The Ninth Circle

by Dominic Adler

  “Alisa, we’re behind you” I said, keying my mic.

  “OK” she replied.

  We walked slowly towards her, weapons trained into the trees. Alisa raised her hand as she saw us, pointing to a dark patch in the snow near the tree line.

  “Blood” she said, “I found the trail there and followed it into the woods for about a hundred metres.”

  “And?” said Andy.

  “I found this” she said, pointing to something lying in the snow, something pale and bluish-pink.

  “What is it?” I said.

  Turov looked at me over her shoulder and cleared some of the snow with her gloved hand so I could see. “It’s a human tongue.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “But first each one had his tongue tight between his teeth toward their leader, as a signal – The Inferno, Canto 21” said Turov quietly, “this is Volk’s work.”

  “What do you mean?” said Andy, “that poor bastard’s tongue ain’t tight between anybody’s teeth.”

  Turov ignored the comment. “In the Eighth Circle of Hell, Dante meets a company of devils who escort him to a bridge. Of course, the devils end up chasing him.”

  “We should the blood trail” I said, “can you see? The snow there’s been disturbed.” Beyond the trees there were signs of a struggle, the ground flattened and dirty. Dark stains dotted the virgin snow surrounding it. The snow was less deep on the forest floor, and we made better progress. Before long we’d found some scraps of bloody clothing and a black fleece hat. The hat had semi-frozen blood on it.

  “No sign of spent cartridges” noted Turov, shining her flashlight into the trees.

  “Look right twenty metres” said Andy sharply, like he was giving a fire control order, “over there: see that tree with the U-shaped branch?”

  “Seen,” I said.

  “Three O’ Clock, by that holly bush.”

  “Got it” I said. There was a something in the snow, a shade darker than the snow and only semi-covered in powder.

  We patrolled slowly towards it, weapons making arcs as we moved forward. I took a knee and squinted through the optics on my AK. It was clear. I motioned for us to move forward with the chop of my hand.

  “It’s a body” said Turov.

  The corpse was an athletically-built male in his late thirties, wearing a klyaksa-style Russian military snowsuit. On his hands were padded gloves. His face was smashed in from his forehead to chin, the front of the skull eviscerated by blunt trauma. There was no trace of his eyes or nose, his tooth-studded lower jaw lolling obscenely. His tongue was missing. The freezing air had chilled the blood into a crust, making his head look like a side of cold-store offal. Blood stained the front of his white over-suit like a dark apron.

  “That looks like it was done with a hammer” said Andy, who should know.

  “No weapon or personal equipment,” said Turov.

  Crouching over the body, I unzipped the gore-stained snowsuit. Underneath he wore several layers of quality civilian outdoor clothing and body armour. He had no wallet or identity papers. I tried to move his arm, but the freezing weather and rigor mortis meant that the body was iron-hard.

  “Are you trying to see if he’s tattooed?” said Alisa, reading my mind. She passed me her knife.

  I took the blade and slashed the sleeve open from shoulder to elbow. I’d never met a Russian Special Forces soldier who didn’t have ink. “There you go,” I grunted. The pale, muscled upper arm had a death’s head tattoo, superimposed in front of a parachute. Monstrous bat-wings grew from the skull, under which Cyrillic lettering was etched into a scroll.

  “That reads 67 Detached Special Purpose Brigade” said Alisa, “the second scroll says Grozny 2007 and South Ossetia 2008. This man must have served in the old GRU Spetsnatz before joining FSB.”

  “Is that significant?” I asked.

  Turov shrugged, “perhaps – the 67th were based in the Siberian military district. I would expect them to be winter warfare and survival specialists.”

  “Well, Sherlock, as far as I’m concerned that’s our Spetzgruppa alright” said Andy.

  “I wonder how many there are left?” I said.

  “Volk’s followers got to him before we did” shrugged Alisa, “they are dead.”

  I shook my head, “you think the Spetzgruppa and Volk’s people are at war out here?”

  “I think so” said Turov, “who else would have killed this man?”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know” said the SVR officer quietly, “but we know that Belov and Volk are both targets and there are two groups of assassins.”

  “Is this a blue-on-blue, perhaps?” I said, using the military term for when friendly forces clash by accident.

  She pulled a face, “unlikely.”

  “Whatever the score, we’ve got to check the commune” said Andy, “and mob-handed, because crusty ex-squaddies trying to kill us? It’s sounding familiar.”

  “How long did Sands say these travellers had been here?” said Turov.

  “About eighteen months” I replied, remembering Alisa’s estimate on the time it took Fyodor Volk to plan a hit.

  “It’s got to be Volk” said the Russian, “do you have grenades?”

  “Does a bear coil one down in an area with lots of trees?” laughed Andy, who probably took grenades in the shower with him.

  “We need to get back to the house” I said, “now.”

  “Shit!” coughed Andy, “get down.” He fell to one knee then rolled as a second suppressed round hit a tree next to his head. He scrambled backwards on his elbows and knees, rifle cradled clear of the ground.

  Alisa leapt over a fallen tree and took cover, MP5 pointing into the woods. Half-guessing the direction of the incoming rounds, I opened fire with my AK. The bark of automatic fire crushed the quiet, birds scattering in every direction. Turov squeezed off a burst then ducked down behind a tree as incoming rounds stitched along the ground in front of her.

  I looked over at Andy. He was checking his body armour, his face twisted in pain. “It’s OK” he said, “I took one in the vest.” He opened the bipod on his M6 and settled it in front of him.

  “I can’t see anything” I said, peering into the falling snow.

  “He’s dug in” said Andy, “but if it was a high-calibre round I’d be in trouble, I think that’s a 9mm or thereabouts.”

  That meant that the shooter was could only be forty or fifty or so metres away at most.

  “Dmitri from Cal” I hissed into my PRR, “contact in the woods behind the staff quarters.”

  “I heard” said the Russian calmly, “we’re on our way.”

  I keyed my mic, “wait by the tree line: don’t get drawn in. We’re going to exfil, cover us.”

  “OK, on your signal” he said, “the rifles have the tree line covered.”

  “Let’s stir this bastard up” said Andy. He fired a long burst into the woods, left to right. The 5.56mm rounds kicked up spumes of chewed-up bark, foliage and snow across the trees to our front. He slid a fresh magazine into the M6 and repeated the exercise. Turov lay quietly in cover, scanning the woods with her sights.

  I joined in, the rattle of the AK ringing in my ears as the stock bit into my shoulder. “Dmitri, we’re ready.”

  “Go!” he barked.

  I signalled for Andy and Alisa to pull back. As they passed me, I slid the L109A1 frag grenade from my ammo pouch. I pulled the pin on the black, apple-sized grenade and hurled it as far as I could into the trees. It exploded, white hot shrapnel zipping through the trees, and I ducked back behind the others. Andy tossed another grenade as he ran, the metal sphere knocking snow from tree branches before exploding in the air, showering shrapnel down onto the forest floor.

  Dmitri was crouched by the staff quarters, his AK pointing into the woods. Two more men wearing black padded winter jackets lay in the snow, covering us. We sprinted past them, panting, and re-grouped behind the garage. The three security men opened
fire, raking the woods with their assault rifles.

  “You OK?” I said to Andy as the sound of gunfire died down.

  “It stings like fuck” he gasped, ripping the Velcro flaps on his armour. There was a small hole in the Kevlar panel that hadn’t penetrated through the armour. Andy’s stomach had a livid bruise where the impact of the round had been spread around his body. “That was a good shot, slap-bang in the middle of the target.” Andy rubbed his pasty-white face and winced when he started to laugh.

  “You were lucky” said Alisa, examining the wound. She passed him some painkillers and a bottle of water, “I’d have aimed for your head.”

  I took off my glove and rooted around in the vest until I found the squashed lead of the bullet. It was a 9mm, as Andy suspected. I guessed it was from a submachinegun of some description, the shooter professional enough not to fire on automatic at long range.

  “Could it be a silenced 9mm rifle? Spetsnatz use them” said Turov.

  “No,” I said. I’d used the VSS silenced rifle myself, “the 9mm ammo it uses is sixteen-grams and armoured piercing. Andy would have been dead, a sniper would have head-shot him from the VSS’ effective range anyway.”

  “I feel so much better now” said Andy, gingerly pressing his ribcage around the bruise.

  Dmitri walked over, Kalashnikov ready. “What happened?”

  I told him that we found the mutilated body of a Russian commando and shot at by an unseen gunman.

  “This is like Chechnya, but with central heating and a swimming pool” grinned the big Russian, “we must speak with the boss.”

  “You’re right, let’s go” I grunted.

  “Hold the perimeter, Dmitri” said Alisa, slapping his back “we will speak with Sergei Nikolayevich.”

  “Da” he replied, turning on his heel, “although I say this weather is the best defence we could hope for.”

  “Napoleon and Hitler both found that out” chuckled Andy, pulling a face as he touched his bruised ribs, “thank fuck for the awful Russian weather front.”

  I walked to the doorway of the garage, brushing wet snow from my face. I checked my phone, which had a weak signal. I called Harry.

  “How did you get down there so fast?” he said suspiciously.

  “I blagged a heli” I said.

  “How?”

  Mentioning my off-policy contact with Marcus would have been suicidal. “Colonel Turov had contacts, she made it happen. I didn’t ask too many questions.”

  “OK” he replied, “as long as you got there. Update please.”

  I gave him a SITREP.

  “Jesus. There’s no way we can cover that up” he sighed, “although the fire in Essex seems to have done the trick for now, there’s untold cops and media there. There’s a Russian gangster hunt going on, I don’t think sleepy Wiltshire will be a priority.”

  “I agree. We’re snowed in and stuck on Salisbury Plain.”

  “I’m sure that’s a familiar feeling, Captain Winter. After this is all over you’re off abroad for some serious decompression leave.”

  “Harry, we’ve got two sets of assassins and two targets. The thing is, the assassins look like they’re killing each other. We don’t know why.”

  The Handler chuckled, “the whole thing sounds like extreme Cluedo to me, was it Colonel Mustard in the woods with the Kalashnikov?”

  “I’m glad this is amusing you,” I grunted.

  The Handler lowered his voice, “I’ve got SIS providing me with a communications intelligence package later: all the known SIGINT around FSB operations in the UK and material on Sergei Belov. I’ll call you after I’ve had a look at it, perhaps it might help.”

  “OK” I said, wondering if they’d hand over anything useful.

  “I’ll call you later on the satellite phone. By the way, London officially ground to a halt this morning. The storm is headed west. The weather where you are is just for starters.”

  “Great. Is there any good news?” I said, “how’s Oz?”

  “He’s OK, but out of the game for five or six months. With good physio he’ll recover. He’s in a private clinic in London right now, but we’ll fly him to Spain as soon as the weather clears. Don’t worry, he’ll be looked after.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Take care,” he said, signing off.

  We returned to the house, into the great hall. Belov, Van Basten and Sands stood inside, staring at the weapons arranged on the big oak table. Melissa was stood by the door to the security office.

  “Is everybody OK?” said Sands, “I heard shooting.”

  “There is fighting in the woods” said Alisa, “your guests, the ones you call New Age Travellers? They are part of this I think.”

  We explained that we’d found a body, and that in London we’d been attacked by homeless veterans who claimed they were groomed by a mysterious Russian.

  “It’s incredible,” said Sands, “why would they do that?”

  “To kill these two” I said, pointing at Belov and Van Basten, “your association with Sergei is hardly a secret and he’s a regular visitor down here.” I put my AK on the table and rubbed my frozen hands together. “I need some answers. There are two groups of killers out there, and they’re fighting each other. Why?”

  Belov glowered and walked around the table. “This is ridiculous! The FSB want me, not Pieter. Why kill him?”

  “To get access to the file I hold in trust from the FSB whistle-blower.” Van Basten stepped forward, a half-smile on his lips, “and to set an example to other online activists. If even an FSB agent thinks he can leak to me with impunity, where does that leave the regime? What other choice do they have?”

  Alisa rubbed her forehead, face drawn. “Sergei, you weren’t told before, for your own protection, but we suspect this is the work of a man called Fyodor Volk.”

  “Who?” said Belov “why wasn’t I told before?”

  “Indeed,” said Van Basten sharply.

  “You’ve hardly been candid Pieter” I said quietly, “about the location of the server. Besides, operational security, Sergei, in case you had a leak in your organisation,” I sat on the edge of the table, scratched from the weapons we’d rested on it. “Volk used to work for the FSB, their most feared killer. Now he wants you dead.”

  Belov pointed at his assistant, “Melissa, find out about this man, Volk …”

  “No” said Alisa, “don’t do anything that might tip off the FSB we know about him, not that you’d find anything anyway.”

  “Excuse me, but is there another possibility?” said Sands clearing his throat, “from what Pieter tells me from his research, intelligence services often compartmentalise their operations. Couldn’t it simply be a blunder? Perhaps the two groups out there don’t know about the other? In that case, the advantage is ours.”

  Alisa looked at Sands and smiled, “you understand these things, Sir Evan. And if it were anyone other than Fyodor Volk I would be inclined to agree. No, for whatever twisted reason Volk has, this is his plan.”

  “He could be right” I said, “maybe we’ve looked for a deeper explanation when the simpler one will do.”

  “Hanlon’s Razor” said Sands brightly, “never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.”

  “In the absence of any other explanation, I think that might have to do for now” said Van Basten quietly, “but I have never heard of this person.”

  “Balls” spat Belov, “there is more to this than meets the fucking eye, I swear it!”

  Alisa smiled “I understand Sergei: a Russian could never have written Hanlon’s Razor.”

  The British bodyguard, a tall guy with short fair hair and a goatee beard, walked in. He wore black foul-weather gear, overt body armour and had a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. “Mister Belov” he said, “Dmitri says that the perimeter is clear. The men on the roof see nothing. But the weather’s closing in. I can’t see them trying anything in this.”

  “Tha
nk you, Carl. What is the temperature outside?”

  “The thermometer says minus twelve, sir. Forecast is for minus eighteen to twenty tonight.” The bodyguard turned on his heel and left, nodding at me as he went.

  “Minus eighteen” said Sands, “I think we’re OK.”

  “The men out there are trained in arctic warfare” said Alisa, “I would advise against complacency.”

  “I agree” I said, “We must prepare to defend against an assault. In the morning we go to the camp in force and settle this thing, one way or another. Then we clean up and move on.”

  Belov nodded.

  Pieter Van Basten lowered his head and mumbled something. He looked sick, “as if it could be that easy.”

  “Well” said Sir Evan, pushing his long grey hair back on his head, “blood on the carpet? Although this time it’s more literal. I’m going to plan dinner. Its rabbit tonight, I’m pleased to report.”

  “Dinner? I love the English” said Sergei, his craggy face creasing into a grin. He patted Sands on the back, “you always get your priorities right. Evan, may I raid your wine cellar?”

  “My wine cellar is yours, tovarich” replied the businessman, “a noble beast such as the rabbit demands a fine wine to see it on its way.”

  “Crazy bastards” said Turov, shaking her head.

  “I wouldn’t mind a look down there too” I said, lighting a cigar, “it’s not often you get to see a multi-millionaire’s wine cellar.”

  “It would be a pleasure Captain Winter” said Sir Evan Sands, grinning, “I would hate to disappoint.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the end I skipped dinner with Sir Evan, but did liberate a couple of bottles of Chateau Lafleur Pomerol from his wine cellar. Andy scrounged bread, cheese, goulash and cold meat from Anna. We sat in the great hall and ate, the sound of classical music drifting from the dining room. Occasionally I could hear Belov’s booming laugh. The wind whistled and creaked in the ancient manor house, mixed with the murmur of radio static and the readying of weapons.

  Dmitri’s men padded about nervously, checking and double-checking windows and locks. The riflemen on the roof grumbled about the cold and the guys began to do an hour about. Carl, the British bodyguard, sat watching monitors as cameras silently scanned the estate. The drifting snow made it difficult to see anything, the images on the monitors a crazy kaleidoscope of white blobs.