The Ninth Circle

by Dominic Adler

  Andy smiled, “just put as many rounds down as you can and win the fire fight.”

  I put my gloved hand on the door handle, the other keying my PRR mic, “now! Take out the lights.”

  I couldn’t hear the crack of the rifles, but in front of us floodlights shattered, darkness enveloping the tree line. Now I saw muzzle flashes as unseen shooters returned fire.

  “Go” said Dmitri, paddling the steering wheel crazily. He slid the car sideways in front of the scaffolding pole crucifix, offside facing the enemy.

  Incoming rounds thudded against the armoured car as we de-bussed. Andy’s M6 barked as he fired controlled bursts into the woods. Turov took cover behind the boot and opened fire with her AK74. Ropes of tracer raked the treeline from the roof of Croll house as Dmitri’s men provided covering fire.

  “I’m out!” I hollered, cordite stinging my nose as I loped towards the man on the cross. Bullets churned the snow in front of me as I advanced.

  “Winter, get down!” crackled a heavily-accented voice urgently in my earpiece. It was the Serbian bodyguard, on the roof behind me.

  I ducked, falling into the snow. I felt the marksman’s bullet sail over my shoulder into the trees, silencing another automatic weapon.

  “Tango down” said the voice, “now move.”

  I staggered forwards, the snow like quicksand dragging at my feet. Andy had one-in-three tracer in his rifle, green fireflies bouncing into the trees as he put down covering fire. The crucifix was less than three metres away, stray bullets whistling past me.

  “Jesus Christ save me!” chattered the man on the cross in Russian, his face crazy with fear and pain.

  “Hold on” I bellowed, firing my AK into the woods behind him. As I got closer I saw that the crucifix was a box-like structure built from metal poles, the cross sticking up from a tangled base that held it aloft. The Russian was attached at the ankles by a thick sheath of black duct tape. I sawed through it with my knife, his booted feet kicking like a man in a noose looking for level ground. I saw Dmitri edge the car forward, flashing its headlights and trying to attract fire towards the Maybach. Sparks flew off the bodywork as bullets peppered the chassis, ugly scabs of silver metal stitching along the vehicle.

  “Two tangos toward you” said the Serbian into my earpiece, “You’re in the way.”

  “Roger,” I gasped as two dark shapes loomed up from the dark. They were hooded, swathed in layers of tattered winter clothing, hair long and matted. Their pinched, filthy faces were grinning as they ran through the snow. One had a shotgun in his hands, the other a long-handled wood-chopping axe. I could smell the sweet stink of unwashed bodies and stale booze as they drew closer.

  The man with the shotgun shouldered the weapon in time for Andy’s tracer to hit him in the chest, shoulder and head, twisting him here and there as hot blood spattered the snow. Grunting, eyes white as they rolled lifelessly into his skull, he collapsed to the ground. The man with the axe ducked low and swung at me crazily, the blade biting into a scaffolding pole with a dull clanging noise. The man on the crucifix lurched as the blow dislodged one of the supports. I dropped my knife, my gloved hands snatching at my AK. I levelled it at the axe-man and squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  I scrabbled for my holstered pistol. My attacker locked his dark, shining eyes on mine and stepped forward, hefting the axe like I was so much firewood.

  The Russian on the crucifix yelled as he swung his body around, using his legs and pivoting on the scaffolding. He kicked the axe man in the face with the full force of his boot. My attacker grunted and staggered, blood gushing from his nose. I hurtled into him, hands reaching for his throat as we fell into the snow. I heard the gunfire intensify, the sound of metal-on-metal as the car absorbed yet more fire.

  The ragged man coughed blood as we rolled in the snow, his hands punching my armoured torso. I rammed my elbow into his shattered nose with a crunch. Finally I tugged my pistol from its holster and stuffed it into his head, pulling the trigger until he was still. The heat of the blood on my face stung against the cold.

  “Get … me … down …” came a piercing voice from the icy steel cross. The Russian’s eyes were closed, his face contorted in misery.

  I climbed up onto the scaffolding and slid the knife into the jumble of ropes and tape holding his wrists to the cross. I cut his arm as I slashed at his bonds, and he grunted in pain.

  “Don’t stop” he yelled, “please.”

  I looked down. Dmitri was driving forwards, Andy and Alisa scurrying behind the car for cover. Both fired as they went, sparks marking incoming rounds from the woods. Finally the man collapsed into the snow, shivering and sobbing. Alisa appeared and helped me, grabbing his arm and bundling him into the back of the car.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Dmitri. I pulled a fleece blanket from Andy’s bag and wrapped it around the Russian.

  Outside Andy bowled a frag grenade into the trees, ducking back into the car as Dmitri started reversing. The incoming fire was more ragged as the men on the roof of the house found more targets for their rifles. Dmitri turned the car in a wide circle and powered towards the garage. The windscreen was pocked with bullet strikes, but the armoured glass panel remained intact. Warm air from the car heater flooded the vehicle, the Russian still shivering from the extreme cold.

  “Carl from Winter” I said into the radio, “one casualty, be with you in two minutes.”

  “Roger” said the bodyguard, “I’m ready.”

  Dmitri keyed his mic, “keep Mister Belov and the others away from the hall. Ask them to go back to bed, tell them it is safe now.”

  “I’m glad you think so Dmitri,” I panted. “I think this is just the start.” I opened the window as we careered towards the house. From the woods I heard the sound of whooping and grunting and jeering, like animals baying for blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  We burst into the great hall, Andy helping me drag the freezing Russian to the security office. Carl wrapped a silver survival blanket around him then inserted an IV. He looked into the Russian’s eyes and took his pulse rate, “do you speak English mate?” He spoke in that loud, slow but friendly voice medics use with patients.

  “Yes” stuttered the Russian, through chattering teeth.

  “How long were you out there?” said Carl, “stripped?”

  “I don’t know, maybe half an hour?” the Russian said, “before they put me up on that cross.”

  “You should be dead” said Carl, “do you feel the need to strip, or to get into an enclosed space?”

  “Don’t be stupid” said the Russian slowly, “I understand hypothermia: there will be no paradoxical undressing with me. That is a warm saline drip, no? That is good, tovarich. After that some coffee and hot food would be excellent.”

  The British bodyguard looked at me and smiled, “this is one hard bastard, Winter.”

  “What is your name?” I said.

  “Fuck you” he replied, “I’m grateful for the rescue, but that doesn’t mean I’ll tell you anything.”

  Alisa Turov pulled her pistol and stalked towards him. “Take out the IV and kick this cretin back out into the snow,” she spat.

  “Sure” I said, “Carl take the IV out.”

  The Russian commando shrugged, “you’re bluffing.”

  I slid the drip out of his arm and took the blanket, “no. If you can’t tell us about those crazy bastards out there then you might as well go back and join them.”

  “Your mission is over” said Turov, “I imagine the rest of your Spetzgruppa are dead. Pieter Van Basten is safe. Sergei Belov is safe. The only issue for you now is survival, and I could get you home to Russia if I chose to. So, tell me, are you proud or just stupid?”

  The Russian looked at the survival blanket, grim-faced. The colour was returning to his cheeks. The Serbian bodyguard walked in carrying a coffee pot, rifle slung over his shoulder. The Russian sniffed the air, the aroma of coffee clearly irresistible after the
cold. He touched his battered face and winced. His arms had the familiar military tattoos running from his deltoid to his wrists. He had close-set blue eyes and cropped dark hair, numerous scars marking his face and chest. “And who are you?” he said to Alisa, voice gravelly.

  “Colonel Alisa Romanova Turov of the SVR, Directorate ‘S’” she said coolly, “we know about Misha Baburin, about the farmhouse you stayed at.”

  “What happened to Baburin?” grunted the Russian.

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  “No great loss” said the Russian, “he was an arsehole.”

  “Those tattoos are a giveaway” she said, “why do you send agents into the field so easily identifiable? I see you served in the 45th Detached Airborne Reconnaissance Regiment. Ah, and you saw action in South Ossetia.” She shook her head, “superb tradecraft soldier.”

  “Jesus, darling, you want to be careful” said the Russian, shaking his head, “if you get any more pleased with yourself you might disappear up that cute little arse of yours. I am Major Ruslan Ivanovich Dudko, FSB Spetzgruppa Five, Special Group Grob. I’m a soldier, not a fucking spy. Go and fuck yourself with your tradecraft. Now can I have a cup of coffee?”

  I poured him a brew. Dudko took a sugar bowl and emptied it into his coffee, stirred it with a finger and slurped hungrily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Another” he said.

  “Here” said Dmitri, “have some of this.” He slid a pewter flask from his pocket and emptied a slug of vodka into the coffee.

  “O, Klasno” said Dudko, holding out his cup “this is more like it.” His English was fluent, and like many Russians had a hint of an American accent in it.

  I pulled out a chair and lit a cigar, offering the FSB Major one too.

  He took it and smiled, “you see, why pull my fingernails out or wire my nuts to the electricity? Coffee and a good Cubano? I’m all yours.”

  “I’m Cal” I nodded, sitting down. “I work for Mister Belov.”

  “That wily old prick, I’ve been watching him for twenty-four hours. I could have shot him twice.”

  “Why didn’t you?” said Turov.

  “Belov? The man isn’t my objective” he replied, “I’m old-fashioned about following orders. I’m sure he won’t die in his bed, but now isn’t his time.”

  I poured more coffee, “who is then?”

  “Pieter Van Basten. He doesn’t go outside as far as I can tell. I was going to assault the building and take him tonight on my own, but we were attacked.”

  “Tell me about that. Dudko, what was with the craziness, you up on that cross?” I said.

  Dudko explained that when his team arrived he ordered them to conduct a close target recce, based on satellite imagery of the estate. One of his men dug a covert observation post and watched the house whilst the rest of the patrol headed south to check out the New Age traveller’s camp on the southern perimeter.

  “It’s near a military training area,” said Dudko, “there were signs warning us about tanks. Not that we saw any.”

  “Tanks? I think we sold them all” said Andy, “defence cuts.”

  “The camp is in a lightly wooded area” continued Dudko, “they have these tents, some caravans and a couple of shacks. It looked deserted, so we patrolled into it. That’s when we lost Sasha.”

  “How?” I said.

  “He was shot in the neck with as crossbow. We had silenced weapons so we shot up the tents and shacks. We headed back into the woods, but they’d prepared traps. One of the men fell into a pit, an old-fashioned hole full of sharpened sticks. There were only four of us left.”

  He told us that they made their way back to the OP, where their recce operator was dead, his face smashed in with a blunt instrument.

  “We found his body” said Turov, “they’d cut out his tongue.”

  “Yes, that was Lev. A good man” said Dudko quietly. “I thought we’d been set up, that it was some strange Psy Ops shit. We wondered if the British had led us into a trap and that their SAS were ambushing us. That was when we were surrounded by the bastards. They crept up on us like ghosts. Some of them were dug into OPs like ours, those guys were definitely trained. They looked like tramps, but some of them had that look, you know? That look you see in guys who have been there, seen it and done it.”

  I nodded and helped myself to more coffee, “they took you prisoner?”

  “Yes, and here’s the crazy bit, the guy in charge? He was Russian.”

  “Tell me about him” said Turov, her eyes wide, “you are one of the few people to have met Fyodor Volk.”

  “Volk? He never mentioned his name. He lived in one of the tents, was clean and tidy. The men were completely obedient to him. He was tall and slim, almost two metres I guess. He had black hair and a beard, pale skin. Very striking looks and his accent was strange, like he’d lived abroad.”

  I pulled my chair forward as I spoke, “did he question you?”

  “Sort of, although he liked the sound of his own voice too much. He gave sermons, like a religious nut, describing us as evil servants of a discredited regime. Banged on about Capitalism, it was like being back at junior school in the old days.”

  By Dudko’s account, the strange Russian said that they were being tormented as punishment for their sins, for planning to murder Van Basten. “He kept talking about treachery and betrayal, and that the devil would gnaw on us for eternity. His friends lapped all this shit up, kept talking about banking and greed and war. Of course, the place was full of drugs. When I was tied up in one of the caravans I saw LSD, Mescaline, Ketamine and the rest, like a pharmacy. While I was there they were all smoking this very strong skunk, all of them sucking on big fat reefers and drinking. These guys didn’t give a fuck, seriously.”

  “What did he say about Van Basten?” I said.

  “He described Van Basten as a man who could shine a light into something he called the Ninth Circle and show the betrayers for what they were. He gave this speech where he said protecting him was a duty that would always be remembered, more meaningful than the false wars they’d been sent to fight. It was a load of horse-shit in my opinion, but they were hanging on every word. There were at least twenty-five of them that I saw.”

  I rubbed my forehead, “but why are they here, they couldn’t have known about you?”

  “Oh, that’s easy” smiled Dudko, exhaling cigar smoke, “they’re here to kill Sergei Belov. They were upfront about it. I heard them talking, I didn’t let on I knew any English. They were going to assault the house, kill everybody except Van Basten then burn it down. They’ve stockpiled incendiary grenades and petrol, the crazy sons-of-bitches.

  “But they’d go to prison for life” I said.

  “Those guys don’t care” shrugged Dudko, “they were talking about how easy it is in prison, how they’d be heroes in there.”

  “This man is definitely Fyodor Volk” said Alisa to the commando, “and there is something I don’t understand, because he works for the FSB too. I’m tracking him.”

  “Like I say, I’ve never heard of him” shrugged Dudko, pulling a face “but if I see him again I’m going to rip his arms and legs off while he watches.”

  “Maybe he’s gone freelance” said Andy, “can you find out Alisa?”

  “I will send an email to Moscow” she said, “after I’ve interrogated Pieter Van Basten.”

  Dmitri coughed politely, “sweetheart, if you think Sergei is going to let you do that …”

  “Dmitri” said the SVR officer, “let’s not ruin what is turning into a useful friendship, sweetheart. I eavesdropped on a conversation of his earlier – I think he’s linked in some way to Volk.”

  Dmitri’s face shook as he let out a booming laugh, “Pieter? He’s a geek. He spends all day on the internet. Really, Alisa Romanova, you’ve let your suspicions get the better of you.”

  I stood up, “Andy, play the recording to Dmitri, will you?”

  Andy nodded and pulled the recording device
from his bag. “It’s true,” he said.

  “I’d hurry up, whatever it is you intend to do” Dudko said, wrapping the blankets tightly around him, “because those crazies are going to attack this place as soon as they’ve re-grouped. I’d do it just before daybreak if I were them.”

  “I agree” I said, “We’re going to the camp to return the serve.” My phone chirruped in my pocket. It was a message from Harry, a document attached to the email. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  “I’ll go and speak to Sergei,” said Dmitri.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Alisa.

  “Wait” I said, “Belov is paying me to look after him. Let me explain the situation, tell him that we need to speak with Van Basten.”

  “OK” said Dmitri.

  Alisa gave me a look and nodded. She poured herself a coffee and glowered at Ruslan Dudko. The big Russian commando blew her a kiss and helped himself to more vodka.

  I went into the corridor and checked the message from Harry. Harry’s message was short and to the point:

  GET THE JOB DONE AND GO. RV @ HEATHROW FLIGHTS ARRANGED. I WILL MANAGE POST-OP ADMIN WITH CLIENT.

  The attached report contained analysis of internet traffic and mobile telephone data for phones attributed to Sergei Belov and Pieter Van Basten. It was marked SECRET and my phone wasn’t encrypted to that level. I guessed it was the fruits of the decades-long relationship with the Americans and their technical wizards at Fort Meade. Harry would only send it if it were vital. I scanned the document, ignoring the pages of numbers and association graphs, scrolling to the analyst’s conclusion at the end:

  Communication traffic between BELOV and VAN BASTEN is what one would expect given the nature of their relationship: a high volume of routine communication. On average the two men communicated 8.9 times a week over an eighteen-month period. VAN BASTEN habitually uses encrypted devices for online communication using proprietary military-grade security software that to date has defied attempts to access. However, sensitive techniques have allowed us to ‘ghost track’ parallel data attributed to known associates linked to Forbiddenfacts.net. The use of these techniques has led us to conclude that: