“Ah” I said, “who knows this?” I was glad that Belov understood the need to be candid with me.
“Clearly the FSB does” said the Russian, “because two months ago one of their agents emailed Pieter almost a terabyte of classified data, addressed to me personally. This is too much of a coincidence. It is a plot of some description.”
“What sort of data?” I said.
Sergei waved his hand, trailing sweet smoke around his face “much of it is still encrypted, but the gist of the recoverable material is internal KGB and then FSB intelligence on senior Russian government figures and their entirely predictable proclivities: corruption, sexual depravity, murder, sponsorship of terrorist activity, identities of overseas agents and proxies, the supply of weapons of mass destruction to failed states …”
“And there’s only a terabyte?” I said.
“There’s probably more” he laughed, “there must be, there’s stuff I know about the bastards that we haven’t decrypted yet.”
I nodded as Sergei re-filled my glass, “If I agreed to help you, where would I start?”
“Here” said the Oligarch, pushing a cream-coloured envelope towards me, “the details of the undeclared SVR rezident in London. This officer is aware of the operation to kill me. She is actively unsympathetic to the FSB and their plot. There is a clique within SVR who feel this way, and I am happy for us to make allies.”
“And?” I said, looking at my watch, a battered army issue G10. “Like I said, Sergei Nikolayevich, I’m not a detective.”
“Find this SVR officer, help her discover who the FSB has sent to London” said Belov, “it is that simple, for a man like you, Mister Winter. The hard work has already been done.”
I looked at the end of my cigar then stubbed it out in a square steel ashtray. “Please be more specific.” I like to make clients spell it out. Just so there are no misunderstandings later.
“I don’t want you to ask them to go home nicely over coffee and fucking cake!” he barked, “locate and kidnap these bastards. Torture them until they tell you what you need to know then execute them. Make these degenerates fuck off back under their stones, teach them to leave me alone.”
“With respect, I’m not so sure …”
“Listen to me” hissed Belov suddenly, “there’s something else in that file: the details of crimes committed by CIA deniable operatives called NEOPHYTES,” said Belov, a smile splitting his waxy face, “dirty business: eliminating human obstacles to the American anti-missile programme in Eastern Europe, all forgotten now, of course. Ancient history. Would that be of interest to you?”
“Perhaps” I said, making my poker face.
“Should I wish it, much of this material will end up in the newspapers and pored over by international law enforcement. Maybe you will find yourself on an FSB targeting list or at your Old Bailey facing multiple murder charges or extradition to Ukraine perhaps? Yes, that would be fun. Luckily Pieter is pragmatic enough to publish only what I tell him, lest he finds himself spending the next thirty years in an American Supermax prison.”
I looked back at the painting of the devil, the vodka and heat of the room making me sweat. “You did say fifteen million US, right?”
The fire crackled as a grinning Sergei tossed a fresh log onto it. He pulled another bottle of Zyr from the refrigerator to celebrate our deal.
“Durakam zakon ne pisan!” he roared, emptying his glass.
I knew the Russian saying. There is no law written for fools.
I wasn’t sure who he meant, but I drank anyway.
CHAPTER TWO
I looked at the envelope Sergei Belov had given me. My head was fuzzy from the vodka we’d put away, stomach queasy from the burger I’d eaten on my way back to my apartment to soak it up. Keeping my eye on the envelope, as if it would crawl away of its own volition, I switched on my pointlessly expensive coffee machine.
It was early afternoon, snow-laden clouds parked over the Thames. My apartment looked out over Hammersmith Bridge, a queue of traffic inching across as it headed into town. The place had a flat screen TV the size of a cinema, and a kitchen that cost as much as a new BMW. It had gadgets I still hadn’t worked out how to switch on. You couldn’t hope for a more luxurious or well-appointed cell.
Putting the letter to one side, I took off my tie and mooched up to my office, a domed mezzanine overlooking the river like the turret on an old Lancaster bomber. I sat at my desk and tapped the password into my laptop. I opened my email and found a message from Sam. Sam’s husband, Clarkie, was my best friend in the army. He was my platoon sergeant when he died in Iraq. I’d promised to look after her and the kids if anything happened. Every month I sent money, no questions asked. For Christmas it was eight grand in cash. She seemed happy enough about it, seeing as Sam blames me for Clarkie’s death. Being British, she’s too polite to tell me, but I can see it in her eyes.
Personally I think Tony Blair owes her an apology too, but that’s by-the-by.
The email from Sam contained a message from the kids, saying thanks for their presents. There was picture of them in their small back garden, making a snowman. Jack and Lucy. It seemed wrong that they’d never know their father, but that’s war.
I smiled.
They were good kids. I didn’t see them much, it was awkward and I didn’t want The Firm to know about my private life. They might view it as another weakness, something to exploit. Sam and the kids lived down in Kent, the Medway badlands where Clarkie grew up, one of the places where our regiment recruited. I’d offered to buy them somewhere bigger in a nicer area, but Sam politely said no. She wanted to be near her family.
After coffee and a hot shower I opened the concealed safe in my bedroom. Inside was a secure satellite phone, ID papers and passports in three different identities, a vacuum-packed bundle of used twenty pound notes and a suppressed .40 Walther PPS handgun. There was also the battered cardboard box with my medals and medication in. I pulled out the phone and called Harry. He answered on the third ring. This meant it was OK to talk.
“OK, I’m out of the meeting with The Russian,” I said.
“What’s the job?”
“A Tier One: Unknown number of targets. He’s prepared to pay fifteen million US in bearer bonds.”
Harry grunted. “That’s a stupid amount of money, even for an oligarch. Bearer bonds are acceptable, though, if he insists.”
“Yes, but it’s carnage he wants, Harry, on the FSB.” Outside, fat flakes of snow began to fall. I outlined Belov’s orders and told him about the sealed envelope.
“Leave it to me, Cal” said Harry, “I’ll explain to his people that this sort of request is …”
“He knows about NEOPHYTE. He threatened to leak it if I didn’t cooperate.”
“How?”
“It’s the internet whistle-blower, Van Basten. It’s been leaked to him, along with a load of other stuff. So I don’t see where I’ve much choice, unless of course I remove Belov for the FSB, let them send their goons home. It looks like you’re not the only one with some dirt on me. It must be a growth industry.”
“Don’t even think about it. Belov has friends up in the stratosphere, plus a small army of bodyguards. He donates to all the big political parties.”
I was no stranger to blackmail. I only joined The Firm because they know about something I did, something that would put me in prison for life. And the only reason they know is because I got drunk and told someone a secret. The Firm promises not to let slip my misdemeanour as long as I play ball, and when they think it’s time they’ll let me go. Well, that’s what the guy who ‘recruited’ me said afterwards.
Harry was moaning about the job as I opened the fridge and thought about making a sandwich, then rifled through some pizza menus instead. I interrupted him. “Why doesn’t he get his stratospheric buddies to sort this drama out for him then?”
I could almost hear Harry’s brain-box chugging away. “They won’t want to get their hands dirty with
Russian house-keeping. Who do you want with you on this?”
“So we’re doing it?” I said.
“Looks like it,” he grumbled.
“I want Andy and Oz.”
“Agreed” handler replied, “they’re both in rotation, send me the number you’ll be using, I’ll get them to contact you within twenty-four hours.”
“Roger” I said, stuck between the proletarian hot meaty pizza and the sophisticated roasted veggie and pesto one. “Can you speak to some contacts and find out the score with Pieter Van Basten?”
Harry sounded cagey. “Perhaps, but depending how this pans out there are people I’d prefer didn’t know The Firm was making itself busy around this.”
“Fair enough, but anything the intelligence fairy could leave under my pillow would be appreciated.”
“Sure. Keep your head down, Cal.”
“I always do” I said, putting the satellite phone down. I’d decided that I’d go for both pizzas and dialled the order in on my Blackberry. I made another coffee, sat on the sofa, and put the Rolling Stones’ Tattoo You on the stereo. Feeling an early hangover I looked at the wine-rack. This was the part of my cell I’d furnished personally, and it was well-stocked. My drinking is a bit like the questions on Mastermind: I’ve started so I’ll finish. Draining my coffee I chose a bottle of Margaux. Then I pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded sheet of high quality foolscap. The note was hand-written in spidery writing. Pulling out a digital camera I took a picture of the text before I’d even read it, and scanned it onto my laptop. E-mailing it on an encrypted account to Harry I sat back down and found a notepad and pen. Then I read the note.
There was a Russian name, with a telephone number, email address, vehicle registration index and postcodes. Somebody had done their homework and I wondered if I could find out who Belov used for surveillance. I read the note, committing as many details as I could to memory before putting it back in its envelope and locking it in the safe in a clean plastic zip-lock bag. My pizza arrived. I ate it and felt sick, and crawled into bed.
I slept badly, tormented by a recurring dream where an old NEOPHYTE target, Colonel Petrovych, was with me in Iraq. Petrovych was dead, of course, his frozen corpse sitting next to me in my Land Rover. Clarkie was in the back. I’d done basic training with Clarkie, before I became an officer, and we were as thick as thieves. Petrovych’s corpse was still wearing his snow-dusted jacket, despite the desert heat. It started laughing. Petrovych’s dead eyes bore into mine as more American bombs dropped into the desert around us.
Friendly fire.
That was what really happened. Clarkie died in a friendly fire incident when a Yank warplane dropped a two-thousand pound bomb on us.
Groaning, I woke up bathed in booze-scented sweat. Fighting the urge to drink, I stood in my wet-room, turning the shower hot-then-cold, letting the water pummel me sober. It was just gone 04:00, the witching hour where I’ve sometimes sat looking at my gun, thought seriously about putting the barrel in my mouth and pulling the trigger.
I shaved, took my pills and made too-sugary coffee. I fixed eggs, bacon and fried bread, shovelling it in my mouth. Carbs and fat and sugar and antidepressants: a murderer’s breakfast.
Switching on my laptop, I waited for the encrypted connection to access the internet. Via a proxy server I searched for forbiddenfacts.net. The website looked trendily low-tech, black courier typewriter font on a plain white background. There was an appeal for funds to run the site and pay for Van Basten’s legal war chest, then file upon file of stolen Government data to search through. Today’s special feature on the homepage included a document claiming to name every foreign agent working for Pakistani ISI in Europe, proving that Van Basten’s interests didn’t include making friends and influencing people. No mention of NEOPHYTE. Well, not yet.
Opening a link about the man, it revealed he was idling his time away in a Wiltshire mansion owned by Sir Evan Sands while fighting extradition to the USA. I’d heard of Sands, a famous tech-industry figure who’d made a fortune from e-commerce. He was now a successful financier, his private equity companies snapping up and turning over what was left of the European public sector for PFI deals. A quick search revealed that Sands’ group of companies were co-owned, vicariously, by Sergei Nikolayevich Belov via a Caymans based hedge-fund.
I re-read the note inside the envelope Belov had given me. The name was Colonel Alisa Turov, allegedly of the SVR. There were two addresses for her, one a serviced office in St. John’s Wood, the other a flat in Battersea. The author of the note had written: TUROV’S role in London is to disrupt FSB operations and build relationships with British intelligence personnel. She represents a faction within SVR especially hostile to the FSB. Her professional skills include special operations, agent-running and sabotage. She has operated successfully in Chechnya, Asia and Europe.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, well-worn boots and a zip-up sweater. From the safe I took the wallet containing ID for Adrian Clay, my alter ego. Adrian works an energy security consultant in High-Risk, Low-Infrastructure environments. I like him: he’s nothing like me and has a great credit rating. He even has five hundred quid cash, folded neatly inside his Mulberry wallet.
My Blackberry chirruped. It was 06:30. I answered it on the third ring.
“Mister Winter?” said a clipped female voice.
“How can I help?” I said.
“It’s Melissa Compton from Mister Belov’s office. We met yesterday.”
“Of course, Melissa, how are you?”
“I’m fine thank you” she replied, “Sergei asked me if there was anything else you needed.”
“I need an advance for equipment and stuff” I said, chancing my arm, “fifty grand should see me right for now.”
“Of course” said Melissa calmly, “cash or electronic transfer?”
I gave her the details of my personal Swiss account. It’s the one The Firm knows nothing about. She agreed to get it paid in immediately, via three holding companies in Belize.
“OK thanks,” I said. It meant I could send Sam and the kids a bit more next month.
Next up were the text messages from Andy and Oz, the other two operators I’d be working with. I’m the cell leader, mainly because I’m the only ex-commissioned officer on The Firm’s roster of field operators, and The Firm is nothing if it isn’t a private army.
My commission also helps balance out the fact that I’m also the only non-Special Forces man on the list. Andy and Oz are both twenty-two carat, referenced ex-UKSF. Our team of six is divided into two cells of three operators each. It’s always been that way.
Andy served as an airborne combat engineer, then with 22 SAS before joining the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, the SRR. Andy once told me over a beer that The Firm has evidence linking him to five armed robberies in Manchester and Liverpool. He didn’t sound as bothered as he should have been.
Oz is an ex-Royal Marine who made Colour Sergeant in the SBS, the Special Boat Service. This, I like to tease him, is like a poor man’s SAS but with dinghies. He’s a sneaky bastard, and we have a few issues, but we get on more than we fall out. Ex-SF operators are like that with those of us who never made the grades for The Blades. Oz wouldn’t tell me what The Firm had on him, and I’d been unable to find out.
The ribbing gets old after a while, that I’m not ex-Special Forces, but generally the guys go along with what I suggest. I’m glad they’re on my side. The rest of our team, Guy, Eddie and Al, were out of the UK. I didn’t know where and didn’t want to. They were even gnarlier than Oz and Andy.
We agreed to meet at a cafe in Bermondsey at eleven.
Before I collected my car I pulled on my old waxed jacket and went for a walk by the river. The world was shades of silver and white, frozen slush and mud. I enjoyed a cigar, a Romeo Y Julietta No. 2, and watched some head-cases row upstream towards Putney in the gloom. The things people do for a hobby.
Heading for my crappy old Volvo, I got ready to go out and plan a kidnapping.
CHAPTER THREE
Oz pushed a piece of bacon around his plate and shook his head. “This job is shit, Cal. I can’t believe Harry signed off on it.”
“Are you gonna eat that bacon?” said Andy, constructing a sandwich with our leftovers.
I watched Oz drop the scrap of food onto Andy’s plate. “Look” I said, “Belov has some dirt on me. Stuff I did when I first joined The Firm. So I’m in whatever happens. The pay’s good and it’s a London-based gig.”
“Everybody’s got some dirt on you,” said Oz, looking out of the cafe window. Snow was falling on black, slush-coated streets. Opposite the cafe some drunks were sat outside a betting shop, shivering as they tanked cans of Special Brew. “Call me ungrateful, but I’d prefer an out-of-London based job right now.” He took his fleece hat off, revealing a cropped head, still tanned from his last job somewhere sunny.
“I’m easy” said Andy, “improvise, adapt, overcome and all that.” He stuffed the sandwich into his mouth and grinned as he chomped on it. He brushed crumbs from his gingery moustache.
“That’s the spirit” I said, taking a sip of his tea.
“So you’re being blackmailed, what for this time?” said Oz.
Andy coughed theatrically then slurped some tea, “I don’t want to know.”
“You really don’t” I agreed, “but the money is rock-star.”
“No offence Cal, I’m only in because Harry ordered me.” Oz stirred sugar into his tea and fixed me with narrow green eyes.
“None taken” I said, “but I asked for you specifically.”
The ex-SBS man’s smile was tight, “don’t add insult to injury Captain Winter.”
“Fair enough, Colour Sergeant Osborne.”
Andy looked around. The cafe was in a side street off of Jamaica Road, and apart from us there was only a bored-looking Eastern European waitress and two bin men having a late breakfast. “So, where’s this Russian bird live?” he said.
The Ninth Circle Page 3