“That was good work Cal, thanks,” said the American, switching on a thousand kilowatt smile.
“No problem” I mumbled, throwing a vodka chaser down my throat and ordering another, “assets and support in-country was good.”
“We try our best buddy” said Ryan, using the false bonhomie non-field men use with creatures like me. He looked around the room and tried to relax. Ryan had a soft, friendly face, an expensive Rohan outdoor jacket and clean hiking shoes. He looked like a standard-issue American tourist, a guide-book for Prague lying on the bar in front of him. I was expecting a gnarly fucker with a Texan accent, salt-and-pepper crew-cut and Lee Marvin eyes, like you see in the movies.
Funny, how life lets you down like that. “Well, I’ll be off,” I said.
Ryan was OK as far as spooks go, but I had stuff to do in London. The American nodded. “Sure, Cal. But there are just a couple of things I need to ask, if that’s OK?”
I poured the vodka into my remaining beer and drank it in one gulp, swirling it around like mouthwash. All I wanted was a hot shower, a hooker and twelve hours sleep. “Sure.”
Ryan nodded at the girl behind the bar and more vodka appeared. It would have been rude not to drink it.
“So, Cal?” said Ryan, ordering a diet soda, “did our associate say anything?”
“Plenty,” I shrugged. I wasn’t going to tell him that I didn’t exactly make their offer to the target the way they planned.
Ryan pulled a face as he sipped his soda, his eyes over my shoulder towards the door “such as? Just to see if there’s an Intel opportunity?”
I glanced over at the door too. Another standard-issue American tourist was sat at a table, except this one was bulkier with a high-and-tight haircut. He was trying not to look at me, and kept glancing at a bag on the seat next to him.
“Funnily enough, he thought you were screwing his country over” I sighed, “he regretted that his family hated him, that he spent so much time at work. He wanted to be a footballer. Just the usual sort of shit you get off your chest when you’re in the boot of a car in the middle of a forest waiting to be executed by a drunken Englishman.”
“Nothing else?” said Ryan, pulling a face.
“No Mister Ryan.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I stared into my drink, “why not put me in an orange boiler suit and wire my fucking nuts to the mains, see if I’m lying?”
“OK, no need to get bent outta shape” said the American softly, “we’ll be in touch.”
He got up and left the bar, looking just a bit embarrassed. He left the money for the drinks on the side, like I was a hooker.
Which, I guess, I was.
CHAPTER ONE
Six years later
Mayfair, London, United Kingdom
I stepped out of the black cab, careful not to put my spit-polished brogues in the slush. Peeling off some banknotes for the driver, I strode through Berkeley Square. The shops were January-empty, the sky low and grey. The sports station on the cab radio had excitedly reported an Extreme Weather Warning: sub-zero temperatures and a major snow dump. My phone bleeped. I answered, clamping it to the side of my head as I narrowed my eyes against the sleet.
“Are you there yet?” said Harry, my handler, over the phone.
“Yes, I’m meeting the Russian” I said. I’d worked in Russia on The Firm, spoke the language and liked the people. Russians enjoyed a drink and there wasn’t too much bullshit when you did business with them, as long as you knew the rules. Oh, and the paranoia and conspiracy theories too. They liked those. For all its faults, The Firm tried it’s best to hammer roundish pegs into roundish holes. It’s more profitable that way.
“I’m letting you negotiate the fee” said Harry, “don’t undersell yourself.” He had a gravelly West Country accent and sounded like a pirate. He’d certainly had me walking the plank often enough.
I didn’t want to work for The Firm, but they’d got me by the nuts and never let go. They just gripped harder now and then. The Firm is something that happens to you when you’ve got nowhere left to go. I didn’t even know what The Firm really was: it didn’t have a website, it wasn’t in the telephone directory and I’d never even met Harry. To contact us you had to know someone who knew someone. And that person needed to know someone too.
I walked onto Curzon Street. “I know the score,” I grunted. My job, after all, was to make money for The Firm. I think.
“Yes” sighed Harry, “and where there’s muck there’s brass. Just don’t mess it up, OK? No cash, only electronic transfer and we’re using the new bank, the one in Zurich.”
“Zurich, I know the one.”
“And I want to know the objectives ASAP.”
“Yes Harry” I sighed, “why didn’t you just meet Belov?”
Harry’s laugh was a machinegun bark. “I don’t meet people like him, far too risky.”
I’d looked Sergei Belov up on the Internet the night before: an ex-Communist Party economist. He’d worked for the Soviet nuclear power program before ending up as an energy industry Baron. Belov made his name when the Soviet-neglected reactors started melting, managing disasters and whistle-blowing on corruption. After the wall came down in 1989 he, like so many others, made his money in the Cowboy Capitalism years of Yeltsin before falling out with the new guard. High-tailed it to London and became a patron of arts, charities and lost anti-Kremlin causes. Every six months the Russians asked the UK to extradite him and, because there was no treaty between us and them, Her Majesty’s Government refused.
Belov lived in a private mews off of Curzon Street, one of those secret places London does so well. The disgraced international rich flock to The Smoke like those little fish that follow sharks. Hidden in plain sight, the bone-white townhouse lurked behind baroque gates. Turreted CCTV cameras panned towards me as I approached.
A stocky guy in a black North Face jacket and fleece beanie hat stood outside, a radio clipped to his belt. He looked me up and down, took in my smart woollen suit, black trench coat and Brigade of Guards tie. It was my funeral, job interview and court appearance outfit. And I didn’t serve in the Guards. I nodded at the bodyguard, “I’ve got an appointment. My name’s Adrian Clay.” My name wasn’t Adrian Clay either, but it would do.
He looked at his clipboard, like it was a lie detector. “You’re early,” he said in a Geordie accent. A police car cruised past the top of the mews. He pulled a face.
I shrugged, like it was my problem. “Sorry.”
He got on his radio and announced my arrival. A heavily-accented Russian voice said it was OK for me to go through.
“They’re all a bit jumpy in there at the moment” said the Geordie, patting me down, “no sudden moves, OK?” He motioned at me to open my coat.
I assumed the position as he expertly checked all the places you might hide a pistol or a knife, “you kidding me?”
“Wish I was,” he shrugged.
“Thanks for that” I said, “I’ll keep my hands where they can see them.”
The dimly-lit hallway of the house was the size of my apartment. It had dark wooden floors, taupe walls, an Old Master hanging here and there. Two shaven-headed hulks wearing black suits stood watching me, arms crossed. I checked them out, noting the bulges of weapons under their jackets. I don’t carry when I’m in the UK, unless it’s completely unavoidable. It’s too much of a drama.
A young woman in a neat grey business suit stepped out from a wooden door in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “Mister Winter?” she said in a cut glass English accent. She wore her blonde hair short, like her skirt.
“That’s me” I said, offering my hand, “I prefer to use the name Adrian Clay with everybody else. I thought that was made clear before the appointment?”
She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m so sorry” she smiled, “I’m Melissa Compton, Mister Belov’s executive assistant.”
She was pretty enough for me to forgive her immediately.
&
nbsp; One of the hulks produced a metal-detector wand and waved it over me, discovering my Zippo lighter, keys and Blackberry. The other held out a brushed steel tray. “No metal objects or electronic devices, sir,” he said politely in heavily-accented English.
“Of course” I replied, “do I get an aisle or window seat?”
Melissa opened a door, “please come through.”
The office was like the reading room of a London gentlemen’s club. Stylish leather armchairs were arranged around a fireplace. Rows of rare books lined the walls, a brushed steel desk positioned by the window. Scented candles burned here and there, smelling of incense. Dark oil paintings completed the look, Old Masters and icons. A large triptych of medieval depictions of heaven, hell and purgatory hung over the fire. A black monster, demonic and glaring, dined hungrily on sinners.
Sergei Belov posed by his desk, a study in casual hyper-wealth. He smoked a cigar big enough to play softball with, shod head to toe in Black. I recognised him from his numerous appearances on TV, where he was usually stood outside a courtroom as he won his latest legal skirmish, berating the Russian government’s mendacity and cunning. He was burly, with a big beaky nose and close set eyes. He said nothing but offered me a top-end Montecristo.
OK, I thought, you know I like cigars. Melissa wrinkled her pretty little nose in disapproval as I lit up and exhaled a happy smoke ring.
“This weather!” he barked, performing a mock shiver, “it is coming in from Russia.” His accent was less pronounced than it was on the TV, his English precise.
“Not your best export, Sir,” I replied.
“It is good to meet you, Mister Winter,” said Belov, a warm smile breaking his craggy face. His voice was deep and raspy, “you are a difficult man to track down.” He offered me his paw, which I shook.
“That’s a relief, Mister Belov” I said, “I try to be as difficult to track down as possible.”
Belov smiled and motioned for me to sit down in front of the fire. Melissa opened a hidden wooden panel, revealing a fridge. She pulled out a near-frozen bottle of Zyr vodka and two glasses. It was just before ten in the morning, but I’d worked a lot in Russia and was expecting it. I threw the gloopy vodka down my neck and waited for the next. Russians consider it rude to leave the bottle empty, and Zyr is good stuff.
“Here’s to long-life” said Belov, refilling my glass “if such a thing is possible!”
“To a long-life,” I agreed. I downed the second glass of Zyr and enjoyed the burn.
“I am told you have worked in Russia” said Belov, “and you speak our language. This was important to me.” He motioned for Melissa to leave.
She nodded and walked towards the door.
“So you might understand these things, as a Russian might.”
I raised an eyebrow as Melissa sashayed out of the room.
“She’s very efficient and nice to look at” chuckled the Russian, “but my wife keeps a close eye on her.”
“Really, all the way from the Cayman Islands?” I said drily. The papers mentioned that Belov’s family were spending the winter there, in the Oligarch’s mansion.
“Quite.”
“How can I help you, Mister Belov?”
“Let me fill your glass first” he insisted, cooing and fussing as he topped up the tumbler again.
“Thanks, that’s very kind.”
The Russian swallowed his vodka and smiled, “if two men cannot discuss business on a cold January morning over a bottle of vodka then we might as well all give up.”
It was difficult to disagree. I took my glass, drank and said nothing, enjoying the heat of the fire. It was as if Belov simply wanted to sit and make small-talk. We enjoyed a companionable silence for a minute, smoking our cigars and drinking vodka. As I’ve said, I like Russians.
I gazed at the fire again, the one illuminating that devilish triptych. Flames danced across new cherry wood, hissing and popping. Charred corners of envelopes and other papers lay in the grate. I let myself wonder what secrets had gone up in smoke for a moment but thought better of it.
“I’m going to tell you a story, Mister Winter” said the Russian finally.
“Please, call me Cal.”
“Of course, Cal, and you will call me Sergei Nikolayevich.”
I nodded at the compliment.
Sergei Nikolayevich exhaled deeply and opened the humidor. He plucked another cigar and lit it with a Dunhill lighter that functioned like a small flamethrower. Then, after he’d topped up our glasses again, he told me his story.
A month ago, Belov had been in his holiday home in Grand Cayman with his family. A Russian he knew from opposition politics arrived on Christmas Eve, told him he’d important news. Apparently this guy was a bit of a pain, always trying to tap Belov up for more money. “He told me that he had been approached by officers of the SVR, as an intermediary.”
“Why would Russian intelligence choose him?” I said. The Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR, is Russia’s version of MI6, and is meant to do the foreign intelligence stuff. The old-school KGB is now called the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii. This is the notorious FSB, which is like the mafia with cop badges and heavy-duty top cover from The Kremlin. The two organisations don’t enjoy good relations, especially as the FSB thinks it can do whatever it wants, anywhere it wants.
Belov waved his hand, “my contact’s brother’s best friend is in the SVR. Cal this is Russia, everybody knows somebody, I’m sure you understand.”
I understood. Russians loved rumours, the more complicated the better, and there was always an ‘impeccable’ source. This guy claimed that the SVR knew of an FSB plot to assassinate Belov. Furthermore, the operation was unprecedented in its scope and professionalism. Belov was told that he should expect to be dead very soon.
“And you believe this rumour?”
“Yes, absolutely” shrugged Belov, “I have made my own enquiries and corroborated the information to my satisfaction.”
The tip of my cigar glowed happily. “Sergei Nikolayevich, if someone’s trying to murder you, wouldn’t you be better off with a private detective? Or police? Better bodyguards, perhaps? This isn’t quite my area of … expertise. I’m not a protection officer.”
The Russian shook his head then hurled his vodka down his throat. “Bodyguards? I have dozens of them, ex-Spetnatz, 22nd SAS, former Paratroopers and Ghurkhas – the very best. Call in the Police? Perhaps … but it would only be as a last resort. But if I am being hunted by the FSB, an organisation that has assassins like my football team has world-class strikers then I want my own assassin: a professional like you, Mister Winter.”
I lowered my voice, “I’m not an assassin.”
Belov could have wired the room for sound for all I knew.
“Of course not!” he replied warmly, “and I am not a thief. You are a highly experienced private military consultant and I am a successful businessman. Now we have positioned our fig leaves just so, is that better?”
I looked at the painting above the fire. Heaven and Hell. Purgatory didn’t look that bad, “how much is this job worth to you?”
Sergei smiled, now we were no longer flirting and had moved straight to Third Base. “When my contacts in Moscow tell me that my would-be murderers are dead, I will pay The Firm fifteen million US dollars. Untraceable bearer bonds, naturally, unless you prefer some other equally discrete method of payment. All expenses up front in cash. You will also enjoy all the material assistance my business can covertly provide.”
I tried not to cough. My share of a fee like that might be enough to buy me out of The Life, get The Firm off my back. Maybe.
“Mister Winter?” said Belov impatiently.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about your offer. It’s acceptable, of course. Tell me, I know you are no friend of the Kremlin, but why you specifically, and why now?” My attention kept being drawn back to that damn triptych, the ancient scabs of cracked oil paint almost three-dimensional in the
shadows cast by the fire. My eyes followed Sergei’s, to the furthest panel where the devil was chomping merrily through a plateful of sinners. Heaven still looked safe but dull.
Belov’s eyes followed mine. He smiled, “reasons for the FSB to murder me? Take your pick! Have you not heard of the Shakuvo incident? My involvement in the affair after the accident helped bring down a number of powerful ex-Communists in the government. Russians have long memories. Or my opposition politics, I help fund most of the main parties.”
Shakuvo was the scene of a nuclear power station meltdown in the early 1990s. It was legendary in energy security circles: Mismanagement, corruption and cover-ups led to a major scandal in the immediate post-Communist regime. Belov, who worked in the industry, was credited with whistle-blowing on the affair. He came out of it a heroic figure, a man to be trusted to make policy on Russia’s oil and gas assets.
The Oligarch ran a hand across his shiny scalp, like he was looking for some hair. “So there is no shortage of reasons, but I suspect this latest attempt by the FSB on my life might be connected to Pieter Van Basten.”
“He’s the internet guy, right?” I said.
Pieter Van Basten was the geeky hacker genius behind a whistle-blowing website called forbiddenfacts.net. Anybody with a grudge and access to classified material could securely upload it to the site, Van Basten delighting in his notoriety. He’d leaked stuff on Afghanistan and Iraq, on US foreign policy, on the activities of naughty multinationals and snouts-in-the-trough politicians. He was currently living in the UK awaiting extradition to the US on hacking charges. The location of the forbiddenfacts.net server was a closely guarded secret, one every intelligence agency would kill to find out. The US National Security Agency couldn’t trace it, or GCHQ. Van Basten had made a monkey out of all of them, and they weren’t happy.
Sergei chuckled, “yes, you could say he’s ‘the internet guy’ in the same way Leonardo Da Vinci was ‘that painter.’ I am funding his legal campaign and for the past three years I’ve funded his online operation. I am, I suppose, the hidden hand behind forbiddenfacts.net.”
The Ninth Circle Page 2