The Ninth Circle

by Dominic Adler

  Then I did it.

  “I shot the fucker, y’know” I slurred drunkenly, literally shouting in his ear over the pounding pop music.

  “Good drills,” laughed Bishop.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “What?”

  I told him the story. Keeping the secret was like having a bottle of fizzy soda you’ve shaken too much – the top has to come off eventually. I felt warm and happy as I got it off my chest.

  Bishop smiled and looked in his glass. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he lied.

  I’m still sure it was an unfortunate coincidence that Bishop was a talent scout for The Firm. His brief was to look for suitable operators on the private military circuit, people who were vulnerable and could be persuaded to give it all up for a monastic life of ultra-secret wet-work.

  Bishop gave me the good news over lunch in London a month later. I was off to Ukraine, as a NEOPHYTE. He apologized as he showed me the statement he’d give the police if I played up, and the mobile telephone data linked to my mobile. It put me near Powell on the Borders on the day he was murdered. He also explained that they’d accessed my medical records. “Nobody will believe you if you want to return the serve, make allegations about us. You’ve been sectioned once under the Mental Health Act. You’ve been in rehab, you’re damaged goods. It’s a shame, the way things have panned out.”

  “Fuck you,” I growled.

  Bishop’s smile was almost sympathetic. He’d heard it all before. “For what it’s worth, Cal” he said, jabbing his fork into a gobbet of rare, bloody beef, “by and large, The Firm is on the side of the angels and the money is good. You might even enjoy it.”

  Like I said, Bishop was a liar. And I was a murderer. We’ve all got feet of clay.

  “So now you know who you’ve just hired” I shrugged, finishing the story. I left Marcus standing in my flat, face grim. There was nothing else left to say.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Oz picked me up near Hammersmith station and headed east, out of town and towards the Essex coast. Despite my lack of sleep I was feeling OK, the prospect of action firing adrenalin around my body.

  My phone bleeped. Harry had sent me some intelligence on Black Hall Farm, on an encrypted email account. I skimmed them and decided they could wait until the briefing.

  Oz looked well-rested, his small pale eyes fixed on the road.

  I sipped a cardboard cup of coffee Oz had got for me, “I asked for suppressed weapons.”

  “Roger” nodded Oz, “we’ve got three MP5 SD4s and a suppressed M6 rifle with all the toys on.”

  “Pistols?”

  Oz nodded “sure, but only the ones at my place, two of them are clean.”

  “That’ll have to do,” I said.

  By mid-morning the shooting in Holloway made the news. The BBC reported a shooting at a brothel linked to people-traffickers and someone had leaked the details of the Georgian mafia connection to the press. The police had arrested two men linked to Eastern European crime in Enfield. Baburin’s name wasn’t mentioned, only that three males were found murdered from gunshot wounds. Luckily a Premiership footballer had been arrested for rape, which kept the incident comfortably on page seven of the papers.

  “That should keep them busy for a bit,” said Oz gratefully.

  We got to Oz’s cottage late morning. Andy’s battered Ford Transit was parked outside, the ex-SRR man sitting in the front reading the newspaper. “Morning” he said, getting out of the cab “it’s snowing for a change.”

  “It’s a weather front from Russia,” I said.

  “Like everything else in this cake-and-arse party,” grumbled Oz, traipsing through the snow to the back of the van. Inside, under the hardboard floor panels, was a tarpaulin-wrapped bundle containing the weapons and equipment.

  We were unloading the van when a black VW Golf bumped down the track towards the cottage. My hand went to my holster, Andy sliding an assault rifle from his tool bag.

  “It’s OK” said Oz, “it’s Turov.”

  Alisa parked next to my Volvo. I saw the sticker for a hire car company in the window of her VW. “Privet,” she said brightly, like we were going on a family day out. She wore black Gore-Tex leggings, walking boots and a green hooded North Face jacket. “I looked at the map” she said, “why have we travelled north to go back south again?”

  “Our equipment is in there,” I said pointing to the cottage. Beyond was the sea, flat and grey, the horizon merging with the sky.

  “Plus its lovely this time of year out here,” laughed Andy.

  We went inside and sat in the small kitchen. Oz built a fire. Andy whistled tunelessly while he made sandwiches and tea. Alisa nodded her approval, pulling chocolate and a flask from her rucksack.

  I opened up an Ordnance Survey map of Essex. My plan was to put in an assault in the early hours, late enough to ensure they’d be tucked up in bed and early enough to give us a few hours of darkness to exfil. The farm was east of Southminster, on the coast. The landscape was flat: frozen fields and muddy farmland interspersed with hedgerows and small copses of trees. I cleared my throat and tapped the map, “the nearest inhabited buildings to Black Hall Farm are two kilometres away in every direction. There’s a tiny local police station, the nearest armed cops would have to motor down here from Colchester I’d imagine.”

  “I’ll dial in some moody 999 bollocks or a bomb threat before we go in” drawled Andy, it will keep the Boys in Blue busy.”

  “I like it” grinned Oz, “I mean, Essex must be the number one terrorist target in the UK.”

  Alisa ignored them, pulling a tablet computer from her rucksack and opening a file of high-resolution images on the screen. “Courtesy of your excellent GCHQ” she smiled, “taken yesterday morning.”

  The farm was a ramshackle pile surrounded by a cluster of barns, out-buildings and a mobile home. The back of the farmhouse had clearly been up-dated with a smart red-brick extension.

  “Baburin used this new part of the building to live in” said Alisa, tracing a finger across the screen, “the barns and shacks have three vehicles parked outside, and on the imagery you can see two men stood by the mobile home.”

  The detail on the satellite photos was crystal clear. Two men wearing hooded winter field jackets stood in the snow by the trailer. One was holding something to his ear, the other clearly smoking.

  “One road in, one road out” said Andy happily. “Why don’t we lay up an ambush on it and flush them out, set up a kill zone here and a cut-off there?” He pointed to the rutted farm track, some half a kilometre long that met the single-track road leading to Southminster.

  “It’s not a bad idea” nodded Oz, “but if we want to contain the fire-fight, make sure we don’t attract attention, then maybe we need to take them out in the buildings.”

  “I agree” said Alisa, “let us take them inside.”

  “Yeah” I said, “but Andy’s got a point. We leave one shooter to cover the road in any case: anything trying to leave the plot gets slotted.”

  “Sure” said Oz, “who do you want in there?”

  “Andy” I said. We were all good rifle shots, and Oz had been a sniper’s course instructor in the Marines, but Andy was the most patient and skilled surveillance monkey I’d met. The farmland was like anywhere in Antrim or Armagh, where he’d learnt his trade in ‘The Det’, the secretive army surveillance unit. In the days before we were all shipped off to hot, sandy places.

  “OK” Andy grunted, disappointed he wouldn’t be in on the assault.

  “Rifles: we’ve got a silenced M6” said Oz.

  “Yeah, why not?” said the ex-SRR man, cheering up now there was some hardware to play with.

  We talked through the plan. We were the expecting six FSB Spetzgruppa commandos and maybe some of Baburin’s lackeys. There were four of us, well-armed with the element of surprise.

  We waited for Andy to say something. He looked alternatively at the satellite imagery and my map. Then he dran
k his tea and rolled a cigarette.

  “Go on then” said Oz, “as you can imagine, I’m on the edge of my seat.”

  “He is like my uncle, back home” said Turov.

  “What, a silent-but-deadly hunter?” said Andy with a lop-sided grin.

  “No, he has dementia” she laughed.

  “I love being abused and humiliated” he roared, “marry me!”

  “Tell me your plan, crazy person, I then think about it” said the SVR officer.

  “I’ve got night vision kit and PRRs in the van” said Andy, his grimy finger pointing at the map. “See this copse of bushes and pine trees? It runs parallel to the end of the track and it’s on high ground. So it gives me a good view over the farm and the road in both directions. I’ll go in as soon as I can and CTR from there at dusk.”

  “Are you sure you can Close Target Recce that close?” I said. Andy was talking about sneaking right into the farm and taking a look.

  The lanky Mancunian looked offended. “It’s me, Cal, for fuck’s sake! When I’m done I’ll take my post with the rifle at the cut-off as per your plan.”

  Oz held his hands up, “he’s right, he can do it. Remember that job in Estonia?”

  Last year we’d cut the brakes on some Mafia kingpin’s car near Maardu. Andy had snuck into the target’s compound, picked the lock on the garage door and done the reverse-engineering on his BMW while two guards sat outside smoking. I’d sat in our control vehicle, arse-clenched, ready to dash out with my AK.

  “If he is confident he can do it then he should go” said Alisa, slamming her small hand on the table, “is a good, simple plan.”

  “Hey, who’s in charge here?” I said.

  “I am a full Colonel, you were a Captain” said the spy, raising an eyebrow.

  “Spy ranks don’t count” said Oz, “sneaking about and writing reports and eating Ferrero Rocher at the ambassador’s reception …”

  Alisa Turov’s eyes narrowed. “I led a special action unit in Chechnya, Mister Osborne,” she purred, “I do not remember any diplomatic parties in Grozny during that time.”

  “OK, point taken” said Oz, “even if you were on the wrong side.”

  “Right” I said sharply, glancing at my watch, “let’s get on with it. Andy, get ready for your CTR and set up comms. Oz prep weapons, we’ll zero them as soon as possible. Alisa, can you check for any last minute intelligence updates please?”

  I went outside and lit a cigar as they busied themselves with their tasks. It had stopped snowing, but the ground was still covered in a couple of inches of powder, higher ground topped with frozen slush. I called Harry. “We’re good” I said, “we go in at 03:00.”

  “OK” said Harry, “for some reason SIS are very happy, they’re convinced that the risk to Belov from this Fyodor Volk character is a fantasy. Their sources in Russia have never heard of him.”

  “SIS also confidently predicted that Saddam had doomsday weapons,” I said, exhaling smoke. “You’ll forgive me if I keep an open mind.”

  “As helpful as ever” he grumbled, “after this is done you need to speak with Pieter Van Basten and persuade him to give up the location of his server. If Belov feels that he’s safe he might help.”

  “Whoah, let’s rewind there Harry” I spluttered, “I’m a shooter, not a negotiator. How am I meant to do that?”

  “You have Turov with you to assist and you’ve developed a relationship with Belov. You know that we only want a portion of the data, not all of it. So crack on.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for Harry’s bullshit. He’d forgotten who the client was in his rush to suck up to SIS. But he didn’t have to ride four horses: Belov, SIS, SVR and Pieter Van Basten. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re finished here.”

  “Good. I’ll update you if I hear anything from SIS.” Harry rang off.

  I felt the phone the spook, Marcus, had given me. It burnt in the side pocket of my cargo trousers.

  Back in the cottage, Oz was playing quartermaster. He had neatly laid out a weapon, night-vision goggles, ammunition, flash-bangs, radio and a winter camouflage suit for each of us. “Do you have body armour, Alisa?” he said.

  “No” she shrugged, checking the suppressed Heckler & Koch SD4. The submachinegun had a thick suppressed barrel, four-position trigger group and custom grips. Trijicon night-sights completed the package.

  Oz had camouflaged the submachineguns with white tape, breaking up the shape of the solid black gunmetal. “Take this, level 3A Fortis covert armour, not bad” he said, “it’s male, I’m afraid but it’s small.”

  “That will be fine, Oz, thank you,” she said. She stripped down to her sports bra. Glowering as I enjoyed the view, she strapped on the armour.

  “I’m only human,” I said innocently.

  “This is a matter of opinion,” she hissed.

  Andy walked in, wearing mud-smeared white camouflage overalls over his clothing. On his head he wore a balaclava rolled into a hat. Over his shoulder was slung the M6 suppressed rifle with a custom bipod and Trijicon ACOG scope. “Right, I’m off,” he said.

  “Good luck Andrew,” said Oz.

  “Luck? Nah, luck is for amateurs” he grinned, “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got eyes on.” He put on a blue windcheater over his winter whites and climbed into the van. The engine coughed into life and he drove off, southwest towards Colchester.

  Behind the cottage was a field flanked by trees and blackthorn bushes, overlooking the sea. We traipsed through the snow and set up some Figure Eleven targets, the one with the black-and-ochre charging squaddie on it. Oz gave range orders and we spent forty-five minutes zeroing our MP5s and pistols. The suppressed MP5SD4 was virtually silent, the only noise a hiss and the metallic snap of the bolt. We were using sub-sonic hollow-point 9mm ammunition, designed to cause maximum damage with minimum noise.

  “That’ll do” nodded Oz, “we’re good.”

  We picked up the spent brass and went back to the cottage, where we brewed more tea.

  “You look tired, Cal” said Alisa, “we have time to kill, get some sleep.”

  Oz patted my back, “she’s right, you look like shit.”

  “I slept badly.” I hadn’t mentioned my early morning visit from MI6 and didn’t plan to either. I nodded and took off my Altberg boots, kneading warmth into my toes. Upstairs was Oz’s spare bedroom, where I stripped off my sweater and flopped down onto the bed.

  I fell quickly into a dreamless, happy sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “There are at least three subjects” whispered Andy over the secure satellite phone, “cropped hair, proper gym bunnies by the look of them.”

  “Are they commando-types?” I asked.

  “Not unless the Russian special forces go in for day-glow orange tans and hair gel.”

  We’d parked my car in a lay-by behind a roadside barn a mile from Black Hall Farm. I’d smeared mud on the frozen number plates to obscure the registration mark. We sat quietly as Andy called in updates from his hide: he’d identified no CCTV or burglar alarms. Even the barrier by the front gate, an old scaffolding pole mounted on a bracket, was unlocked.

  “I’ve had a good look around the farm” he continued, “three vehicles – people carrier, Land Rover and a BMW. No sign of weapons. Not even a dog. The extension at the rear of the farm has the lights on. Entry is via two UPVC-type doors. They’re a bastard to break into: I’d go in via the side door, it’s a crappy old wooden thing.”

  It was just after 23:00. “Let me know when the lights go out,” I said “then we move.”

  “Roger,” he replied.

  We waited another hour when Andy called back in, reporting that the farm was now dark.

  “Give ’em an hour to fall asleep,” yawned Oz. He stretched his legs across the back seat.

  Turov sipped her coffee and nodded her agreement. Our weapons were stashed in the boot, along with our night vision kit, body armour and radios.

  I held my hands to th
e chugging in-car heater, “I expected six. Where are the rest of them?”

  “There’s a gym in there, no?” said Turov, “Spetzgruppa? They will be working out, or drunk. Trust me.”

  We saw headlights across the field as a car drove slowly through the snow. We ducked down as it passed, a battered estate driven by an elderly man. It was the first vehicle we’d seen in two hours.

  It was nearly 02:00 when I called Andy. “We’re going to park just by the junction with the road, then on foot down the track. I’m gonna put a flash-bang in so expect some noise.”

  “Roger” he whispered, “still no movement. I can take anything coming up or down the track, and have eyes on the farmhouse.”

  We put on body armour and NVGs, pulling the baggy snow-suits over our winter clothes. Then Oz handed out the suppressed submachine guns and six spare magazines each. I tapped the end of the clip against my boot heel to settle the rounds, slid it into the housing on the underside of the weapon and pulled back the stubby bolt on top of the receiver. My thumb slid the safety off and onto single-shot. I drove the mile to the top of the drive-way and found another lay-by by the junction. I tucked the car behind some trees, a sheet of snow falling onto the windscreen as I disturbed the branches. We got out and hit the start line for the operation. Oz put his thumb up. Alisa nodded, the stubby black SMG tucked into her shoulder as we patrolled along the track.

  Oz took the lead. I followed him, scanning arcs with my SMG. My boots crunched in the snow as we passed the metal gate, the low roof of the farmhouse thirty metres to my left. Turov stalked to my right, peering through her NVGs. Standing still, I took a look at the out-buildings and the mobile home, mounted on breeze-blocks. Black Hill Farm was unremarkable in every way. The cars were covered with an even half inch of snow.

  Oz walked slowly to the wooden front door. Pushing his NVGs onto the top of his head, he examined the lock. He motioned for us to go firm and take cover. I knelt by the workshop door opposite him and Turov took position by the mobile home, weapon shouldered.