by Chris Ryan
Porter said, ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s bullshit,’ Bald said. ‘Six would never pull this kind of stunt. He’ll be telling them the Moon landings are faked next.’
‘Sounds like they’re lapping it up, though.’
On the audio, Volkov had finished his speech. Porter and Bald could hear thunderous applause ringing out around the meeting room. Some of the populists were cheering or hollering their support.
Bald grunted. ‘That mob will believe anything, if it fits in with their fucked-up world view.’
Porter checked his phone.
No word from Strickland.
‘Why would Volkov be peddling this stuff, if it’s a load of bollocks?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Only one reason,’ Bald said. ‘He’s working for the Russians now. They must be paying him a great whack.’
‘Or they’re threatening to kill him.’
The applause died out. The meeting room fell silent again.
Volkov slumped back in his chair, reached for his glass of water and had a long gulp. He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed his sweat-glossed forehead. Forty-five minutes of public speaking had left him visibly drained. Lansbury gave the Russian a friendly pat on the back before he turned to address the other guests.
‘I trust that you are convinced of the plan now, chaps?’ he asked.
‘I have one question,’ de Jong said.
‘What’s that, Edwin?’
The Dutchman indicated Volkov. ‘What is he getting out of this?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.’
Volkov put away his handkerchief, loosened the collar of his shirt. ‘I am doing this for my country. For years the decadent West has spread lies about Russia. Now it is time to make them pay. The people deserve to hear the truth.’
‘Any other questions for our guest?’ Lansbury asked. ‘No?’
No one raised a hand. Lansbury turned to Volkov. ‘Thank you, Nikolai. You can leave now. Get some rest, old boy. Long flight ahead.’
He nodded at Butko. We’re done here. Butko beckoned over a pair of heavies standing just outside the doorway of the side entrance to the room. They marched over to Volkov, helped him to his feet and escorted him out of the room.
After the heavies had closed the door Zanetti looked towards Lansbury and said, ‘What happens now?’
‘At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, Nikolai will give a press conference to the world’s media. We’re giving you the heads-up tonight – in the strictest confidence, I might add – because this thing is going to move very quickly once the ball gets rolling. President Drummond will release a short statement immediately after the press conference, denouncing Britain for the attempted murder of a Russian national, the illegal use of chemical weapons and the disgraceful propaganda campaign to implicate Russia in the attack. The president will pledge to bring up this incident with his counterparts at Loch Lomond later the same day.’
‘What will he say?’
‘Britain is a leading member of NATO. Drummond will argue that the alliance has been utterly discredited by one of its members carrying out such a cowardly and unconscionable attack, laying the groundwork for America’s withdrawal from NATO.’
‘Will that work?’
‘Absolutely,’ Lansbury replied. ‘No one will question his decision to pull out of an alliance whose member states carry out chemical weapons attacks on their own soil. Particularly when the president himself has taken a hard line on the use of such weapons in Syria.’
Polster, the Austrian Vice-Chancellor, had been silent until that moment. With his wrinkled face and nest of silvery hair and Patek Philippe watch clamped around his wrist he looked like a Wall Street banker on the cusp of retirement.
‘I agree,’ Polster said. ‘This will persuade our people back home. They’re already sceptical about funding NATO missions. Once they hear Nikolai’s testimony, they’ll turn on Britain and the other members.’
One by one, the remaining dissenters fell into line. Effenberg quickly followed. Only de Jong held out, reluctant to commit himself to the plan, but under pressure from his political allies and Lansbury, he eventually acquiesced. There was a formal vote on the matter, with every leader declaring their support for the American plan. Lansbury smiled, pleased with himself.
‘Then it’s settled. At four o’clock tomorrow afternoon you will issue statements of support for the president’s decision, welcoming the end of NATO. And the beginning of a grand new Christian era will be upon us. One that will dominate the world for centuries . . .’
Bald and Porter zoned out of the rest of the chatter. On the audio, Lansbury turned his attention to the next order of business. There was some stuff about what to do about the refugee crisis in Italy. Effenberg wanted support for an anti-gay rally in Dresden. The Georgians were struggling to gain traction in the polls and requested campaign appearances from Zanetti and Lansbury. The guards continued their routine patrols of the castle grounds. Tibor played games on his phone. Some of the other chauffeurs and bodyguard teams headed over to the side entrance to grab a bite to eat from the kitchen. On the microphone, Bald heard laughter and joking, the earlier tension of the conference giving way to a mood of celebration. Lansbury and his mates were relaxed now. They sounded as if they were enjoying themselves.
At three minutes to seven, Porter’s phone buzzed.
Strickland.
He swiped to answer. Turned on the loudspeaker.
‘Yes?’
‘Where are you now?’ Strickland asked. She spoke loudly, as if projecting her voice for an audience. In the background, Bald heard someone cough. He figured she was on a loudspeaker on her end too. In a meeting room somewhere inside Six. The Chief of SIS was there, probably. Moorcroft too.
‘Outside the castle,’ said Porter. ‘In front of the garage. Why?’
‘Can you get inside?’
‘Not unless we slap on a couple of pinstripe suits and start slagging off migrants,’ Bald said. ‘This place is guarded by a small army. Heavies all over the fucking shop.’
‘There’s no way of getting to Volkov? You’re sure?’
‘Not a chance. What the fuck is going on?’
‘I need you to listen to me carefully,’ Strickland said. ‘The plan has changed. Orders from the very top. The new priority is Volkov. I repeat, Volkov is the number-one priority from now on.’
Porter and Bald looked at one another.
Porter said, ‘What about BROKEN RECORD?’
‘He’s finished. We’ve got him bang to rights. He’s on tape openly conspiring against NATO and the British state in return for taking Russian bribes, along with every other attendee. The moment we release that material, Lansbury is done.’
Bald gave the iPhone a cold hard look. As if it could somehow transmit his rage to the voices listening on the other end. ‘Why didn’t you tell us that Volkov had skipped the country?’
Strickland paused. Bald imagined her looking round the meeting room, searching for approval before replying.
‘We didn’t consider it relevant,’ she said at last. ‘At the time, we had no specific information linking BROKEN RECORD to Volkov.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘It’s the truth,’ Strickland insisted. ‘As far as we were concerned, Volkov had been kidnapped by state actors working on behalf of the Kremlin and relocated to Russia, possibly executed. That’s all we knew.’
‘You should have fucking told us he’d been lifted.’
‘That information wasn’t relevant to your specific mission. We told you everything you needed to know, and nothing you didn’t. We’ve been on the level with you from the start on this one.’
‘That’d be a first, for you lot.’
Silence.
Porter said, ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘I assume Volkov is still inside the stronghold?’
‘For now.’
‘And y
ou are absolutely certain that you cannot extract him from his present location?’
‘There are guards at all the entrances and exits. Half a dozen of them, packing heat. Plus whatever guys are watching Volkov. We’d get clobbered before we could get within fifty feet of the bloke.’
‘In that case, we’re going to need to bring some of our other assets into play. Find another way of springing him free.’
Bald said, ‘How long is that going to take?’
‘We’re not sure. Could be an hour. Could be longer. There are a lot of moving pieces on the board. It’s going to take us some time to pull everything together.’
Another voice came on the line. Posh, English, familiar.
‘Guys, Moorcroft here. Any idea how long BROKEN RECORD intends to stay at this gathering?’
‘Until around midnight,’ said Porter. ‘That’s what he reckoned when he briefed us earlier.’
‘And there’s no chance of him leaving earlier?’
‘Not likely. They’re having some big celebratory feast. Jock reckons there’s entertainment laid on for the populists too. Women and the like.’
‘Good. That means we still have time to organise our other resources and formulate a plan before he returns to Budapest.’
‘What are we supposed to do until then?’
‘Sit tight and keep a mark-one eyeball on the stronghold. Report any suspicious movement to Strickland. Maintain your cover until you receive orders otherwise.’
Bald said, ‘Why do you lot give a toss about Volkov, anyway? No one’s going to believe his story about the Swindon attack.’
‘He’s a political weapon,’ Moorcroft explained. ‘Right now, we’re engaged in a proxy war with the Russians. If the FSB extracts Volkov to Moscow, he’ll become a propaganda tool. The Kremlin will wheel him out on state TV to humiliate and undermine us at every opportunity. Our credibility will be left in tatters.’
‘You’re worried about looking bad, is that it?’
‘We’re concerned about the optics. Returning Volkov to Russia would be the ultimate coup for their president, and he needs a win as much as anyone. We can’t afford to let that happen. Understood?’
‘Roger.’
Strickland came back on and said, ‘Keep the line free. We’ll be in touch soon.’
The call ended.
The iPhone screen faded to black.
Bald stared at it. Rage was brewing inside his chest, burning the back of his throat like vodka. Six has lied to us again, he thought. It was the same old crap. They send you into the field with the bare minimum of int, playing their cards close to their chest. And it’s guys like me and Porter who have to clear up the mess.
Porter said, ‘I still don’t get it. Why would the Yanks pull out of NATO?’
‘The president has a hard-on for getting out of it,’ Bald said. ‘All he bangs on about on TV. Probably dreams about it. Now he’s got the chance with this Volkov business.’
‘But why would the Russians get involved? They’re helping Drummond out, offering up Volkov and paying this mob off with gold mine shares. What are they getting out of it?’
‘The Baltics,’ Bald said. ‘That’s their end game.’
Porter looked at him. ‘You think the Russians would risk it?’
‘Why not? Once they get Drummond and his populist cronies to pull out of NATO, no one can stop them. They can move the tanks in, take them countries back.’
‘Should we warn Strickland?’
‘Six already knows,’ Bald replied. ‘And if they don’t, they need their heads examined. It’s fucking obvious. Anyone can see it. Surprised it took you as long as this to figure it out.’
Porter glared at Bald, then looked out of the window. He thought about the Baltic States. Estonia and Latvia and Riga. The nightmare of Russian tanks rolling through European capitals.
Bald said, ‘You think Strickland will come through with those reinforcements?’
Porter said, ‘You don’t?’
‘It’s Six. I take everything they say with a big fucking pinch of salt.’
Porter said nothing, checked his watch. Five minutes past seven. We should be done by midnight, Lansbury had said. Which could mean potentially having to sit on their arses for another four or five hours. Nothing else they could do except keep an eye on the gathering.
And wait to hear back from Strickland.
On the microphone, the populists were having a debate about the wrongful imprisonment of a British far-right activist. Some of the groups wanted to organise a demonstration in front of the Houses of Parliament, demanding his release. Others were not so keen. The French had worked hard to appeal to moderate voters, Marveaux said. They worried about the effect of showing solidarity with the activist.
At eight o’clock Bald heard the scraping of chairs against the floor, the patter of footsteps and the slamming of doors. Then the pop of champagne corks, the tinkle of glasses being clinked as the attendees moved on to another room. The conference was over, Bald guessed. The celebrations were in full swing. Someone asked when the women were going to arrive. Another said he hoped that they were better looking than the girls at the last gathering. There were hearty chuckles all round. Lansbury listened as one of the attendees told him a racist joke. Something to do with Muslims immigrating to Germany to see their doctor. Lansbury thought it was fucking hilarious. His laughter cackled down the audio line.
‘At least someone’s having a good time,’ Bald growled. ‘Any word from Strickland about them assets?’
Porter checked his phone, shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Fuck’s sake. What’s taking them so long?’
Two minutes later, they heard a pair of engines gunning from across the front of the castle. Bald peered through the windscreen and saw the headlamps burning on a pair of Lexus 570 SUVs parked on the far side of the carriage circle, forty metres away. The two wagons crawled forward, rounded the circle and pulled up in front of the door.
Five figures emerged from the entrance hallway into the cold black of the night, breath misting in front of their mouths. The first four guys were all huge. The four biggest guys Bald had ever seen. They were shrink-wrapped in black 5.11 trousers and jackets over plain dark polo shirts. Civilian gear. An unofficial uniform, different from the heavies on Butko’s team. Each guy carried a shoulder-strapped sub-machine gun, the barrels poking out from below their jackets.
The fifth guy was Volkov.
TWENTY-NINE
It took Bald about a quarter of a second to identify Nikolai Volkov. He had seen the former SVR officer’s face plastered over a million websites and news reports. Even in Mexico, it had been impossible to avoid his bulbous-nosed, round-cheeked face. The front page of the Cancun edition of the Miami Herald, the top story on CNN each evening down at the expat bars. Volkov was noticeably skinnier than in the photographs. His hair was shorter and thinner, too. He looked like a convict on the day of his release from prison. Volkov limped down the steps, taking them slowly, one at a time, the four heavies fanning out ahead of him.
On the microphone, Lansbury and his mates were still chatting amongst themselves, laughing and swapping crap racist jokes, knocking back the bubbly ahead of their slap-up feast.
Porter said, ‘Shit. He’s bugging out.’
‘Aye. And with half the FSB for company, by the looks of it.’
Four heavies on foot, Bald thought quickly. Plus a driver in each Lexus. A minimum of six guys, each kitted out with a Kalashnikov. Bald guessed they would have at least two clips per rifle, minimum. Sixty rounds per man. Two hundred and forty rounds, plus whatever secondary weapons and body armour they might be packing. Throw in the half-a-dozen guards around the castle, and they were looking at twelve heavily armed enemies protecting Volkov.
And we’ve got nothing to bring to the party except our fists.
Forty metres away, Volkov hit the bottom step and clambered into the rear of the front Lexus. One of the four guys jumped in alongside him.
The other three guys hopped into the second Lexus. The backup car, Bald realised. Extra firepower, if the front team ran into trouble. He turned to Porter.
‘Call Strickland,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Porter grabbed the iPhone. Put it on loudspeaker.
The doors on the rear Lexus thudded shut.
Strickland picked up midway through the second ring.
‘John. What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘It’s Volkov. He’s on the move.’
A pause. ‘Can you get to him?’
‘Not without getting walloped,’ Bald put in. ‘He’s got six heavies with him. Armed. They’re about to leave, but if we go now we can tail them.’
‘Stay where you are,’ Strickland ordered. ‘Don’t move. Do not attempt to follow him.’
‘But we’ll lose him,’ Bald protested angrily.
‘The other assets aren’t in position yet. If you attempt a pursuit, you’ll blow the operation and alert the enemy to our involvement. We’ll lose any chance we have of extracting Volkov.’
Forty metres away, the two Lexus SUVs steered counter-clockwise round the carriage circle. Heading down the main driveway, towards the wrought-iron gate, a hundred metres to the south.
‘Guys?’ Strickland asked. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘He’s about to get away,’ Porter said. ‘Jock’s right, ma’am. This might be our best shot at lifting the bastard.’
‘Stay put,’ Strickland snapped. ‘That’s an order, both of you. Stand down, or our deal is off.’
Bald thumped a fist against the dashboard in frustration and looked away, rage coursing through his veins. He hated the idea of letting Volkov slip away, but the logical part of his brain told him that Strickland was right. Chasing after the Russians was a fucking bad idea. They were in the middle of the Hungarian countryside, late at night. Bald and Porter hadn’t passed a car for miles on the drive down from Budapest. If they followed the two wagons, Volkov and his mates would swiftly know about it.
They’d see our headlights. They’d rumble us in about five seconds flat.
Nothing we can do.
To the south, the two Lexus SUVs had reached the front gate. The driver in the front Lexus leaned out of his window and signalled to the two heavies. The guy with the iPad ducked into the guardhouse. The gate yawned open.