The Ninth Circle

by Dominic Adler

  “If you say so Winter. You were commissioned as an officer after four years as an enlisted soldier. You served for a total of eleven and a half years. You were unable to achieve promotion to Major due to an inability to impress your superior officers and a tendency to shoot your mouth off. However, you were selected for Special Forces training. You failed.”

  “No, I failed Special Forces selection. I didn’t get as far as training,” I replied, trying to sound like I didn’t give a shit. In the wing mirror I saw Andy’s van two cars behind us.

  Turov waved a hand, “military semantics, is not important. You were discharged from the British army for assault and substance abuse. You completed operational Tours of Bosnia, Northern Ireland, Sierra Leone and three in Iraq. Joined Longbow Group private military company and worked in Iraq, Jordan, Israel and Lebanon … then you vanish. You reappear as an operator on The Firm seven years ago, initially sub-contracted as a CIA deniable asset.” Turov gave me a tight smile and accelerated along a bus lane, “you are described as an accomplished and professional killer, more thoughtful than the average mercenary thug.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere. You forgot to mention rehab, my Open University degree and the wine-tasting course I took last year in Umbria,” I shrugged, popping the top off of a cigar tube, “and my old man would be furious if you described him as ‘lower middle-class,’ he’s a working-class hero.”

  “He died eight years ago. We know about you,” she sniffed, “we also know about your history of mental illness. I didn’t say you were an ideal candidate for this job, Winter.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “It’s a shame you don’t appear to know as much about the important stuff.”

  She arched an eyebrow, “such as?”

  “Why it was a homeless army veteran that tried to murder Sergei Belov yesterday. When we followed him to a squat another homeless bloke attacked us with a knife. The first guy we found, the one who attacked Belov, had his throat cut.”

  She fixed me with dark, almond-shaped eyes, “was there anything else?”

  “A sign by the body: It said O creatures foolish, how great is that ignorance that harms you!”

  “Govno!” she spat, “Fyodor Volk! He is obsessed with Dante.”

  I lowered the electric window to let my cigar smoke waft out of the car. Outside, on Chelsea Embankment, police were carrying out an anti-terrorism check. An illuminated sign said TERRORISM: SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE, like Al Qaeda were a problem akin to road works. Armed cops in baggy fatigues milled about, sniffer dogs darting excitedly in the cars chosen for searching. My handgun suddenly felt hot in its holster. Looking up I saw riflemen on the roofs of nearby buildings. A helicopter buzzed overhead. I smiled at a pretty cop directing traffic into a chicane, where a search area had been established. She ignored me.

  “Fyodor who?” I said.

  Alisa Turov eyed the armoured and helmeted firearms officers warily as we were waved on. She accelerated towards the Houses of Parliament, where fires burnt from a demonstration on College Green. “Volk is a madman. The FSB’s most precious asset when it comes to strategic targeted killing. But this doesn’t make sense …”

  “Strategic targeted killing” I laughed, “I’ve heard wet-work called lots of things, but that’s a first.”

  “I am serious. Volk can arrange for any man to be killed. I think he could even take a high value target like a US President if he put his mind to it.”

  “Alisa, you’re not making any sense. Who is this guy?”

  “I will explain.” And, as we crawled through the central London traffic, hail whipping across the streets like bullets, she told me about Fyodor Volk.

  Volk was from a small town near Shakuvo, in the Tatarstan region of central Russia. This was near the power plant where Sergei Belov made his name uncovering the scandal after the nuclear reactor there went into meltdown. Russia had another mini-Chernobyl on its hands, and the incompetence and corruption of the staff at the plant had become the stuff of legend. Fyodor’s father, an engineer, died in the initial accident and his mother died of radiation sickness a year later. Even now, Shakuvo was a forbidden hot zone, only accessible to scientists and the military.

  “You’d have thought that Belov’s role in the Shakuvo affair might make Volk think twice about taking him as a mark” I said, “ungrateful bastard.”

  “He wouldn’t care less: his file makes yours look like Mother Teresa’s: Volk is a criminally-insane sociopath with an acute narcissistic personality disorder,” shrugged Turov, “I doubt he cares either way, although of course these traits made him a sensation in the FSB.”

  “You’ve got a file on Mother Teresa?”

  “We have a file on everybody. We were so busy with our files we forgot to notice we’d lost the Cold War.” She went on to explain that Volk moved to Moscow to live with his aunt, the authorities losing track of him in the mid-1990’s, “it was a chaotic time in Russia, some records were destroyed including what we suspect was Volk’s criminal record. He reappeared at the FSB training academy where he was fast-tracked onto V Department.”

  I’d heard about the FSB’s ‘V’ Department, or Vympel. “Covert dirty tricks, right?”

  “Correct. But Volk wasn’t the usual commando type. He did a tour of Chechnya as a field interrogator and special surveillance operative then disappeared again. The official story was that he was fired for discipline offences, but that was just his cover. In fact he went to the Covert Psychological and Unorthodox Special Warfare School at Makhachkala where he was he was part of the Petrushka Programme.”

  I knew that Petrushka was a puppet, the Russian equivalent of Mister Punch, the ugly wife-beating mannequin beloved of small children. “How do you know all this stuff?” I said.

  “It is my job. My official role is overseas agent development, but I am also involved in the FSB monitoring programme. One day we will see them all in court, or in their caskets. I am collecting material for that day. Trust me, studying the FSB is like watching scorpions in a jar,” smiled Turov, “Petrushka is one of their dirtiest secrets.”

  I finished my cigar. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “It might yet,” she replied.

  Turov explained that in the 1960s the KGB trialled advanced interrogation techniques involving suggestion, hypnotism and coercive persuasion. They brought in Chinese army experts who had used the techniques during the Korean War. They went on to experiment with drugs, sexual grooming, hypnotism and extreme religious and cult activities as coercive tools to make the weak-willed do their bidding. The results were mixed, and the programme was almost cut at the end of the Cold War. But the FSB retained it and Fyodor Volk was their star recruit, showing uncanny powers of persuasion and manipulation.

  “Volk is apparently extremely physically attractive,” said Turov, “he is bisexual and uses this to his advantage. He will fuck anyone if it is to his advantage.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I shrugged.

  “I didn’t say there was. There are no photographs of him in existence, so I have to take this on trust.”

  Volk’s first subject was an educationally subnormal military recruit of unnatural physical strength. Given to the FSB officer as a pet, the recruit murdered and cannibalized his family at Volk’s direction before committing suicide when his master ordered it.

  “Volk was eventually sent back to Chechnya” said Turov, her face grim, “to groom young rebel prisoners to go back and kill their leaders. Then he went to the Baltic States and set up a religious cult that poisoned anti-Russian activists. Then he disappears somewhere in South Africa and goes freelance, possibly for white supremacists. The FSB retained him for special cases.”

  I shook my head, “it sounds incredible.”

  “Yes it is” agreed Turov, “but Volk is a glass cannon: his operations are clean, because there is always a scapegoat. The assassinations are usually attributed to stalkers or lunatics. But his operations are fragile. They take a long ti
me to put into place, and can be easily disrupted until they reach critical mass. So as I say, he is a strategic asset. The decision to use such a precious resource is a major one to take …”

  “How much time does it take for Volk to plan a hit?”

  “Up to two years?” she said, “going by previous operations.”

  “So the FSB could have been planning the hit on Belov for two years?”

  “Perhaps, it is difficult to say. But it is not a recent decision if Volk is at the stage where his killers are operational.”

  “So what’s the deal with the other hit team, the Spetzgruppa?”

  “Until fifteen minutes ago I thought they were the only unit deployed against Belov,” she said, “and they are definitely here. Misha Baburin is real, the FSB’s prime deniable UK asset. They do not have the mark of Volk’s handiwork. We are meeting some people at my office, they can help.”

  “Who?” I said sharply.

  Turov smiled, “contacts I have cultivated here in the UK. Please, Cal, we are partners now right? You must trust me.”

  My hand brushed the pancake holster against my kidney where the SIG was tucked away. I couldn’t see Andy’s van behind me and hoped he hadn’t lost me in the traffic. In any case, the spare GPS dog collar sewn into my jacket would help him track me. We spent the rest of the journey in silence, listening to the classical music. I’m more of a Rolling Stones man, but I picked up some Mahler and I think Strauss.

  “I used to play the violin,” said Alisa suddenly.

  “Ah, a classic Russian over-achiever I suppose?” I teased. “Ballet, athletics, marksmanship, top marks at University, off to the SVR academy, best recruit of your syndicate and groomed for overseas operations …”

  “How did you know?” she said, face reddening.

  “Just a guess,” I smiled.

  Turov’s office was in a small block near the American School. We parked and went inside, stamping snow from our boots on a coconut mat. A bored blonde receptionist sat by a fan heater, drinking tea and reading a Russian fashion magazine. Opposite her, trying not to look at me was a dangerous-looking little bloke wearing jeans and a windproof jacket. He was wearing a clear gel earpiece and leather gloves. He was an operator of some description.

  “Are you setting me up?” I whispered to Turov.

  “Grow up, Winter.”

  I followed the SVR officer up two flights of stairs, and into her office. A sign on the door read: Inter-Russia IT Solutions. The office was set up as a conference room with an open-plan workspace near the window. The walls were decorated with tourist-style posters of Russian attractions, the Onion Domes of the Kremlin and the Peterhof in Saint Petersburg.

  Two men were sat at a table. The first was in his fifties, overweight and wearing a dark woollen suit. His deep-set eyes, encased in grey bags, were watery behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. He had a face like a man with three ex-wives and a bad divorce lawyer. The second guy was an ex-army officer. I was one so I know. He was in his late thirties, radiated confidence like a power station and wore red corduroys, suede brogues and a gingham checked shirt. The pinky ring and G10 watch with a claret-and-navy Brigade of Guards strap completed the look.

  “This is the one I was telling you about,” said Turov to the two men. She poured coffee. In front of them was a plate of biscuits, which neither had touched.

  I helped myself to a chocolate cookie and smiled.

  The older man coughed politely. His accent was a gentle Edinburgh burr. “I’m not sure we should be meeting Captain Winter,” he said, looking at Turov.

  “Yes,” brayed the ex-army officer, whose accent was exactly what you’d expect, “there’s a … conduit for dealing with his organisation. And it isn’t us. This could be difficult.”

  Neither of them had acknowledged me.

  “Hi, I’m Cal and I’m an alcoholic,” I said.

  Turov rolled her eyes and spooned sugar into her brew, “you MI6 and your protocols and ‘conduits.’ Is bullshit. This is the situation we are in: Belov has hired this man to protect him by killing the FSB team, he is talking to me, he has information … what else matters? What else do you want?”

  When Belov said MI6 both of the men bristled.

  The army-looking bloke hissed, stood up and strode around the room. And it wasn’t because the correct term is ‘SIS’ either. “We’re from the FCO,” he said lamely, “and we aren’t exactly in a position to negotiate with … this sort of asset.”

  “FCO?” I laughed, “sure, and I’m the Avon Lady.” I helped myself to another biscuit. My Blackberry buzzed in my pocket.

  I checked the message, which was from Oz:

  HOSTILES ON THE PLOT. EX-SF.

  The spooks had brought back-up, which was to be expected.

  I sent a reply:

  NO PROBLEM, SIS INCREMENTS.

  The lardy intelligence officer looked into his coffee, then sadly at the biscuits. He was either pondering my status as an occasional MI6 deniable or his waistline. “Well now we’re here,” he said, “it’s probably best we have a preliminary discussion with him, download him then take advice as to the way forward.”

  “Yes,” agreed ex-army guy, running a hand through his thin sandy hair. He treated me to a smile, revealing a couple of sharp yellow teeth.

  The Scotsman finally looked at me. “I’m Marcus,” he lied, offering a pudgy hand.

  “I’m Chris,” nodded the ex-army officer, blushing.

  “Alisa, what are these gentlemen from the, er, FCO doing here?” I said, taking off my coat.

  Chris looked at the handgun strapped to my belt warily.

  “I am working with them on the Belov operation” she said, “they want him alive as much as you do. All of us have the same objective: ensuring that Sergei Belov lives and that the FSB plot fails.”

  I sat down and sipped my coffee. “OK then, show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

  Marcus chuckled, his shoulders shaking gently, “fair enough Captain Winter.”

  “Call me Cal, please” I said easily.

  “Of course. Alisa contacted us six weeks ago. It clearly isn’t in HMG’s interest to have Russian commandos assassinating, especially in the UK, and it’s not like we’re in any position to declare war on them is it?”

  “You’ve let them get away with it before,” I shrugged. We all knew that.

  “We are where we are” he replied, “and they do own all the gas.”

  I like a man who sees the world the way it is, rather than the way he’d like it to be.

  “Besides” said Chris, “Belov has something we want and we won’t get it if he’s dead. So luckily for him there are a number of reasons why we want to protect him.”

  I dunked a biscuit into my coffee and popped it into my mouth. “I’ve been to Sergei’s house. It’s not exactly crawling with police protection.”

  “Oh, it’s been offered” sighed Marcus, “but he won’t have it. He’s not wanting for bodyguards. He can afford anything we could give him and more besides. No, we’re protecting him the way we know best, by managing the opposition.”

  “Managing?” I laughed, “I love the euphemisms you lot use. And if you don’t mind me asking, why isn’t Box involved in this? Mainland UK operations are MI5 and police property. Ain’t you trespassing?”

  The two spies looked at each other.

  Marcus finally took a biscuit and nibbled it. “There are some … inter-departmental issues.”

  “Is same in Russia” said Turov approvingly, “never tell other agency jack-shit about your plans. They will fuck it up for you, to make themselves look good.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Marcus’s face as he finished the cookie.

  There was a tactical silence, which I chose to break just to get things moving. Spies, after all, are civil servants. If you don’t kick them up the arse they’ll just schedule meetings until it’s too late. “You want Pieter Van Basten’s server full of dirt on the Russian government then?” I said,
just to get a reaction.

  “How on earth do you know about that?” said Chris, eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, Sergei told me over vodka and cigars.”

  The ex-army officer sat forward in his chair, “go on …”

  “I suspect we’ve already over-stepped the mark” said Marcus gently, “Chris, we’re not in a position to task Captain Winter. We need to take advice on this matter.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. All this talk of conduits and tasking was new to me. I took my orders from Harry, who told me very little. I saw a rare chance to find out more about how The Firm worked. If I knew how it worked, then maybe I could escape.

  “I’m sure you appreciate the need for discretion,” said Marcus, suddenly sounding like a kindly highland GP, “for your benefit and ours.”

  Turov gave a dirty laugh. “Is obvious, Cal. These guys are not responsible for using your organisation. They have different responsibilities and they don’t want to tread on toes. There will be a sterile corridor between you and these two, MI6 will have a deniable officer who tasks your boss. So they are worried about contaminating your deniability, and theirs.”

  “For Christ’s sake” spat Chris, “Alisa …”

  “A secret is something a spy tells one person at a time” said the Russian, “and I’m in a hurry to resolve this. My organisation is impatient. I only tell him what is obvious, he is not completely stupid.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence” I said, “but why should I help MI6? Belov has offered me more money than you’ll ever get authorised to pay.”

  “Really, Winter?” said Alisa, “he offers you a king’s ransom?”

  “It’s a lot of money,” I said uneasily.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Where is the only place you find free cheese?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged.

  “A mousetrap,” she smiled.

  “Exactly, Winter. And without our help you might never find the FSB team,” nodded Marcus, “you might never have top-cover for any illegality you might need to indulge in. Leaving the country could be difficult for you too. The Firm might even find itself off of our independent covert assets list …”