by Tim Heath
Years Leading up to April 1998
Since first taking stock of the Novichok-5 nerve agent, O’Doherty had become even more the Devil his nickname and reputation had titled him. He was the most wanted man in both Ireland and the UK, and crucially for the British, it wasn’t clear what nationality this man was.
O’Doherty was by that point known to few men––those who knew him would be killed in the final few vicious months before the Good Friday Agreement in April 1998.
By that point, his reputation was a thing of legend. The man who burned his victims all the way to hell. The Devil bringing fire to those who crossed his path.
Unknown to most, his victims were usually already a long way on the way to dying, if not dead already. His use of the nerve agent meant he could get to a victim long before the flames engulfed the body, taking with their flaming fingers any evidence that there was anything such as Novichok-5 in play. It was a substance that didn’t officially exist though rumours were coming out of the former Soviet Union that it had been weaponised and developed. Few believed such stories. Most assumed it was in the planning stage, but nothing more.
O’Doherty, of course, knew differently.
He was now working solo, picking his targets via online and untraceable internet forums in the newly digitalised Ireland. That gave O’Doherty greater secrecy. It also made him bolder than he would otherwise have been. His one mistake––and a genuinely colossal one, as it would turn out––came at the end of 1997.
He had taken out a British MP. The man had many enemies, and it wasn’t clear who wanted him dead. There were those in the man’s own political party who couldn’t help but smile at the news of his passing. Few, however, kept smiling when they heard how he’d died. This time, the car had not gone up in flames.
With the British desperately hunting the man known only as the Devil––he’d stopped using a calling card by that point, the scene of the crime was evidence enough of his wizardry––they’d infiltrated the firm supplying one of his key ingredients. When O’Doherty had made the kill––he’d poisoned the British MP in his own car with the hooker he was having sex with that night––the Irishman had then scattered the car with the homemade mixture that he used to ignite the murder scene. He had smoked his regular cigarette, waiting a moment, before flicking the burning remains into the car. He’d seen it a hundred times and didn’t stay around.
Except, this time, the vehicle didn’t burn. They had switched the critical ingredient, known only to the British.
A day later, the most extensive manhunt of the decade was underway. Two police officers had already been hospitalised, and a full chemical investigation was underway. No one knew what had happened.
O’Doherty went into hiding. They had compromised him. His homemade compound was worthless, and he had no way of making any more. And because of the known use of an internationally banned weapons-grade nerve agent, he was a wanted man more than ever. The British would never announce the fact, however. They were only just learning about the agent’s existence. The fact the Irish might have had it was strange unless it was just made to look like that.
It was to be O’Doherty’s final terrorist attempt. He went to ground in April 1998, at the time the IRA and the British were in peace talks. They deemed the conflict to be over between the two groups––it would never be entirely over, as there were people on the Irish side who only saw concessions as a sign of weakness on their leader’s side––and peace was heralded.
One thing was clear, however. In all the release of prisoners and pardons for those still on the run, an initial sticking point had been the freedom of the man known only by that stage as the Devil.
“He’s one person who doesn’t get off,” the British had been clear.
“We don’t know if he’s even one of us.” The Irish representative had no clue to the man’s identity. They’d heard the legend, for sure, and popular myth had him being a Dubliner and more faithful to the cause than any they’d heard of. But no one had ever met the man. If he was IRA, then Sinn Féin had no contact with him. They would happily agree to this man’s exemption in the peace process, mainly because they did not understand who he was.
“Give him up!”
“Believe us when we tell you, if we knew who he was, we would!” Both negotiators had been working alongside each other for months. They’d built up a level of understanding. The British understood they were not being fed a lie.
That final incident––the death by poison of an acting MP––was put away secretly somewhere. The drug used never categorised. The death of one policeman from the scene explained away through natural causes. He had suffered a heart attack, and it was quickly assumed––naively so––that his death and the crime scene had nothing to do with each other. Only a few in power within the British ranks knew about the connections. They sent samples to Porton Down, the Chemical Defence Establishment near Salisbury in the south of England. It would be many decades before they ever had a second sample to map and analyse, by which time the legend of the Irish Devil had all but been forgotten––the only reference name they had for him on the Security Service database, his status still down as wanted––and yet no one knew if he was even alive anymore.
His attacks had ended with that failed attempt to burn away the evidence in the car of the former MP. They assumed someone had taken him out before he could have burned the vehicle.
It had been, however, another reason altogether that had taken O’Doherty out of action. In the days after that botched killing––the murder had still happened, but the fire had failed to wipe out the evidence––he’d met someone, a special someone who was about to turn his world upside down.
7
The FSB unit got to the airbase in time for the return of the two trucks. They had also ordered Russian military personnel to offer the FSB unit extra firepower. They ordered the two dozen soldiers from the trucks, the men from the Guards unit placed under arrest for having helped a wanted criminal escape. Each man in handcuffs and taken away in waiting vehicles that Filipov had ordered to the base on learning of the flight out of Russian airspace. Putin had escaped––though Filipov had a fair idea where he had gone––but those responsible for making it happen could yet be taught a lesson. It was time the Russian Guards learned who their new President was.
It was the following morning when the twenty-four Guards were driven into the main military base on the edge of Moscow. They ordered the entire company of locally based soldiers which included members of the Russian Guards to be present as were the divisions of regular military personnel. There had long been friction between the Russian Army and the Guards, the latter founded by Putin himself, who wanted trained men who were not so easily controlled by others. That investment had saved his life the previous day, their loyalty clear as they helped to smuggle the former president from their country. Now Filipov, however, had a point to prove. He needed to get the Guards in line. He wasn’t yet sure if he should allow them to remain at all and if the need for a separate unit had any value in a Russia which he was about to build. That was a thought for a later moment. Now it was all for show.
Filipov made an appearance himself at the military base, his car pulling up in front of the lines of immaculately dressed and presented soldiers. The twenty-four former Guards––they’d already been stripped of all rank within the Russian military––stood facing the troops in front, hands still tied behind their backs, each man a prisoner. They designed everything to make a point. The President had to be seen to be in control, to be strong, especially in the face of plain disloyalty. How he dealt with these men right now would go a long way towards how all the watching servicemen would view their new Supreme Commander. If Filipov got this wrong, they would know he was a weak President. Weak men rarely stayed long in power, especially in Russia. He would show them how strong he could be.
Filipov got out of his car. Most had apparently not expected his presence there, clearly not the two-dozen prison
ers. Fear was plain on a few of the faces, those most loyal to Putin and who had the most to lose. Filipov stood in front of the waiting troops. He was about to address his men, not the prisoners behind him, his back towards them.
“I have gathered you all here today because an example needs to be set before you this morning. A lesson needs learning. The lesson is this: I will not tolerate insubordination by anybody within this nation. Any order I give, any law that I invoke, must be carried out by those given the authority to govern and police our beloved country.
“Yesterday, I issued an arrest warrant for Putin. It was time someone made him account for his actions over the last decade. These men who stand behind me, however,” and Filipov raised his right arm as if it might be unclear who the men in question were, “chose to ignore that instruction, instead, rushing to that criminal’s aid and helping him escape. I do not know where he has gone,” which wasn’t true, as Filipov had an excellent idea where Putin had landed, and therefore who he was now with, “and a lot of time and resources will now be wasted trying to find him. Men and women of this nation’s military forces, this behaviour has no place in the future of our nation. I will not tolerate it. An example has to be made. Fail to do what you are being ordered to do, and your fate will be the same as these criminals behind me.” Filipov stepped to one side and now turned for the first time towards the men from the Russian Guards. As if on cue, a team of two dozen marksmen filed out from a side door of a nearby building, each carrying their weapon. They lined up in front of each of the prisoners though their guns were by their side. A murmur was going around the gathered troops. Filipov was then handed a bag which he took, walking up to the line of Guards, and reaching into the sack as he got to the first man.
There was silence again. No one quite knew what was about to happen next.
Filipov pulled his hand out of the bag, in it one of the twenty-four black material sacks he’d requested. He pulled down the sack over the first prisoner, moving along the line and doing the same to the next man and so on until, after just a minute––and as if handing out medals to victorious athletes––he’d completed the line. An aide came and took the now empty bag from the President. There was total silence, just the two dozen prisoners, a sack on each head, standing before the gathered troops of both the military and Russian Guards. Between them were the marksmen, who suddenly each raised their weapon as if aware of an unvoiced command. Instead, it was Filipov again who spoke next.
“Good people of the Russian military, I have brought you here today to witness this because I want it to be blatantly obvious that disloyalty of any degree will be dealt with harshly.”
On cue, each weapon fired, the square filled with the echoes of multiple bullets, each person’s ears ringing for a while, as the scene played out before their eyes. The twenty-four prisoners fell to the ground in one smooth motion, each shot through the chest, each man soon confirmed dead. There was a noticeable edginess to the watching soldiers. The marksmen left the square. The bodies lay on the ground.
“I trust that I will not have to do this again,” Filipov said, his final words spoken before heading back towards his car, the rear door still open from when he’d arrived a few minutes earlier. He didn’t once glance back to the scene he was leaving. The car pulled away. Even when he was out of sight, it was as if those remaining soldiers didn’t know what to do. Before long, someone shouted orders. Those with the military followed their leaders back into the barracks while the Russian Guards gathered around the fallen comrades. Most didn’t know the men personally, but in pairs they carried each man into the hospital wing. Body bags were already available. No one said a word, each mulling over what it all meant. For those who had been around long enough, the hardline actions of their new President echoed the stories and legends they had heard from their commanding officers when they had first joined the army as fresh-faced recruits many decades before. The realisation brought a chill to the spine.
The Assad Compound––Syria
Putin had landed in the war-torn country the previous day. An elite unit of Russian soldiers still stationed in the battered nation had met him. These men were loyal to their former leader. The airforce had dropped them in the country to protect Assad, something Putin had ordered a few months ago. He had also ordered Radomir Pajari into action for the same reason. Learning the crack-shot sniper had been pulled out two days before by order of the Kremlin, was deeply troubling.
Three hours after landing, Putin was with Assad. The Syrian President had assured the Russian he was welcome there. Putin had few allies who would be so accommodating, especially if Filipov raised an international warrant for his arrest. Putin wondered how many nations would queue up to oblige the new leader of one of the world’s superpowers.
Russia had stood alongside the Assad government ever since the war started. They believed it was the West that had caused the conflict to last this long. If they’d helped to stop the opposition, instead of arming them, the war might have been over already, the rebuilding started. It would take many decades to put the nation back together again.
Assad was in a part of the country loyal to him. They controlled the land all around, and thanks to the Russians, had the weapons to protect themselves from missile and air attacks. With a new change of leadership in Russia, Assad didn’t now know where allegiances stood. Putin being there, albeit on the run himself, was hopefully a good thing. There were some, however, who raised a few questions. When Putin had called, and while still on his way to Syria, some closest to Assad had questioned whether they should offer him asylum, for fear it might threaten their protection from Russia. Without Russian backing, they wouldn’t last long. Assad had dismissed the concerns. Putin had always been loyal to him, and it would damn him if he was about to turn his back on his friend at his most significant time of need. The order was clear. Putin was to be made welcome and offered the same protection as they were giving their beleaguered President. At least having both men in the same place meant they were not splitting their numbers. If Assad remained safe, then Putin would be. Putin was apparently not going anywhere else soon.
It was just the two of them now.
“Was there any sign of outside interference?” Assad said, strolling with his friend as they drank tea from cardboard cups.
“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. Filipov fought a good battle. Played everyone.”
“You don’t trust him?” It was clear Putin didn’t.
“No, not one bit. Filipov’s a dangerous man, Bashar, I can assure you.”
“So why didn’t you take him out earlier? You’ve done it before.”
“I didn’t have the chance.” Which was true. Putin’s main problem with Filipov was that he hadn’t really seen him coming. Filipov only announced his standing a few months before the election, didn’t himself live in Russia, and by that point had already taken out Putin’s communications contacts, not to mention the men financing him. Putin had never been so poorly resourced.
“And you think his intentions towards you are hostile?” It wasn’t much of a question.
“He’s barely in power, and he wants me arrested. Come on Bashar, what do you think is going on?” Both men had a fair idea about that, they’d been in power long enough. The first thing you did was to wipe out any chance of an uprising, remove any figures who might wish to regain a strength they once had. Putin was undoubtedly such a man inside Russia. It was clear Filipov couldn’t leave him in peace for too long without risking his own Presidency.
“Does he know you are with me?” There was a note of anxiety in Assad’s voice, though he did well not to show it.
“I don’t know. It depends when Filipov found out I was gone.”
“Will he keep your line of supporting my efforts here in Syria?” That was now a real concern for Assad, given everything they’d just been discussing.
“I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
Neither man said anything else, for the time being,
each sipping their tea, looking out over the grounds––beyond the compound there was only rubble and destruction.
The Kremlin, Moscow––Russia
“Where is he?” Filipov demanded not for the first time.
“We can’t be sure. Putin might have dropped into Syria, but given the state of that country and the American warplanes, that can’t be confirmed. It’s a hot zone. He could well have flown much further south.”
“To Africa?”
“It’s one possibility. Putin has a few friendly nations down there. China is also possible.”
“Would Beijing take him in?”
“I think it would make their position difficult if they did.”
“Keep searching,” Filipov ordered, the aide leaving the room, Svetlana hovering by the door. She was pleased to hear Filipov didn’t know where Putin was. She’d not agreed with her President’s decision from the beginning. She had no loyalty to Putin but had seen it as a fair contest. Both men had played their hand, and the tone had been hostile, but that’s what happened in an election. People said things they might regret. Nobody went after the losing candidate, however, and especially not the ousted President. She’d not been happy about the arrest warrant and was pleased someone had got the word out, though she had been dismayed to find out––after the event––of the killing of the two dozen Russian Guards. She was fearing who she was involved with.
However, Filipov had promised her a place at the top table, and that was what she now had. She’d formally split with her husband and was enjoying being single, though it was still early days. The full reality had yet to sink in. Despite what the papers were speculating, there was no relationship of any romantic kind between her and Matvey. It had been purely business. She also longed to have her Games back one day, and Filipov had said that might well be possible. She was yet to know how.