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The Ninth Circle

Page 20

by Dominic Adler


  VAN BASTEN possibly communicates using Voice Over Internet Protocol (VOIP) to a satellite telephone at least twice a day, we have given this communications device the codename PLINTH. More detailed call data is not currently available;

  Russian mobile telephone service provider data shows that PLINTH was called by a number attributed to a radical Russian hacking collective known as TROIKA. This was on one occasion last year, assessed as being a lapse in operational security;

  Members of TROIKA were subsequently arrested for an occult-linked murder in Moscow, open-source research reveals a wealth of lurid tabloid material about how members murdered a person they believed reported them to the authorities;

  TROIKA were vociferous supporters of Forbiddenfacts.net;

  PLINTH has been used in Africa, Central Russia and most recently in the United Kingdom;

  PLINTH is still active, last call data was forty-five minutes prior to the time of writing in the Central / Western part of the United Kingdom;

  Russian intelligence services are believed to also be attempting to intercept data from both VAN BASTEN and PLINTH;

  +++ REPORT ENDS +++

  I called Alisa over and showed her the report. “The gist of this is that Van Basten has been on the phone to Volk all the time” I said.

  She nodded, “we need that phone.”

  Sergei was with Evan Sands and Melissa in the office. Melissa sat in a chair, head in hands.

  “Is it over?” said Sergei.

  “It’s just getting started” I said, “where’s Van Basten?”

  “Why?” said Melissa.

  “None of your business, but we need to speak with him,” said Turov.

  “We had an argument earlier, over the website” said Sergei apologetically, “he is upset. Leave him be.”

  “Sergei” I said, “the men out there, the ones trying to kill you? We think Pieter is in telephone contact with them.”

  “Ridiculous,” spluttered Sergei.

  “Total bollocks” said Sands, “Pieter is a peaceful man.”

  “We haven’t time for your disappointment” said Alisa, “Sergei, I bugged the room. Van Basten used a trigger phrase from Dante that I believe links him to Fyodor Volk. Volk is trying to kill you, Sergei.”

  “A phrase from Dante?” sputtered Sergei, “please, Alisa, you expect me to …”

  “Poetry aside” I said, “I’ve just received intelligence data from my organisation. Van Basten probably has a satellite phone in his room. It’s linked to a number I suspect belongs to Fyodor Volk.”

  “If that is true, then I would like to see it for myself,” said Sergei.

  “Listen to yourself, Sergei” said Melissa, standing up. “Pieter wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  I brushed past them and headed for the stairs. “Show me to Van Basten’s room,” I grunted.

  Sergei and Melissa sat back down. Sergei put him arm around Melissa and whispered to her, like she were a troubled child. Dmitri shook his head and poured a drink.

  “Follow me,” said Sir Evan Sands.

  “Don’t hurt him, please,” said Melissa.

  “That will be his decision” said Alisa Turov, picking up her rifle and making it ready, “not mine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Sands lead us up two flights of flag-stoned stairs, along a winding corridor that took us to the easternmost wing of Croll House. At the end was a light grey door. “In there,” he said.

  “Wait here,” I replied. I handed my AK to Alisa and drew my pistol. She gave the rifle to Sands, who looked at it in horror as she pulled her own handgun.

  I nudged the door open with my toe and stepped into the freezing room, pistol in a Weaver grip. Turov followed me, her weapon drawing arcs. The double bed was strewn with clothes, the only other item a laptop computer on a desk.

  “Clear,” I sighed.

  The full-length window was open, long satin drapes billowing in the wind.

  I turned off the light and followed the wall to the window. I peered carefully out. A trail of fresh footprints led to the trees. Outside the window was an ivy-covered Juliet balcony, below that a flat roof three metres down. There were more footprints. I could have jumped it too, if I’d lowered myself to my full height from the balcony first.

  “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” I whispered to myself.

  The first bullet smashed into the window frame inches from my head, splinters of wood and plaster stinging my cheek as I threw myself to the floor. The stammer of automatic fire jarred in my ears as a volley of incoming rounds hit the thick stone walls surrounding the tall arched window.

  “Got that,” said a calm voice in Russian through my earpiece. I heard the crack-and-boom of a bullet piercing the sound barrier as one of Dmitri’s men returned fire. From the tree line I saw more muzzle flashes as other shooters joined in. Tracer arced through the trees, as the buzz-saw rattle of a machinegun joined the chorus of firearms.

  “Did you see anybody leave the house from my location?” I hissed into my mic.

  “Negative, I’ve just taken this position” replied the marksman over the net, “there’s movement in the tree line all along the southwest of the house.”

  Alisa was on her belly, crawling towards the laptop. “No” I spat, my back to the thick manor house wall. More rounds smashed into and through the window, zipping around the room, gouging deep holes in the plaster.

  “Shit” spat the SVR officer as a ricochet hit her, splintering the screen of the computer. She clutched her hand, face twisted in pain.

  “Casualty, upstairs bedroom” I said into my PRR “get Carl onto the second floor.”

  We scrambled out of the room, Sands lying on the floor clutching my AK like a drowning man with a lifebelt. “Bloody hell” he said, pulling a face. He pointed at the Kalashnikov, “how does this bastard thing work?”

  I examined Alisa’s hand. “It’s a scratch,” I grinned. The ricochet had caught the top of her left hand behind the knuckles, skimming it and leaving a livid cut from thumb to little finger. Blood ran freely from the injury, running down her wrist. I clasped my hand over it, applying pressure to staunch the bleeding.

  “Bastard” she winced, returning the smile “when you were grazed by that screwdriver in London I made a fuss over you.”

  “Excuse me, that was a proper stab wound” I dead-panned, “do they give you Purple Hearts in the SVR for being injured in action?”

  “No, but your heart will be purple when I cut it out” she said, catching a sob in her throat “that’s actually very painful.”

  “Is Pieter alright?” said Sands.

  “He’s gone” I said, “into the trees with his friends.”

  Sands looked at his feet and shook his head.

  I nudged his shoulder and smiled, “look on the bright side, Sir Evan, at least you live in a castle.”

  Carl jogged along the corridor, Kalashnikov in one hand and his trauma kit in the other. He knelt down and looked at Turov’s hand. “You were lucky” he said, “that looks worse than it is. There could be some nerve damage, let’s clean it up first.”

  “I am a pianist” said Alisa matter-of-factly.

  “You were,” said Carl, “and if you do what I say you might be again in a couple of months.”

  I left Carl with Sands and Turov and headed back down the stairs.

  Sergei slouched in his office chair, face pale. Melissa was sitting staring into the fire, head in her hands.

  “Pieter?” said Sergei.

  “He’s gone, Sergei.”

  “Why?” said the Oligarch, his hooded eyes locking onto mine.

  “I don’t know” I said.

  “He felt trapped” said Melissa coldly, “by you Sergei. He wanted to be free, but you were always in control.”

  “Watch your mouth” spat Sergei, “it was business. He needed me, without my support he’d be just another unemployed slacker, mouldering in a bedsit. Now he’s a household name.”

  “L
et’s call the police” said Melissa, hands shaking, “we’re going to die out here.”

  “No police” I said, “all of us are looking at thirty years if we’re lucky: firearms possession, arson and murder. In any case, how will the cops get here? There’s three feet of snow on the roads. Their helis can’t fly. Their radio network is probably down too. It’s just us and those crazy bastards out there.”

  “He’s right, Melissa” said Sergei, shaking his head, “it’s that file the FSB sent him, Cal. He hasn’t been the same since.”

  “What other skeletons do you have in that cupboard?” I asked.

  The Russian’s smile was tight, a row of straight white teeth visible under his lip, “a few, perhaps, but no more than you, Captain Winter.”

  “OK” I said, “We can worry about that tomorrow. I want you and Melissa to stay here.” I passed Sergei the Kalashnikov, “you know how one of these works?”

  “Of course” he replied, taking the weapon “although my days in the army were a long time ago. Ah, the new AK74… it feels just the same as the old one.”

  I nodded, “it never leaves you. The windows here are armoured, the doors are fireproof and it’s in the centre of the house. You’re safe. We will be attacked. Lock the doors and don’t let anybody in until I say so. I’ll send Sir Evan down, he has a spare rifle.”

  “Good luck,” said Sergei as I left the room. Sands stood in the corridor, rifle held loosely in his hands.

  “Into your office and lock the doors” I said, “Shoot anybody who comes in.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” said the businessman.

  “You can, trust me” I said, closing the door behind me.

  I hurried back to the great hall. Carl and Alisa had come back down and were readying weapons. Dmitri was strapping Ruslan Dudko into a set of body armour.

  “My enemies’ enemy is my friend,” said the FSB commando.

  “Yes, I think our differences can wait” said Alisa, “for tonight.”

  “Carl” I said, “did you capture Van Basten on the security cameras.”

  “Hold on, I’ll check” he said, leaving the room for the adjacent security office.

  “Zoran’s hit,” shouted a voice over the radio net, “they’re on the roof.”

  “Calm down” said Dmitri into his mic, “where are you?”

  We heard screaming, then silence. The static buzzed in my ear.

  I heard laughing.

  “You fuckers are next, hear that?” said a manic, high-pitched voice. “I’m cutting this bastard’s heart out.”

  Carl walked in, rifle ready. “Boss, the power to the cameras is down.”

  “Right,” Andy grinned “fix bayonets.”

  The other Russian bodyguard came over the net. “Dmitri, I have eyes on the house from the staff quarters. Anna, the housekeeper, is dead. They cut her throat. The enemy have split into two groups: one is climbing onto the roof with ladders via the rear of the house. The other is trying to break in via the rear dining room doors with sledgehammers. They’ve set fires along the building line.”

  “How many of them are there?” said Dmitri.

  “I guess fifteen at least. They look like fucking tramps. They’ve got rifles, SMGs, shotguns and axes. I can see a light machinegun and one crazy fucker even has a chainsaw.”

  “OK” I said, “Dmitri, Ruslan and Carl – cover the dining room. Andy, Alisa and me will go upstairs and cover the roof.”

  “Da” said Dmitri, “Ruslan, take this” he passed the FSB officer his rifle. Carl readied his AK and put on a helmet equipped with night vision goggles. The three men filed into the corridor and headed to the back of the house.

  “Here,” said Andy, unzipping one of his ballistic bags.

  He handed me the stubby Kel-Tec KSG shotgun, one of the weapons we’d retrieved in Epping Forest what seemed a lifetime ago. The black, evil-looking weapon felt good in my hands, a dual-purpose infrared and red-dot laser sight mounted on a rail. There were five boxes of shells, Twelve Gauge Number One Buckshot, our chosen ammo for close combat work. I slung the AK over my back, checked my pistol was in its holster then headed for the stairs. Andy followed me, his M6 in his shoulder, Alisa at the back of our group. Carl had strapped her hand up with a field dressing. She’d pulled a black ski glove over it, her suppressed SMG resting in her palm.

  From upstairs we heard the sound of smashing glass and banging. Behind us we heard gunfire and shouting. “Contact, contact” said Carl calmly over the net.

  I quickly climbed the stairs. On the landing I crouched down and glanced around the corner. Three scruffily-dressed men, wearing woollen hats, army surplus fatigues and boots were stood by a door, armed with hunting rifles and shotguns. The guy who was meant to be covering my end of the corridor had waist-length dreadlocks, his face half-covered with a tribal tattoo. He was pissing on the carpet, a fat joint hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Clear,” came a gruff voice from one of the bedrooms.

  The man finished urinating and turned towards me, reaching for the old 7.62 Self-Loading Rifle he’d propped against the wall. I fired the shotgun from my hip, the blast hitting him at the top of his leg, sending him crashing to the floor. I chambered another round and fired, the camouflaged figure behind him writhing as the shell ripped open his chest. Behind me, Andy opened up with his M6, the harsh clatter of gunfire battering my ears. Another body fell, a crazy trail of bullet holes ripping across the blood-spattered walls.

  “Return fire!” yelled another voice, over the groaning and swearing.

  The lights went out. The white bursts of muzzle flash were the only source of illumination. I hit the deck, a fine spray of buckshot whistling overhead from a shotgun. I fired again, the gout of flame from the stubby barrel of the Kel-Tec lighting the corridor.

  “Grenade!” barked Andy, as I heard the tinny ching of the lever ejecting from the body of the weapon. Ahead of us there was swearing and the sound of men fighting to find cover. The spherical frag grenade made a noise as it bounced once on the carpeted floor.

  I scurried back around the corner, chambering another round in my shotgun. The thump of the grenade going off in the enclosed space deafened me for a moment before I heard screaming. I pulled my night vision goggles from their pouch on my belt kit and fixed them in place, Alisa firing her SMG from the other side of the landing. In the grey-green light I saw at least four bodies on the floor, the carpets thick with debris, weapons and body parts.

  Andy gingerly stepped forward, rifle in shoulder. His night vision goggles made him look like a bug-eyed alien as he stalked along the corridor. “Clear!” he shouted.

  I checked the bodies. The men were in their thirties and forties. They had long, matted hair and weather-beaten faces. All smelt strongly of booze. Andy pulled a face and gestured that we was going to the end of the corridor, where the windows were open. An icy blast of wind cut along the corridor. “Dmitri” I said quietly into my PRR, “you OK down there?”

  “Yes” said the Russian security man, “we’ve exchanged fire with them, killed two. They’ve fallen back into the garden. They’re trying to get to the centre of the house, like they know where Sergei is.”

  “Van Basten” I spat, “he’s told them.”

  “Shit” shouted Dmitri, “they’re using incendiary grenades. They’ve started fires.”

  “Hold on” I said, “we’re almost done up here.”

  Over the radio I heard gunshots and Dmitri barking orders in Russian. Then he keyed his mic off. At least I hoped it was him.

  I joined Andy by the open window. A long ladder was propped against it, which I tipped back down. Andy pulled the pin on a grenade and jammed it, safety lever down, under the sash window. He pulled the curtains across to cover his handiwork. If anybody opened it they’d be in for a nasty surprise.

  We continued along the corridor, noticing boot-prints on the deeply carpeted floors. I lay down on my belly as we reached the next corner, shuffling forward
to look. As soon as my helmeted head broke the line of the wall I heard shots, automatic fire passing over my head and chewing into the brickwork.

  “Shit” I hissed, pushing myself backwards with my elbows.

  Alisa pushed her weapon out into the corridor at arm’s length and opened fire, emptying the magazine in one long burst. I could see the pain in her eyes as her damaged hand grasped the stubby grip of the weapon.

  Andy tossed me a flash-bang. I nodded my thanks, pulled the pin and threw it around the corner. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. After the bang and brilliant flash of light I pushed myself into the corridor with the enthusiasm of a man jumping off a cliff without a parachute. I saw a dark shape in my NVGs, a man crouching in a doorway to my left. My weapon panned towards him, the infrared dot sweeping across his body. I fired and fell to one knee as Andy dashed past me, firing bursts from his rifle. The man fell backwards into a bedroom, scrabbling on his back like he was on fire. I shot him again, the blast taking off the side of his head like an over-ripe melon.

  I heard Andy’s voice from the next room, “Cal, in here.”

  Turov joined me in a guest room and switched on the light. One of Volk’s followers was curled in a ball in the middle of the room, rocking and sobbing. His hands were bloodied, fingers missing where they’d caught part of my shotgun blast. An abandoned Uzi lay on the bed.

  “Where’s Volk?” said Turov gently, putting her hand on the man’s head.

  “He’s watching” hissed the man, face grey and twisted. His hair was cut short, beard roughly hewn into a forked Mephistopheles, “he’ll kill you all.”

  I looked into his yellowed eyes, pupils pinprick-small. I patted him down as he shivered, mangled hands fluttering. He wore an old army-surplus jacket over layers of jumpers. His pockets were full of empty brown medicine bottles, a dark canvass rucksack lying next to him.

  “Methadone” said Andy, “fuel for the New Age fighting man.”

  “Why aren’t you trying to kill us?” said Alisa, stroking his filthy hair, “what is your name?”

 

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