ asked de Jong. ‘I assume you didn’t invite us here as a mere courtesy.’

  ‘You’re going to support him,’ Lansbury said. ‘The president wants full backing from all of you. He’s going to come in for a tremendous amount of flak at home and abroad from the Establishment, as you might well imagine. The mainstream media is going to hit the roof. We need each and every one of you to counter that narrative. That means TV interviews, press briefings, tweets, online broadcasts. You’ll organise rallies in favour of the withdrawal. You’ll be expected to defend his position vigorously at every opportunity.’

  ‘But why is the president doing this?’ asked Effenberg. ‘For what purpose, Derek?’

  Lansbury looked towards the German populist. ‘Are you questioning the president’s judgement, Lars?’

  ‘Not at all. But this is a momentous decision. One that will affect us all. We’re going to need more clarity from you before we agree to anything.’

  Heads turned towards the German. With his frayed grey jacket, cashmere sweater and horn-rimmed glasses Effenberg looked more like an academic than a son of a Berlin shopkeeper. A legacy of his years spent studying economics at Oxford, Lansbury understood. Effenberg also drank heavily. From the glazed look in his eyes Lansbury guessed that the German had already downed half a dozen beers that evening.

  ‘I agree with Lars,’ Marveaux said. ‘As soon as the president pulls out of NATO, the alliance collapses, non? The organisation no longer exists. You need to be straight with us, tell us what’s going on.’

  Lansbury studied his colleagues for a beat, twiddling the challenge coin his bodyguard had given him. He tucked the coin back in his trouser pocket and leaned forward, elbows propped on the table.

  ‘There’s going to be a realignment,’ he said. ‘The president is moving away from the old liberal order, which is decadent and decaying. He wishes to create a new alliance, one based on Christian values . . . one that will unite the brotherhoods of Europe. It is transparently obvious that our traditional values are under attack, my friends. We must defend ourselves, before it is too late. Indeed, it is our moral duty to act. The president feels the best way of achieving this is to tear up the old agreement with NATO and seek out friendships with our Christian brothers across the world, wherever they may be.’

  Murmurs around the room. Effenberg cleared his throat. ‘And the commitment to defend Europe, in the case of an attack?’

  ‘In this new world, our nations will flourish. We will be stronger than ever. NATO has had its day, my friends. Does anyone here truly believe that the organisation is a force for good?’

  ‘But what about our allies in the Baltic States?’ Effenberg glanced around the table. ‘Who I notice are not with us tonight. If NATO collapses, they will be exposed to attack.’

  ‘They have nothing to fear,’ Lansbury replied dismissively. ‘They will be given the opportunity to be part of this new alliance, in one way or another.’

  De Jong shook his head furiously. ‘You’re asking us to abandon our brothers to their fate. We can’t agree to such a thing. Have they even been consulted?’

  Lansbury stared at the Dutchman. ‘I find your reaction puzzling, Edwin. You’ve made several public statements in the past, criticising NATO. Are you saying you have changed your tune?’

  ‘That’s different,’ de Jong replied defensively. ‘I was talking about the reform of NATO. But what your friend in the White House is proposing is nothing less than the destruction of it. Perhaps in America, there is appetite for such a move, but not here. If I go on TV to support the president’s decision, we’re going to lose all the gains we’ve made.’

  He sat back and folded his arms. Some of the Scandinavians nodded or grunted in support. The godless countries. Lansbury tried again.

  ‘You all stand to benefit personally from this arrangement. Moscow is prepared to make a generous offer. A two per cent stake for each of you, in a Siberian gold mine.’

  ‘Why would the Russians reward us?’ de Jong asked.

  ‘As you well know, they have a mutual interest in seeing the break-up of NATO. Since President Drummond cannot pay you directly, his friend in the Kremlin has agreed to pick up the bill.’

  De Jong glanced round at the figures seated to the left and right of him, noting the hesitant looks on some of their faces. ‘Forgive us. But you can’t expect us to sell this to our supporters back home. No Dutch citizen would accept it. You’d turn me into a political outcast.’

  ‘I find myself in the strange position of agreeing with my Dutch colleague,’ Effenberg put in. ‘We stand to lose too much, Derek. We cannot accept.’

  ‘My boss will be very disappointed to hear that. So will the Russians.’

  ‘That can’t be helped,’ de Jong responded arrogantly. ‘We are, of course, willing to do whatever we can to help out our friend in the White House. But throwing our weight behind this decision is out of the question. Our voters would never buy it.’

  ‘They might,’ Lansbury said. ‘If you have an effective way of marketing it.’

  De Jong’s eyebrows came together. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘The line you’re going to use is that NATO is a corrupt and nefarious organisation. It’s part of the Deep State, in fact, undermining the will of the people at every opportunity, indulging in lies and fantasy. An alliance that will even go so far as murdering its own citizens and pinning the blame on the Russians. I’m sure your supporters would buy into that.’

  ‘Not without proof,’ Effenberg countered. ‘We need proof.’

  Lansbury smiled. ‘What if I told you I can provide someone to do just that? Someo
ne who can offer a first-hand account of the criminal activities committed by a leading member of NATO. Someone who is willing to stand in front of the cameras and publicly refute the heinous lies that a NATO ally has smeared him with.’

  Effenberg made an expressive gesture. ‘I’d like to know who this person is. Why? Did you have someone in mind?’

  ‘I can go one better than that, Lars.’

  Lansbury twisted in his chair and signalled to Butko. The latter called out towards the small door at the side of the room.

  The door abruptly swung open. All eyes turned towards it. There was a long pause, and then a white-haired figure stepped through the opening.

  ‘My God,’ de Jong said.

  There was a collective gasp among the guests. They were looking at a familiar face, ripped straight from the global headlines. An emaciated figure, much skinnier than the one featured on the news, but recognisable all the same.

  Lansbury gestured towards the man and then turned to address the room. ‘Allow me to introduce our guest of honour . . . Nikolai Volkov.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A hundred metres away, Porter stared at the iPad. His throat felt as if someone had tightened a garrote around it. So that’s who the mystery Russian is, he told himself.

  Bald said, ‘What the fuck is Volkov doing there? I thought he was in a safe house somewhere.’

  Porter said, ‘Me too.’

  He knew the name. Everyone did. The story of the former SVR officer poisoned by Russian assassins in Swindon had hardly been off the front pages for the past two months. No one had seen or heard from Volkov since he had been discharged from the Great Western Hospital and taken into witness protection. Now Porter understood why Lansbury and his FSB handlers had been so cautious at their meeting at the Hotel Flamingo earlier.

  Because the guy they were going to meet is one of the most high-profile Russians in the world.

  He wondered how Volkov had managed to escape from his safe house. He wondered, too, why a double agent would be appearing at a meeting of far-right leaders organised by the FSB.

  In the corner of his eye, he was dimly aware of the chauffeur sitting behind the wheel of the S-Class, parked to the right of the Volvo. His expressionless face illuminated by the green-tinted glow of his phone screen. The guy wasn’t taking any notice of Bald and Porter. Hadn’t seen the looks of surprise on both their faces when they’d heard Volkov’s name.

  ‘Why didn’t Strickland tell us about this?’ Bald wondered.

  Porter shook his head. ‘There’s no way she would have known about Volkov being at this meeting.’

  ‘Maybe not. But them lot at Six must have known that Volkov had gone missing. So why didn’t they share that intelligence with us?’

  ‘Maybe they have assumed the two operations were separate. Maybe they didn’t think there was a link.’

  ‘You need to get hold of Strickland,’ Bald said, nodding at the iPhone on the dash. ‘Find out if they’re listening to this shite. We need to know what the fuck is going on.’

  Porter kept the iPad on his lap, rebroadcasting the audio to Vauxhall, while he banged out a message to Strickland. He kept it short. He wrote, Are you receiving this? Do you realise who is here?

  Strickland came back fifteen seconds later. A fast response. She sent him two messages, not one. The first one simply said, Yes. Receiving now. The second message arrived a few seconds later. Keep phone on. Await further instructions.

  Which could mean only one thing, Porter knew.

  Strickland was taking the news up the chain to her boss. Who would take it in turn to his boss. Something as big as this, it would probably go right to the very top of the MI6 food chain. Thirty minutes from now, the most senior spies at Vauxhall were going to be sitting in a plain meeting room somewhere, debating what to do. It would take them at least an hour to reach a decision, probably.

  ‘Well?’ Bald asked as Porter set the phone down on the dash.

  ‘We wait,’ Porter said.

  They kept listening.

  The populists looked on in silence as Volkov walked falteringly across the room to the empty chair. He moved with obvious difficulty. The struggle was right there on his face, etched into his grimaced expression as he placed one foot in front of the other. He lowered himself into the chair beside Lansbury and took a long moment to catch his breath. The guy sounded like he was sucking in air through a tube. He looked pale and weak. Exactly how Lansbury assumed someone would look after prolonged exposure to a deadly nerve agent. But there was a gleam in his eye as well. Volkov was enjoying himself, Lansbury realised. Three months ago he had been an unknown exile, living an anonymous existence in Swindon. Now he was back on the big stage.

  Lansbury scanned the faces around the table and said, ‘I presume our guest needs no further introduction?’

  The silence dragged on. Several of the guests stared at Volkov, transfixed. De Jong was the first to speak up. His eyebrows were arched so high they threatened to crawl into his hair.

  ‘This can’t be. This is some kind of a joke, right?’

  ‘No joke,’ Lansbury replied flatly.

  ‘But . . . how is this possible?’ De Jong pointed towards Volkov. ‘He’s supposed to be hiding in Britain. In a safe house. That’s what all the papers have been saying.’

  ‘They were wrong,’ Volkov rasped.

  Every pair of eyes in the room simultaneously looked towards the Russian as he went on.

  ‘I was in a safe house. That much is true,’ he said. Despite his frail physique his voice had a steely strength to it. ‘But I was not there of my own free will. I was a prisoner of the British Government. Until a few days ago, when my brothers in Mother Russia rescued me.’

  ‘An incident the British Government was very quick to suppress,’ Lansbury added hastily.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Zanetti asked.

  ‘Political embarrassment, I suspect. It’s not every day that your star witness for the prosecution is liberated from a top-secret location. The British Government would have been crucified for letting that happen on their own soil. They’d look even more incompetent than they already do. Which, let’s face it, would be difficult right now.’

  Lansbury grinned, but no one else was laughing. Zanetti looked incredulous. ‘Why would the Russians rescue this guy? He’s a fucking snitch. He sold out his own people.’

  ‘More to the point, what is he doing here?’ Effenberg demanded.

  Lansbury looked towards Volkov and waved an arm in a broad sweep of the room. As if to say, You tell them. The former SVR agent’s hands trembled as he poured himself a glass of water. He took a sip. Licked his lips. Set down the glass.

  ‘I am no rat,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I have never betrayed my country. I have never worked for MI6. Never! That is a lie, spread by the British Government. One of many they have told, to smear my good name and hide the truth.’

  ‘Why would the British spread lies about you?’ de Jong wondered.

  Volkov took another sip of water. Placed his shaking hands in his lap. Lifted his gaze to his audience.

  ‘Because they are the ones who poisoned me,’ he said.

  Porter and Bald listened in stony silence as the Russian told his story. They had to concentrate hard. Volkov’s voice was hoarse and heavily accented and hard to pick up above the background noise of the meeting.

  ‘Nine years ago, I came to Britain as defector,’ Volkov went on. ‘I told MI6 I was willing to betray my country, in return for good life in London. This was a lie. From the beginning, I never abandoned Mother Russia. In reality, I was on a secret operation to spy on the security services for my country. I was, how you say, a triple agent.’

  Porter glanced sidelong at Bald. His mucker’s expression had tightened into a scowl.

  On the audio, Volkov’s voice continued.

  ‘For several years, I continued to live as a double agent in the UK. To the British security services and my handler, I was a defected Russian a
gent, handing them vital intelligence on the Kremlin. In fact, I was passing them false intelligence. Lies, given to me by my SVR comrades. In return, I secretly reported back to the Kremlin with information I gleaned from my contacts in the UK. The British, allegedly great spymasters, never suspected a thing.

  ‘Until three months ago, when they discovered my secret. Which is when they came up with a plan to poison me with chemical agents, developed at their secret weapons facility at Porton Down. They planned to murder me and blame it on Moscow,’ Volkov said. ‘I know this, because the last man who visited me was my old handler. We had lunch together, in Swindon. At a cheap Chinese restaurant. Shortly after, I became sick.’

  Porter glanced at Bald with a cocked eyebrow. ‘Can you believe what this wanker is saying?’

  Bald shook his head, anger seeping like acid into his guts. He wasn’t a fan of the Firm, but the idea of one of the desk jockeys at MI6 taking out a defector using chemical weapons was laughable. If Six wanted Volkov out of the picture, they wouldn’t have done it themselves, Bald thought. No fucking chance. They didn’t have the skill set or the balls. They would have picked up the phone to Hereford.

  Volkov went on for a long while in his monotone voice, pausing only to take sips of water or when he had a coughing fit. He told his audience how MI6 realised he was feeding them false intelligence and plotted against him. How they had framed Moscow for the attack and used bogus witnesses and falsified evidence to back up their case. He told them how he was visited in hospital by MI6 agents who warned him against spilling his guts. How the heartless Brits had ignored his requests to let him speak with his daughter and had instead kept him a virtual prisoner at a safe house. Volkov told them about his relief when he had been rescued. He was sure the Brits would claim he had been kidnapped, he said, but that could not be further from the truth. He had gone willingly with his Russian comrades because he was afraid for his life if he stayed in the UK. The British could not be trusted. They were liars and hypocrites. Volkov wanted to tell the world what had happened, so that everyone would know who was really behind the Swindon attack.