The Ninth Circle

by Dominic Adler

  The three of us agreed a guard rota and checked the preparations: non-armoured windows had been taped to prevent shattering and non-essential doors barricaded. Andy laid down three more motion-sensitive cameras inside, from his bag of tricks. He linked them to his laptop and tested them. “Anybody who tries to sneak into the hall, front or rear doors will pop up on this,” he said through a mouthful of bread and stew, pointing a cheese knife at the monitor.

  “Good” said Alisa, “do you have any audio devices in that bag? This wine is excellent, by the way.”

  “I might have some bits and pieces” said Andy coyly. He was possessive of his toys, “why?”

  “I am a spy. I thought I would listen in on Belov and Van Basten’s conversation later” she said innocently.

  “Ah,” said Andy.

  “Makes sense” I shrugged, helping myself to some excellent Brie. The doctor advises me to avoid cheese and red wine, but I’ve usually more urgent threats to my health to worry about. “I don’t trust any of them.”

  Andy stroked his chin. “In which case, if she’s a super-spook, why ain’t she got her own equipment?”

  “I have some tricks up my sleeve, but there is a time and a place. This isn’t it” said the SVR officer tartly.

  Andy pulled the battered ballistic bag onto his lap and rifled around in it. “I’ve got a bog-standard GSM audio bug here” he whispered, pulling out a slim plastic box the size of a bar of chocolate. He called us closer.

  “You can monitor that over a mobile phone, yes?” she said, examining the device. It had an adhesive pad on one side, for sticking under a table or desk.

  “Bingo” said Andy, “just whack a spare SIM in it and off you go. It really is corner electronics shop stuff, and it’ll ping even basic detection equipment. But if you need a quick and dirty solution …”

  “I’ve only got a weak signal here” I said, “but I’m quick and dirty.”

  “There’s very Gucci hard-wired internet in this place” said Andy, “I can run this one over a Wi-Fi network instead.” He tapped the device and pressed some buttons, “yep, it’s picked up the Wi-Fi. Carl gave me the password for my cameras. I’ll just show it as a spare webcam on the network.”

  “Do it,” I said.

  “Good,” smiled Alisa, taking a fresh mobile telephone from her rucksack. She slipped the SIM card into the audio bug, winked and left the room.

  Andy and I poured another glass of the wine.

  “Delicious” he said, sniffing the Pomerol, “I’m picking up notes of wine, wine and wine.”

  He often took the piss out of my wine-tasting course, which I’d argue is equally as important a skill as technical surveillance, “bugger off, Philistine” I laughed.

  “But I’m from Manchester” he protested, finishing the glass.

  “Andy, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Now’s not the time to declare your undying love, although I’ve suspected for a while.”

  I put my hand on Andy’s arm and gripped it, “listen to me and stop fucking about for five seconds. I think I’ve found a way out of The Firm.”

  Andy shook his head, “Cal, they’ll kill you. Leave it, eventually they’ll let you go, when they’ve finished with you. I know two guys who’ve retired: they’re fit and well and got a decent bung at the end of it. That’s my plan, a villa in Spain with City on the satellite telly twice a week. End of.”

  “I want out,” I said flatly.

  “And do what? What the fuck are we qualified for except for this?” he said, pointing around us at the weapons and equipment.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t a healthy way to make a living.”

  Andy snorted, “and neither was earning peanuts as IED bait in the ’Stan or Somalia or whatever shithole they want to invade. I’m sat here, with you, drinking five-hundred quid a bottle vino in a mansion and that’s good enough for now.”

  “Think about it, Andy.”

  “About what? About the evidence they’ve got of the armed robbery I did on a cash-in-transit van in Hyde six years ago? Then there’s the ballistic evidence and a pistol with my prints on. They took it from my flat when they press-ganged me. I killed a man for that, for selling gear to my little brother. Trust me I’ve thought about it a lot.”

  I poured him another glass of wine. “Andy, the file Van Basten has? If I can get it I know somebody who can get us off The Firm. Maybe give us a better gig than this, more legit. Make that stuff go away.”

  “Bollocks. And who is this mystery saviour?”

  I leant closer to Andy, “MI6. One of their senior spooks came to see me at the flat. His wife used to be the officer who liaised with The Firm – she knew Harry. There’s enough information for us to get out, do a deal.”

  Andy’s laugh was hollow, “Listen to yourself? M-I-fucking-Six? Fuck off Cal. I’ll take my chances with The Firm. After I left the army I swore I’d never work for the Government again.”

  “So that’s a no then?” I said grimly.

  “Good luck to you if that’s what you want. I like working with you, you’re a good operator. But don’t involve me in this. And I’m going to forget this conversation.”

  “OK” I said, “I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  Andy shook his head, “look let’s get this drama sorted, OK? Then maybe we can talk about it.”

  We both knew we wouldn’t.

  I stood up and looked down the corridor.

  Alisa was padding back along it, looking at the framed movie prints and mementoes of Sir Evan Sands’ business career. She was still wearing her body armour, the MP5SD in her hands. “It’s done,” she said “I asked if I could borrow a memory stick and Sergei waved me into the office. It’s been attached under the desk, about one-and-a-half metres from the armchairs by the fireplace. The girl, Melissa, wanted to help me but I put her in her place. She is suspicious of me.”

  “Don’t blame her” said Andy, “the sound should be fine as long as they don’t sit their phones on that desk. You can get feedback if you’re unlucky.”

  “If that happens we just deny all knowledge” I said, “have they finished dinner?”

  Turov smiled “yes. Wine loosens tongues and there are four empty bottles on the table. Sir Evan looks tired, Pieter is sober but Sergei has just started drinking cognac. Melissa was going to bed, she looks terrified.”

  “I think Sands is alright” said Andy, “for a posh bloke.”

  “He is a rich fool” sniffed Alisa, “but on the less detestable end of the spectrum I guess.”

  “Let’s get some sleep, first stag is in two hours” I said.

  Alisa nodded. “I will monitor the listening device.”

  “We all can, under the blankets with a comic and a torch,” Andy sniggered.

  “Idiot” she smiled, rolling her eyes.

  We left the hall. I told Carl that we’d be down to start our shifts stagging on at midnight, and he waved his approval. Upstairs we settled in one of the guest rooms, which had white goose-feather duvets, central heating and a mini-bar. I flopped down on the bed, my head light from the lack of sleep and three glasses of decent wine.

  Alisa sat on the bed next to me and switched on the mobile telephone Andy had slaved to the listening device, “Andy what is the battery life on your bug?”

  “About six hours juice” he said, “plenty.”

  She switched the mobile to loudspeaker and propped it up on the bedside table. We sat listening to static for ten minutes. Then we heard voices over the phone.

  “Pieter, you can’t go on like this” said Sergei “we need to know where you keep the server, in case anything happens to you.”

  “I have a safeguard” Van Basten replied “a friend knows the location. Believe me, it is safe.”

  “Tell me, Pieter before I lose my temper.”

  “Then lose your temper, Sergei! I’m tired of your games and bullying. When I agreed to your support I said there could be no conditions
. You agreed. Now I’m a puppet. I disgust myself, I’m no better than the people I expose.”

  “Please, there are always conditions when you do a deal” sighed Sergei, “don’t be naive, you have had three-and-a-half million dollars from me, plus the best legal team money can buy. I’m the only thing between you and a Yankee prison.”

  I heard the clink of a decanter on glass and the glug-glug-glug of liquid being poured into a schooner.

  “I told you the sound was good,” beamed Andy.

  Van Basten’s voice was pained as he spoke, “I share your concerns about the government in Russia. I support the focus Forbiddenfacts has put on your interests in the opposition and dissident activity, but it’s become all-consuming.”

  “Precisely my point” Sergei sighed, “to the extent that both our lives are at risk now. We need to use the file to our advantage before this thing gets even more out of control. We can do a deal.”

  “That can only mean the FSB” said Van Basten, “it won’t work.”

  There was a paused and the clink of glass-on-glass, “agreed, but we could offer it to the British or the Americans” said Sergei. “They would move heaven and earth for that material.”

  “No. That archive needs to be online and open for the world to see. It will be Forbiddenfacts’ defining moment. I’ve been working towards this for ten years. Selling it out doesn’t feel right.”

  “Feel right? Neither does a bullet in the head, I suspect,” chuckled the Russian.

  “What about Winter?” said Van Basten, “and the other mercenaries?”

  “Winter comes highly recommended. He is a professional, I’m sure he will understand. I will pay compensation to him and his employers for their trouble, and their protection.”

  “What a gentleman” Andy gasped in mock surprise, “I’m on his side.”

  Alisa shook her head “no, Andy. Belov just has enough enemies without making another out of your organisation.”

  “Quiet please,” I said.

  “Pay off Winter for all I care” continued Van Basten, “but it doesn’t solve this nightmare we’re in now. And it doesn’t change the fact that I feel used and betrayed. By you.”

  “I hear this phrase used a lot on the internet” said Sergei quietly, “it is stop being such a Drama Queen. You can be used and betrayed and live, or noble and admirable and die. Your choice, I tire of your theatrics. And if the FSB don’t kill you, then I might. It is certainly an option on the table right now.”

  “You? Kill me? Then I have another choice!” snapped Van Basten angrily, his voice high-pitched. I think he was crying.

  “Which is..?”

  “… for you to find out, Sergei Nikolayevich. My work trumps your threats. Without fame, he who spends his time on earth leaves only such a mark upon the world as smoke does on air or foam on water.”

  “Poetry?” laughed Sergei, “you’ll need more than poetry to get out of this. I’ll leave you to think about it, Pieter. After tonight I think you’ll see sense.”

  “As might we all” said Van Basten. Then there was silence.

  “What was that all about?” said Andy.

  I recognised the tone of the verse. I looked at Alisa and shook my head.

  The SVR Colonel’s eyes were wide as she reached for her SMG. “The Inferno: Canto XXIV.”

  I stood and looked out of the window, across at the woods. The snow fell against the glass, then into the dark. I squinted.

  In the trees something moved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  “Give me your rifle” I said to Andy. I walked towards the window, “and turn the lights out.”

  Tapping the trigger group to show me the safety was off, he passed me the M6. The assault rifle was fitted with a night scope. I used it to track the tree line for movement as Alisa spoke into her the radio. She told the riflemen on the roof to switch on, radio traffic crackling into life as our tiny guard force stood to.

  “What is it?” whispered Turov, hand on my shoulder.

  “There’s something out there, it looks like a cross.” I made out the angular shape in front of the trees, the swirling snow making it difficult to focus. Suddenly my eyes were filled with harsh silver light, sodium floodlights snapping on to our front. They were aimed straight at us. I blinked, jerking my head away from the sights.

  “What the fuck …” gasped Andy, “who drags lights and generators through a wood at minus twenty?”

  My eyes focussed on the floodlit grounds behind the mansion. It became clearer.

  It was a crucifixion.

  A man was tied to a cross made from scaffolding poles lashed together. I flipped the daytime optics on the M6 and squinted through them, zooming in on the figure on the cross. He was stripped to the waist, wearing black fatigue trousers and heavy boots. I could see him shivering like he was being electrocuted, bloodied face streaked with filth. The man was heavily-muscled, body pale in the stark white lights. I saw tattoos snaking up his arms as he arched his back, mouth agape as he screamed.

  “It would be a good idea to rescue him,” said Alisa.

  “He’s almost certainly an FSB commando” I said, “since when does rescuing them become a priority? Those woods will be crawling with Volk’s pet loonies.”

  “He needs interrogating” she said flatly, “although I would have thought that was obvious.”

  Andy looked at his watch, “make your mind up then. I’d say he’s got five minutes before he hits severe hypothermia. He might even be there now.”

  “Let’s go” I growled, keying the mic on my PRR, “Dmitri from Winter – meet me in the Grand Hall, over?” I could understand, even sympathise, with the FSB operators. Their job was in the same grid square as mine. What I couldn’t get were the crazies out there following Fyodor Volk.

  “Received” said Dmitri groggily, “do you want us to open fire? The men can see movement.”

  “Not yet, but on my signal I want them to shoot out those lights.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Rescue that poor bastard” I said, “now move.”

  Dmitri was zipping up his big winter jacket as we strode in, a black polymer AK rifle on the table next to him. He wore a ballistic helmet and body armour. “You have a plan?”

  “He does” Said Alisa, “but we will be mown down if we cross the grounds without the lights shot out.”

  I nodded, “plus, we’re going to drive out there in our very own APC. Dmitri, what’s the security package like on Sergei’s Maybach?”

  Dmitri grinned, “The limousine? That baby has the full works: a Gunther and Voss presidential-grade custom security fit. It’s got B6 armour, a ramming bar, escape hatch in the roof, run-flat tyre system, engine fire suppressants, armoured radiator grilles and STANAG II NATO standard armoured glass. Unless they have .50 Cal or light anti-armour weapons we’re OK.”

  “And a mini-bar” said Andy, “don’t forget the mini-bar.”

  “Fire it up, Dmitri” I said, “we’re going to drive out there. On my signal your guys shoot the lights out, we deploy as close to the cross as we can then advance to contact. After that your guys slot anything they see that isn’t us or the bloke strapped up on that cross, OK?”

  “Good. Carl?” he barked at the British bodyguard, “you heard Winter, pass on those orders.”

  “Sure boss” he nodded, tossing the keys for the armoured limousine to the Russian. “Your man will have hypothermia – bring him straight here, I’ll prep warm saline and dextrose. We’ll put him on an IV immediately.” He pulled a medical kit from under his desk and began unpacking it.

  “Good, now follow me” said Dmitri, leading us outside, “it’s about time that car paid for its keep.”

  “It’s going to get shot to fuck” I laughed.

  “I know!” Dmitri chuckled, “Sergei will be hopping mad. I’m almost jealous.” It doesn’t matter what nationality you are, ex-squaddies love seeing expensive stuff getting shot up.

  Outside there wa
s a respite from the snow, only light flurries skimming the top of the knee-deep white desert around us. The Maybach squatted next to the Range Rover outside the manor house.

  Dmitri slid into the driver’s seat. The inside of the luxury limo smelt of leather, aftershave and cigars. Dmitri passed me his AK and Kevlar helmet, “take this. If you’re getting out you’ll need it more than me.” He pulled his stubby MP5K SMG and put it on his lap.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the helmet.

  In the back Alisa and Andy readied their weapons and adjusted their body armour. Alisa had swapped her MP5 for one of the Kalashnikov rifles. Both wore Kevlar helmets. Andy checked his M6 and readied it. Three black frag-grenades were taped to his chest rig.

  “Let’s go,” I said quietly.

  The Maybach’s engines purred into life as the V12 twin-turbo engines fired. Dmitri pulled out gently, building the acceleration as the snow-tyres bit into the ice. He turned left and following the service road towards the staff quarters.

  “No headlights” I said.

  We broke the building line of the garage and staff quarters, the Maybach powering through the snow. Inside the armoured cocoon of the limousine it was eerily quiet. The armoured belly-plate scraped against the ground as we powered towards the trees.

  “Incoming,” said Andy. Bullets began bouncing off of the armoured windscreen, a high-pitched wail that left spider-webs across the glass. In front of us the trees, twisted and black against the sodium lights, grew closer. The crucified man lolled on his cross.

  “Ten seconds,” grinned Dmitri, feeding the steering wheel through his meaty hands as the heavy limousine fish-tailed, waves of powder breaking across the bonnet.

  “I’ll grab him” I said, readying my knife.

  “I’ll take left,” said Andy. He touched Alisa’s shoulder, “you take right, OK?”

  “Da” she said, snapping the folding stock on her assault rifle into position.