by Chris Ryan
Volkov decided to investigate further. But he was in poor health, and with limited financial means. Few people wanted to talk with an exiled old spy. His investigation stalled. And then, two months later, an old colleague from the SVR reached out to him. A friend who had recently defected to France. He wanted to arrange an urgent meeting with Volkov. Said he’d heard about Volkov’s enquiries and had discovered something big.
Over lunch at The Ivy in London, the colleague told Volkov about a meeting that had taken place between the Russian and American presidents. Six months ago, in Reykjavik, Iceland. The official agenda of the meeting had been to discuss the crisis in Syria and negotiate a further reduction in their respective nuclear stockpiles. But there had been a separate discussion between the two presidents. Away from the cameras, involving the two leaders and a handful of their most trusted aides. The contents of that meeting had never been disclosed, Volkov said. But his colleague in the SVR claimed that he had been briefed by someone who had been in the room at the time.
According to Volkov’s colleague, the purpose of the discussion had been to divide Europe up between American and Russian spheres of influence. Drummond had long complained about the billions the US wasted defending wastrel European allies. Privately, Kolotov was frustrated by the vast sums of money he was sinking into conflicts in eastern Ukraine and Syria. So the two men had come to an agreement: they would carve up the continent between them.
But dividing up Europe was only the first part of the plan, Volkov said.
‘What was the second part?’ asked Porter.
‘World domination,’ Volkov said.
The two presidents, he explained, intended to put aside their historic differences, bringing their great nations together to create a new Christian empire. One that would be strong enough with their combined military, nuclear and political powers to wage a total war against their common enemies: Islam, and China. Only by uniting could the Christian world triumph over the evil order of the East.
‘In the past,’ Volkov said, ‘the presidents of America and Russia saw each other as enemies. No longer. Kolotov and Drummond do not see themselves as rivals in the world order, but as brothers. Christian brothers, engaged in a global struggle against the non-believers.’
‘White Christian brothers,’ Bald observed. ‘They’re not just talking about a religious war, are they? This is a fucking race war.’
Volkov merely shrugged.
Porter said, ‘What else happened at the meeting?’
The Russian said that the two presidents spent the rest of their time negotiating the fates of various European nations. They agreed that Germany, the Netherlands, France, Italy and the UK should remain in the American sphere. The Baltics, Ukraine, Romania, Belarus and Poland would fall under the influence of Moscow. So too would the Czech Republic, Hungary and Slovakia. Austria and Switzerland would be neutral states – strictly off-limits for military occupation or covert action. For the agreement to work, the US would need to unilaterally withdraw from NATO, triggering its collapse. American forces could then stage a tactical retreat from Europe, allowing Washington and Moscow to concentrate their resources on curbing Chinese and Iranian ambitions.
Both Drummond and Kolotov were satisfied with the arrangement, Volkov said. The Americans would save billions of dollars from their annual NATO budget, money that could be diverted towards funding the great coming war of the twenty-first century: the war between Christianity and the East. As for Kolotov, a swift and bloodless conquest of the Baltics, and later on Eastern Europe, would restore his credibility, which had been damaged by domestic crises back home.
With Europe’s fate sealed, the two presidents would be free to plot the ultimate destruction of their true enemies. They talked about the possibility of a land invasion of Iran, the removal of the Ayatollah. They fantasised about the complete destruction of Hezbollah. They agreed to bolster their military presence in Taiwan. Install a puppet leader in Syria. Overthrow the House of Saud.
Wage economic and cyber warfare against China’s Communist Party.
Reduce North Korea to dust.
It would take years, they said. Decades, even. But together, they could ensure that the new white Christian empire would prevail.
But for the first phase of the plan to work, Drummond needed support from the populists. Pulling out of NATO was a risky move, particularly in an election year. He had told Kolotov that the Kremlin-funded fascists and right-wing movements in Europe would need to loudly proclaim their support for his decision. With Moscow’s consent, Drummond had drafted in Lansbury to secure the populists’ backing. Hence the meeting at Koman Castle.
Volkov’s SVR colleague had asked him to share this int with his old handler at Six. There might be some money in it, he’d suggested. Volkov had said he would think about it. The tale seemed outlandish to him. Besides, he hadn’t spoken to his handler in months. The guy he’d worked with before had retired. The new one never returned his calls. How was he supposed to reach out to him with a fantastic story of ethno-Christian alliances and presidents carving up Europe?
The colleague had flown out to Amsterdam two days later, for a security conference. He never came back. Took a fall out of his sixth-floor hotel window. A tragic accident, the authorities said. Or suicide. But Volkov had his suspicions. Which got him thinking. He sent a message to the handler, requesting a meeting. What harm could it do?
The day before his meeting, he set off for stroll around Queen’s Park in Swindon. To gather his thoughts. The weather was unseasonably warm and pleasant. He remembered leaving the house and opening the door to his Vauxhall Corsa, to fetch his cigarettes from the glove box. He remembered feeling something sticky on the exterior car door handle as he touched it. Didn’t think much of it.
An hour later, Volkov felt dizzy and feverish. He recalled struggling over to the public toilets at the far end of the park, sweating profusely. He collapsed outside the entrance, choking, gasping for breath, bleeding from his nostrils. Then his world went black.
He remembered nothing of the next three weeks. Later, the doctors treating him would explain that he had been in an induced coma while they battled to save his life. His recovery had been painfully slow. But after the fog of the first few days cleared, he realised exactly who had targeted him, and why. The Russian security services, clearing up their tracks. Someone had learned that the colleague had information on the NATO plot and was killing anyone he might have confided in. Volkov knew it was only a matter of time before they came for him again.
But then he had received the phone call.
There had been a problem in the weeks leading up the G7 summit, Volkov had been told. Some of the populists who had agreed to back Drummond’s plan had started to get cold feet. They worried about the damage to their own political brands. NATO wasn’t as wildly unpopular in the coffeehouses of Vienna or the bars of Montmartre as it was in the American heartlands.
So the FSB had turned to Volkov. Made him an offer.
Work for us, they had told him. Persuade the populists to stick to the agreement and you’ll be spared. We’ll even give you a job in the Kremlin, reunite you with your daughter.
How could he resist?
‘Jesus,’ said Porter when Volkov had finished. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Volkov shook his head bitterly. ‘I thought, if I agreed to their demands, I would be safe,’ he said. ‘I was wrong. I shouldn’t have trusted them. Now my daughter is dead. My fault.’
‘Aye,’ Bald said. ‘I’d fucking say so.’
Volkov looked away, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand, and gazed out of the window. An old spy in a crumpled suit, alone and destitute, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Bald grinned, toasted him with his can of Coke.
‘Could be worse, pal. You’re going back to England, at least. Doesn’t get much better than that.’
Volkov snorted, glanced back over at Bald. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
>
‘The big beasts at the Firm will give you a new identity, set you up with a place to live. Somewhere nice and remote. I hear the Shetlands are lovely at this time of the year.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Volkov said, turning to address his vague reflection in the cabin window. ‘They’ll find me. Doesn’t matter where I go, I won’t be safe. What I’m going to do then?’
Bald shrugged. ‘Life’s full of uncertainties.’
The Russian fell silent again, watching the black night sky.
A wave of exhaustion washed over Bald, the adrenaline of the firefight leaving his body. He sipped on his Coke, craved something stronger.
Across the aisle he caught Lyden looking at him with an admiring glow in his eyes. ‘Me and Jordan owe you fellas a pint,’ he said.
‘What for?’ asked Bald.
‘Digging us out of a hole.’ Lyden cocked a thumb at Volkov. ‘Thought we were gonna lose this one for sure. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be in silver bracelets by now.’
Bald shrugged. ‘We got lucky. That’s all.’
‘Better lucky than dead,’ Lyden said. He paused. ‘Guess it’s true what the older lads at Hereford have been saying about you two.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You are the real fucking deal.’
‘Just doing the job. That’s how we get it done.’ He turned to Porter, nodded. ‘That was some quick thinking, though. Shooting under the wagon. Never would have thought of that myself. Not bad.’
Porter half-smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said quietly. ‘Didn’t do so bad yourself. You might be out of the Regiment, Jock, but you’ve still got it. I’ll give you that.’
Bald laughed easily. ‘Never lost it, mate. I’ve always been rock hard.’ He flicked a grin at his mucker. ‘How about we grab that drink once we land and hand over our friend here?’
‘As long as you’re buying,’ said Porter. ‘And as long as it’s orange juice.’
‘Is that all? Thought you’d be gasping for a drop of the hard stuff by now. All the shit we’ve been through today.’
‘That’s all,’ Porter replied firmly.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Bald. ‘Have a Ribena, you southern poof.’
‘Scottish wanker.’
Bald shook his head, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Fuck me, mate. Your shooting might be up to scratch these days, but your comebacks are still as shite as ever.’
‘Jock . . .’
‘Aye?’
‘Fuck off.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Chukotka Autonomous Region, North-east Russia
Three days later
As the Let L-410 Turbolet made its final approach, Derek Lansbury caught his first glimpse of the Kolimsky gold mine. Through the port-side window of the twin-engine aircraft, the mine was impossible to miss. A sprawling complex of industrial buildings, storage units and factories, constructed in the middle of a desolate Arctic tundra. Smoke eddied into the sky from several of the factory buildings, a column of grey rising into the cloudless bright-blue sky. Around the gold mine was an endless expanse of flat white nothingness. A featureless landscape, frozen and inhospitable, the snow as fine as powder. Crikey, thought Lansbury as the Turbolet began its descent. Vitaly Butko wasn’t joking. The Kolimsky gold mine really was at the edge of the world.
Just getting to the mine had been an ordeal. First there had been the flight to Moscow. Then a connecting Aeroflot flight to Magadan, a minor port town some 3,500 miles east of Moscow, in the easternmost wilds of Siberia. Closer to Anchorage than Red Square. From Magadan they had boarded the Turbolet, a private transport plane belonging to the mining company, for the final two-hour journey north to Kolimsky. The flight had been rough, and Lansbury had asked Butko why they couldn’t have simply driven to the mine instead. Butko had laughed and explained that no, that was quite impossible in this part of the world. There was an ice-road that connected the town to the mine, Butko said, but it was only in operation for a few months in the summer, when the temperatures rose above freezing. Every winter, teams of engineers had to clear the road with a fleet of snowploughs and load-bearing trucks. Other than that, the only way of reaching Kolimsky was by air.
Lansbury had initially been sceptical about taking this trip. When Butko had first suggested visiting the mine, he had inwardly recoiled in horror. He recalled reading somewhere that the temperatures in that region plunged to minus twenty at this time of the year. There were more reindeer than people, apparently. A visit to a remote, permafrost gold mine on the fringes of the Russian continent wasn’t a thrilling prospect. Lansbury had politely declined, insisting that he had too much work to do. Meetings to attend. Press briefings. His podcasts. At some point in the distant future, it might be nice to go, perhaps. But not now. He simply couldn’t. Vitaly understood, surely?
‘But Derek, you simply must see it!’ Butko had told him. ‘You own a five per cent stake in the mine now. Don’t you want to see what your hard work has brought you?
‘Besides,’ he’d added. ‘The president will be disappointed if you turn down the offer. And you really don’t want to upset him.’
Butko had eventually won him over. He would be making an absolute fortune from his share of the mine holding company, the Russian had explained. Millions. The mine produced ten tons of gold and silver in a single year. At the going exchange rate, one ton of gold was worth about sixty-four million dollars.
‘Think about that, Derek!’ Butko had said. Even allowing for the exorbitant costs of running a gold mine in such an inhospitable environment, the profits were going to be enormous. ‘Your share will make you rich beyond anything you’ve ever dreamed of.’
So Lansbury had reluctantly agreed to the two-day trip. Besides, he thought to himself as the Turbolet cantered across the runway, Vitaly is right. Kolimsky is mine now. Or at least, one-twentieth of it belongs to me. I should really take a look round at the operation, see how it’s run.
His involvement wasn’t yet official, of course. There had been a hold-up with the paperwork – Butko had mentioned something about needing to grease the palms of a few regional officials, and his people needed to set up a shell company in the British Virgin Islands so that Lansbury’s share would remain a closely guarded secret. For obvious reasons, they didn’t want anyone in the British media to find out about his new investment. But the deal would be signed off very soon, Butko had assured him. Business in Russia was never straightforward.
The brilliant sunlight reflected mirror-like off the snow, blinding Lansbury as he stepped off the plane. He followed Butko across the tarmac to a waiting Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, parked up to the right of a windowless single-storey building. The building was the processing facility for new workers, Butko told him. Bags were checked in case anyone tried to smuggle in booze or drugs. Alcohol was forbidden inside the mine, apparently. Health and safety regulations. Lansbury, shivering in his snow boots, Fjallraven winter coat, cashmere jumper and beanie hat, wondered again about the wisdom of accepting this invitation. Two days, in this permafrost wasteland! And yet here he was in the middle of Siberia, the Arctic air burning his lungs, a bracing wind stabbing like a thousand knives at every scrap of exposed flesh.
Had this really been such a good idea?
Two company security guards stood waiting beside the Tacoma, stamping their feet to keep themselves warm. They were thoroughly wrapped up in black quilted jackets, walking trousers, Gore-Tex boots and ushanka hats with the ear flaps folded upwards. Semi-automatic pistol grips jutted out of the holsters fastened to their belts. Butko nodded a greeting at the two guards and turned to Lansbury.
‘Get in, Derek,’ he said, gesturing to the passenger seats in the rear of the Tacoma cabin.
One of the security guards, a heavyset man with pinhole eyes and no eyebrows, took Lansbury’s trolley suitcase, wheeled it round to the back of the Tacoma and stowed it in the boot compartment.
Lansbury climbed inside the rear of the cabin, scooted alongside Butko. Thin-Br
ows rode shotgun while the other guard folded himself behind the steering wheel. Warm air blasted out of the radiator, raising the temperature inside the cabin to somewhere marginally north of freezing.
They drove north for half a kilometre, following the rough track that led towards the front of the complex. Freshly cleared snow was piled waist-high on either side of the roadbed. Directly ahead was the security gate, with a small hutch to the left. Twenty metres beyond the gate was the mining complex. As they drew closer to the entrance, Butko pointed out various features. The gold mine was divided into two main areas, he said. East was the mining factory and processing facilities. North was the open-pit mine. To the west, the accommodation blocks for the workers employed at the mine. An insulated corridor connected the barrack blocks directly to the mine, sparing the operators from being exposed to the elements on their way to and from their shifts.
‘Impressive, no?’ Butko said. ‘This place cost us a fucking fortune to build. You wouldn’t believe.’
‘Y-yes,’ Lansbury replied uncertainly. Wishing again that he’d had the courage – gumption? – to turn down Bukto’s invitation to this barren land. Damn the man for putting him on the spot back in Hungary. If only he’d had time to think of an excuse.