“There usually are,” I shrugged.
“The OMON, the interior ministry guards at Shakuvo, are sometimes augmented by FSB troops. We cannot include anybody from the interior ministry in this operation, so we will have to infiltrate the site independently.”
For the first time since I left Bailey’s house I laughed. “The FSB are unwittingly guarding the site where we think their leaked files are kept?”
“Yes” said Alisa, her bruised face creasing into a smile, “the irony isn’t lost on me.”
“So how does Volk get onto the base?”
Alisa tapped the screen of her laptop, “this is what I hope Arkady Vitsin might be able to tell me.”
At Moscow we were hurried through the airport by plain-clothed security men and ushered into a minibus. We drove around the perimeter track in silence before stopping at a hangar. Outside men in parkas worked clearing ice from an air force Antonov AN26 transport plane, liquid dripping from the twin-propellers as they hosed de-icer on the engines.
“Not as luxurious as the Lear Jet” said Alisa chirpily, “sorry.”
I slid out of the minibus and stretched. The cold air pricked my face, “I suppose this operation is off the books for SVR too?”
“Partly” she replied, “my directorate head is reporting that I’m investigating the trade in radiological materials. It fits my pattern of travel.”
Inside the Antonov I made myself as comfortable as I could. We were given ear-defenders, cold-weather flying suits with a Russian flag sewn on the sleeve and fur-lined boots. The loadmaster handed us blankets, bread rolls and flasks of coffee. I stretched out on the canvas benches and closed my eyes.
The airframe shuddered as the engines coughed into life, the Antonov taxiing onto the runway. Minutes later we were powering through the low, black clouds and heading east towards Tatarstan. Alisa ate, wiping crumbs from her mouth, laptop perched on the bench next to her. I napped, rolling into a ball underneath the rough woollen blankets as the plane yawed and bumped. Eventually I woke up and sipped my coffee. The loadmaster, a cheerful-looking bloke wearing a fur hat, pointed at the NO SMOKING sign and offered me a cigarette. I took it, a disgusting menthol thing, and lit up gratefully. I’d have killed for a decent cigar.
We landed at Borisoglebskoye field, which the loadmaster told me was an old experimental airfield in the suburbs of Kazan. He shook my hand as we left the plane, leaving our flight suits and hats with him. He gave me his soft-pack of cigarettes as a good-bye present. “I’m out of vodka,” he said sadly.
“Now that is a tragedy,” I agreed as we waved farewell. The airfield was surrounded by low-level industrial buildings, snow-ploughs parked by the apron.
“Here’s our ride,” said Alisa, waving at a man leaning against a grimy SUV. He waved back, huddled in an army surplus parka and fur hat.
“I am Pechkin, welcome to Kazan” he said in a high-pitched voice. He was tubby, with a five o clock shadow and rimless spectacles. He had a smouldering Sobranie stuck to his lip that moved up and down as he spoke, “you two look like you’ve been to a boxing match with a gorilla.”
“I am Colonel Turov,” said Alisa, looking him up and down disapprovingly. She jerked a thumb at me, “but don’t worry about him.”
“Hey no problems, Colonel,” said Pechkin “does Don’t Worry About Him have any luggage?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I shrugged.
“The first time we met you kidnapped me at gunpoint” she laughed, pinching my cheek “don’t expect any special treatment.”
“Get a room,” said Pechkin, rolling his eyes as he opened the doors of the SUV.
“Are you always this rude?” said Alisa.
“Well, I’m stuck in a covert facilities posting in Tatarstan in January, Colonel” said the fat SVR man as he drove us out of the airfield and onto a main road, “I must have done something wrong.”
“Good point” agreed Alisa, “do you have the equipment I asked for?”
Pechkin grunted, “Some pencil-neck from X Directorate phoned up in the middle of the fucking night and said there was a shipment of protective equipment waiting for me at the warehouse I rent, I don’t know who delivered it. I haven’t had time to check.”
“Take us straight there, then” sighed Alisa, “what have you found out about Arkady Vitsin?”
“I know of Vitsin,” said Pechkin, brightening up, “an informant I was running last year, some madman from Kazakhstan, was running heroin for him. Vitsin’s front company is a tourist operation in town, does adventure sports and stuff. Kazan is becoming the sports capital of Russia, which is typical of my luck. I prefer chess to soccer.”
Alisa nodded approvingly, “what surveillance capability do you have, Pechkin?”
“Me, some binoculars and this car” he said, “if the OMON or FSB knew I was here I’d be fucked. And the local cops out here make the pigs in Moscow look like ballerinas.”
“OK, after you take us to see our equipment, we go to Vitsin’s office,” she replied.
Pechkin cheered up at the prospect of some action, “hey, that’s no problem. He’s a rancid little shit, he won’t give you any trouble. I’ve got weapons at the warehouse.”
“There’s one more thing, Pechkin” said Alisa quietly, “and if you can manage it I’ll make sure you get posted out of here by spring.”
“Hey, you name it Colonel” he puffed, overtaking a lorry on a blind bend, “I’ll even suck the dicks of Vladimir Putin and his bodyguard if you like.”
The outskirts of Kazan were like any other big city, but in the distance I could see Onion domes and the turquoise spires of a great mosque. I knew Kazan was a fifty-fifty split between Christians and Muslims, and was one of those lucky places where faiths lived side-by-side in relative peace.
“I want you to get us into the secure zone at the Shakuvo reactor site, Pechkin,” she said coolly.
“I think it would be easier for me to persuade Putin to drop his trousers, Colonel” he laughed, “but I’ll try if it gets me back to Moscow, or a nice overseas posting.”
We drove past some Soviet-era housing projects, the streets lined with little market stalls selling household goods and food. Pechkin finally parked at a back-street warehouse sandwiched between a sad-looking auto repair shop and a bakery. Swarthy men wearing leather jackets and fur hats stood around, smoking and drinking steaming cups of coffee.
I got out of the car and lit up a cigarette. I winced as the harsh tobacco ticked my lungs. “Anywhere I can get some cigars around here?” I said.
“I’ve got some in the warehouse, Chinese cigars.”
Alisa shook her head as we stepped inside. The warehouse was full of tinned food, caviar, boxed electrical items, tobacco and booze. Pechkin found a box of Great Wall cigars and tossed them to me. “Present from the SVR,” he said.
“Hey, thanks” I said, “I guess that’ll be the only one I’ll get.”
Alisa raised an eyebrow and went over to a pile of boxes marked SURVEY EQUIPMENT: FRAGILE. Pechkin passed her a pallet-knife and she slashed open the packaging.
Inside were CBRN protective suits made of a thick grey rubberized material, complete with protective helmets fitted with breathing equipment. Another sealed plastic bag contained over-boots and gloves. “We don’t need to wear these all the time on-site” said Alisa, “there are inconsistent radiation levels.”
“That’s the problem with Shakuvo” agreed Pechkin, “you could be in a park in the old town and you wouldn’t need to wear anything. The ambient rads would just be just slightly higher than normal, but go a hundred metres on and you could be in a hot zone. But I’d wear that stuff anywhere near the reactor site, say a kilometre.”
Alisa passed me a small yellow Dosimeter, like the one we saw in the photo of Van Basten.
“In Iraq we did lots of drills for chemical warfare, but that was years ago,” I said.
“We will wear the Dosimeters all the time in the zone, OK? We might have to wear the suits, but we carry
the breathing apparatus until we need it.”
“Sure,” I said. I lit a Chinese cigar. It wasn’t Cuban, but it would do. I exhaled happily, “what next?”
“Weapons, please” said Alisa to Pechkin.
He nodded and unlocked a steel cupboard. Inside were rifles, shotguns, SMGs and pistols. “Take your pick, Colonel,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow as she put her hand on the back of my neck “nothing too big,” she said “concealable weapons only.”
I chose a Walther P22, loaded it and tucked it into the waistband of my heavy denim trousers. Pechkin nodded and passed me a brutal-looking wooden truncheon studded with steel rivets. I took it and slid it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
Alisa loaded a handgun, a Makarov.
“Am I coming?” said Pechkin.
“Yes you’re coming” sighed Alisa, “I don’t know where Vitsin’s office is.”
Pechkin grinned. “I hope the fucker puts up a fight” he said, his jowly face splitting into a grin. “I’ve got a baseball bat in the car, in case he needs some persuading.”
We went outside and got into Pechkin’s SUV.
“Are you OK?” said Alisa, touching my arm.
“I’ve got a box of cigars and I’m sitting next to a beautiful, heavily armed woman” I said, “perhaps I could be happier, but I’m not sure by how much.”
“Like I said” sneered Pechkin, “go get a fucking room.”
“Shut up and drive, before I recommend a posting to the Arctic Circle,” said Colonel Turov.
“Yes Colonel!”
I laughed and sucked on my cigar as the SVR man drove into Kazan, the sun lighting up the minarets of the distant Mosque.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Vitsin’s office was on the ground floor of a mint-coloured building near a park. Apart from the children playing in the snow, it was quiet.
“The office is the one with the yellow sign outside” said Pechkin, “that’s his car, the black BMW.”
Alisa checked her pistol again “Pechkin, wait outside until I call you in. If anything goes wrong you head back to the warehouse and we meet you there.”
“Yes, I understand,” he said, looking around for cops.
We walked to the office. A faded sign read TATAR ADVENTURE SPORTS in Russian, Tatar and English. The blinds were down, amber light visible from the doorway. I went up and rang on the bell on the entry phone.
“Hi,” said a friendly voice in Russian.
“My name is Alex” I said, “I’ve got some Americans visiting the university, they want to go boating. Can you help?”
“Sure, come in.” The door buzzed.
We walked into an unremarkable office. Pictures of outdoor sports covered the walls, a couple of sad potted plants wilting by a heavy steel radiator. Sitting behind a desk was a skinny weasel in his thirties, wearing ripped jeans and a black woollen sweater. He was lighting a cigarette. “Sit down” he said, “I’m Arkady.” His oiled black hair swept back behind his ears, his eyes sunk into his pale, angular face. An ashtray full of cigarette butts sat in front of him, next to a can of soda.
Alisa stepped forward, her face grim. She whipped the handgun from her jacket and stuffed the barrel into Arkady Vitsin’s forehead. “I know,” she said coolly. “Where is Fyodor Volk?”
“Are you a cop?” he replied calmly.
“Keep your hands on the table, Arkady” I said, locking the door, “we’re not cops, so that’s the start of your problems.”
“FSB?”
Alisa reversed the pistol in her hand and smashed the butt of the weapon into Arkady’s cheek. “I ask the questions!”
“Are you sure you’re not a cop?” laughed Vitsin, spitting out a tooth, “and in any case, who on earth should I be more scared of than Fyodor Volk?”
“Is that a challenge?” I said, pulling the long wooden cosh from my pocket.
Vitsin rolled his eyes as his fingers explored the cut on his face, “look, I haven’t seen him for a year. Yes, I know him. No, I don’t work for him. Just leave me alone. Leave a message for him if you like.”
Grabbing his wrist, I slammed his left hand on the desk and battered it with the cosh. I didn’t stop until every finger and knuckle was broken. Then I started on his wrist. “This was for a friend of mine” I said, “who Volk murdered.” Andy would have done the same for me, but with a knife.
Alisa stuffed a rolled up magazine from his desk into Vitsin’s mouth to muffle the screams. “Now work on his feet,” she spat.
“Let’s see if he wants to talk,” I panted.
Vitsin slid from his chair and curled into a ball, sobbing. Kicking him out of the way I opened the drawer of his desk, emptying paperwork onto the floor.
Alisa checked his computer, opening his email account. “Where is your cell phone?” she said.
Vitsin’s face was grey as he pointed at his coat, which was hung over the back of a chair.
I checked the pockets, pulling out an iPhone. “Arkady, open up whatever hidden email account you’ve got on here.”
He nodded as I held the phone in front of him. He tapped something into the phone with his free hand, eyes streaming. “There, that’s it,” he sobbed.
I scrolled through the Cyrillic script of the email he’d opened, sent from a disposable covert account. I read out the username, “Malebranche?”
“More Dante” said Alisa, “it’s a type of devil.”
I read out the email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Visit
Happy New Year, Arkady. We need to visit soon. Is Oleg available?
“Who’s Oleg?” I said.
“He’s a tour guide I use” he sobbed, “fuck this hurts.”
Alisa stamped on his shattered hand with her boot, “a tour guide for where?”
“Shakuvo” he groaned, “Oleg specialises in breaking into Shakuvo.”
“Why?” I said.
“It’s an extreme sport. Americans pay big money to get in and explore the town, especially the secure zone. Oleg did his military service in a radiological warfare unit. He served in Shakuvo, knows the place like his own backyard.”
I leant down and waved the wrap of heroin I’d found with the iPhones in front of Arkady’s face, “why would Volk want to go to Shakuvo?”
“I can only tell you what I know, please” he pleaded, “Fyodor Volk is from Shakuvo. He goes to lay fresh flowers for his family who died there, you must believe me! It’s the anniversary of the accident this week. Oleg always takes him in, to avoid the guards, he figures out what new hot zones there are …”
“Thank you, Arkady” said Alisa, “I’m sorry for having to hurt you. Now, if you can tell us when Volk is coming, and how we contact Oleg, then we will leave.”
“I don’t know when, but it must be soon. I called Oleg, he is expecting Volk and they will make their own arrangements. Oleg trusts me to put him in touch with people, after that it’s his business. His telephone number and address is in my phone.”
Turov nodded at me.
I flipped through the phone and found the name, Oleg Danshov, and an address in a place called Menzelinsk. I pulled the suppressed Walther and shot Vitsin twice in the head. We smashed up the office and emptied his cash-box, then I scattered heroin on the corpse.
“Looks like a robbery to me” she said approvingly, “or a visit from the FSB.”
“What’s the difference? Let’s go.”
We left the office, closing the door behind us and got into the car.
“And?” said Pechkin.
“And nothing,” said Alisa. “Take us to the warehouse, then the airfield.”
“Where are you going?” said Pechkin, pulling into traffic.
“I need you to pull the army records for a man called Oleg Danshov. He will have served in a Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare unit. I guess he’s a Tatar.”
“Hopefully he’s in Kaz
an” I said, “can we trace his phone?”
“I don’t see any other way,” said Alisa.
“Leave it with me” grumbled Pechkin, undertaking a taxi and pumping the horn on the SUV.
Back at the warehouse we loaded our CBRN equipment into Pechkin’s car while he made some calls. “Alisa, hold on” I said. “Why don’t I just call this Oleg guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Give me your phone.” I punched Oleg’s number into it and waited. After a few moments a man with a gruff voice answered.
“Who is it?” he said.
“Hi, my name is Alex. Arkady gave me your number.”
“Oh did he? Did he tell you I’m busy?”
“Yes, but he said that you might listen to my offer.”
“Make it quick,” said Oleg.
“I have some Americans staying with me, extreme sportsmen” I said, “they want to do a tour of Shakuvo, under the noses of the guards. They will pay a thousand US dollars cash, each, and I’ve got six of them here. Can you do anything for me? Arkady says you’re the best.”
“When? I’ve got another client first thing tomorrow morning.”
“OK, how about straight afterwards, maybe after lunch? These guys have lots of money. I can arrange a transfer to fly them out to Shakuvo.”
“OK, but they won’t have long before it gets dark” sighed Oleg, “if you meet me at the crossroads on the road south of Shakuvo airfield, near the gas station. Tomorrow at one o’clock? I can get them near the reactor shroud, within three hundred metres, and back before dark. I know all the low radiation zones, if you don’t you can catch something nasty.”
I smiled at Alisa and nodded, “Oleg, you are awesome.”
“Whatever” he said wearily, “if you want me to provide Dosimeters and masks I can do that, but I want another three hundred dollars per person. Cash.”
“Great Oleg” I gushed, “that sounds perfect, these guys will be thrilled.”
“As long as they tip,” he grunted.
I ended the call. “I think he’s taking Volk in first, I said we’d meet at thirteen-hundred. Volk and Van Basten must be flying in tonight.”
“We can’t cover the airport” sighed Alisa, “the interior ministry would figure out that the SVR are looking for Volk. And they’ll have good papers, I’m sure of that.”
The Ninth Circle Page 26