The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  Both were silent for a moment. Anissa watching Sasha, the Russian unable to look back but sensing her eyes were on him. He busied himself at the window again.

  “So what else is new?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.

  He turned back to face her, beginning to speak about the nuclear incidents that had rocked Europe over recent weeks and Bethany’s information that had saved the UK and highlighted Filipov’s direct involvement in them all. They were on safer ground again at last and chatted freely for the remainder of the time before dinner arrived, bringing with it a couple of nurses, and Sasha saw his chance to leave. He’d been at the hospital for nearly an entire day and needed to shower and get some sleep. Sasha promised to be back the following day. He took the wreath with him as he went.

  Everything was different now. He knew that. She’d lost her family. He’d always known they meant the world to her. It was why he’d never done anything with her in St Petersburg when there had been the chance, and why she felt so guilty about kissing him despite nothing else happening. She’d later told him what had concerned her most was her desire to have taken it further. She’d wanted more to happen. And while he knew she’d had a terrible day in court back then, it was the knowledge of her family that had ultimately stopped him. Because he would have wanted something himself, otherwise.

  Walking away from the hospital and back to the car, he knew this wasn’t the scenario he would have ever planned. But they were both alone now. It was way too soon, he knew, and he wouldn’t do anything about it. Not for the immediate future, anyhow. He wasn’t going to say never. If the time came, though, when she might kiss him a second time, he wouldn’t back away, play the gentleman, do the right thing.

  Getting into his car, he was confused. He’d not long separated from Helen, and Anissa had not even started the mourning process. They also worked together.

  He was exhausted. He knew it was the tiredness speaking. Knew it was all crazy talk, crazy thoughts. There was no discussion. Anissa wasn’t on his page, and he was sure he shouldn’t be on it either.

  He needed something to drink. Alex was not around to share one with, and neither was Helen. He would buy something from the shop on the way home––that word still feeling strange, with no one around him that he cared about––and drink himself to an early night. He wanted to be back at the hospital first thing in the morning if he could.

  He was sure he would feel like himself once again by then and could put this nonsense thinking firmly away, perhaps for good.

  Parting was such a bittersweet moment. Rad didn’t want to leave Nastya. He’d stayed with her for the remaining two days but knew Moscow was calling, and a flight to Siberia awaited him. He’d not been back to his own cabin, apart from the final moments before leaving, when he left his ski equipment in the dacha and picked up his car keys.

  He drove back to the capital, always thinking about Nastya. It was a fairytale, but he lived in a different world. Get the next few days wrong, and he wouldn’t be coming back to anything or anyone again. That thought brought him up short. He’d never had somebody to go back to before. Women had been infrequent and usually for one night only. Nastya was something else entirely. He was hooked, in the right way. It felt right, anyway, but now he also had something to lose. Now he had someone who distracted him. Did that make him vulnerable? Would it affect how he did his job, how he carried out the mission?

  It would be a while before that might be an issue and Rad had time to prepare. He would use the flight to get his game face on. Rad would use the time with the men he’d commandeered to remind himself of the task at hand, and the risks involved. He didn’t want to lose anyone, though in conflict, casualties were often a foregone conclusion. Every soldier knew that, especially when the enemy was heavily resourced. These weren’t Syrian rebel forces they were going up against here, men and boys cobbled together from remote mountain villages and forced to hold weapons. Point and shoot. Hope for the best. In Siberia, they were going up against experienced and highly paid soldiers, mercenaries for sure, but most undoubtedly Russian veterans of many a conflict. It seemed wrong that the two groups had to do battle when the fight was between the oligarchs. Let them fight it out between themselves. Why should so many innocent people have to be killed in the process?

  Rad knew it never worked that way. Soldiers always were the ones who put their lives on the line for the politicians. He just wasn’t particularly sure ahead of this latest battle what the reasons were. He would have to keep his concerns to himself. He would not let on to the men who the targets were, not for the time being. Their targets would merely remain the enemy and terrorists. Better a nameless opponent with total focus than a known enemy and many questions.

  Rad reached the airport an hour before the agreed take off time, though the plane would wait for him regardless. It was a military aircraft, and the airfield was one used exclusively by the airforce. All the men were lined up for Rad’s arrival. They all knew who Rad was. None had ever personally met the man behind the legend.

  As Rad stepped from his car, the men straightened even more, if that were possible. Rad quickly put them at ease. Still, they watched him like star-struck kids in the presence of their footballing hero. And Rad was a shooter all right. The best in the land.

  The airfield services crew were already loading in the cargo to the back of the plane, including the pile of bags that each man had brought with him. Rad addressed them all briefly, before commanding them to stand down, asking the other snipers to come over to him, and telling the team leaders to see him after that.

  “You guys will be leading the attack with me,” Rad said, now that he was with the other snipers. “I’ll give you specific details on the flight, and you’ll follow my lead, but I’ve recruited you because you are all the best there is available, and I believe in you.” That comment certainly went a long way to filling them with some confidence. They had no idea why they were on this mission. If they were just about to head into Syria, it was to be the first conflict they had seen. They’d been given little information, besides the fact it was Rad leading the mission with a directive from the Kremlin. Nothing more needed saying.

  Rad dismissed the snipers, and they went to board the plane itself, following on behind the soldiers who’d already started boarding. Rad walked over to the six team leaders. Most of them had seen some military action.

  “I’ve brought you in because we have some men who are new to this.” They didn’t need to be told that, it was clear. “I want to avoid a bloodbath. We do this my way, and everyone walks away from this, okay?” It was clear they complied. “Very good. Each team of five will be assigned a sniper to protect. You’ll work with him from a specific location. We’ll work as six teams. One of you will be charged with protecting me.” That brought focus to what Rad was about to say. No one wanted to be the man responsible for the death of Russia's greatest legend now standing not two feet from them. “In Syria, I never did a mission with another sniper. I trained plenty here in Russia, but in combat I worked alone, with men like you protecting me. You guys had my back, but the danger was a long way from me in reality. With this mission, the danger might fight back.”

  “Can you tell us where we are going.”

  “Siberia,” Rad said. It was okay to let that on, and the team leaders would need to be in the loop now anyway.

  “Siberia?”

  “It’s a complicated situation, but we have an internal security matter which has to be silenced.” They understood enough not to ask anything more. The President had been working in such a way over recent months to remove anyone who posed a threat to him, usually an arrest or two, though Foma had taken a bullet to the skull in Zurich in what was apparently a Russian-led assassination. The presence of such a force and firepower, however, suggested this particular threat was a little harder to remove.

  “We’ll do whatever you command us to do, sir,” one of the team leaders said. Rad made a note. Rad had been particularly
impressed with the man’s record up to then, and the words he'd just spoken confirmed to Rad that he wanted this man leading the team of men protecting him.

  Rad followed them all onto the plane, the soldiers and snipers in place already––each keeping to their own sections, as if rank and role separated the men from the boys––and the team leaders took the remaining empty rows. Rad sat in a spare seat towards the back, among the men. He was showing them all he didn’t see himself as different. He was one of them, someone they could believe in. The move was not missed by anyone, their admiration for him going through the roof before the flight had even taken off.

  Touch down was just after midday, though with the change of time it was already afternoon in Siberia. The vast open plains that they were heading towards would be snow covered and cold, though the ice was not as biting as it might have been. Winter camouflage gear was in ample supply––it was not needed in Syria. The snow covering would give them the chance to get closer to the house without being seen. Sensors that might have been in place during warmer weather were now useless. The snow, with wind drift and the remoteness of the location, could be as thick as two metres. Easily enough space to create tunnels, bunkers. Easily enough room to get into position on all sides, and from there to make their move. Plenty of shovels had been loaded onto the plane. The men would be digging before they would be shooting anything.

  As the plane touched down they were spotted by two men in the control tower which they had not expected to be open. The two came rushing out along the runway. No oligarchs were expected that day. On seeing the force of men suddenly exiting the plane, the approaching men stopped and when Rad appeared, they started to head back to the tower at speed.

  “Stop those men!” Rad ordered. The two fleeing men were undoubtedly connected to the Machine, an early warning system that hadn’t been there the last time Rad had landed there, that much was clear. Apparently, they were in place to spot what had just happened, an advancing force.

  Some of Rad's men gave chase but they were unarmed and a couple of hundred metres behind.

  Rad grabbed his case, his own rifle in pieces but in no time at all he had assembled it, the scope being the last thing he clipped into place. He didn’t bother with a silencer. There didn’t seem the need. He took out the slower of the two men with one quick shot, the other man already back into the control tower, the soldiers running but still one hundred metres from reaching the door. Rad scanned up to the viewing window. If there were a telephone inside the door, then Kaminski and Volkov would already know of the army's presence there, as there was no way his men would reach the tower in time. If, however, the only telephone was up high, then they didn’t yet know.

  At that moment, the same man appeared on the top floor, the handset going to his ear. Rad took the shot he’d been anticipating, but only half hoped to be possible. The glass smashed as the man was taken out with a headshot, falling from sight, as the group of soldiers reached the tower. They charged up the stairs, but the building was now empty, but for the body of the man Rad had just shot. The phone was hanging from the dashboard. One of the men put it to his ear briefly, hearing Russian spoken from the other end.

  “Hello, hello? Do you hear me?” The soldier replaced the handset on the control panel without saying anything in reply. Lev Kaminski had heard a lot. He’d listened to the panting breath of a man about to speak, listened to the fall of what sounded like a body, the sound of smashing glass and then the echo of a gunshot. He had heard the pounding, rhythmic approach of multiple legs running up metal stairs. Then the line had gone dead.

  They were here. They had taken the airport.

  “That was one hell of a shot!” one man said from behind Rad as the Russian lowered his weapon, the situation neutralised. The men applauded, feeling more confident than ever, each of the sharpshooters present struck with awe just to be around a sniper of such fame. Now they’d seen him first hand, with no time to think, no chance to plan the shot as their training had drilled them. Snipers wait until they are confident. One bullet is all you need. Be patient, don’t rush it. Rad didn’t have that time, and he’d just downed two men within seconds of each other over five hundred metres away.

  Ten minutes later the cargo was being packed into five trucks that had been collected from another part of the airfield. The men who had gone to the tower had now returned. They would spread themselves out between each vehicle. There was ample seating.

  “The call had connected, but we don’t think he got the chance to say anything.” Rad hadn’t given him that chance. He’d not seen the man’s lips move as he pulled the trigger to send a bullet through his temple. “It’s possible what followed was heard, however.”

  “I think we prepare for the worst,” Rad said, the element of surprise now gone. That changed a lot. They would have to start their approach much further back. The advantage that snipers gave meant they could be out of range of most conventional weapons while having the chance of hitting the enemy for a clean kill. Soldiers were needed when the fighting got more localised. Rad might have to be calling on the squad of thirty sooner than he had hoped.

  “Everybody gear up on the trucks,” one of the team leaders commanded, the men filing into line, grabbing their gear and checking their weapons soon after.

  “I’ll take the first truck,” Rad said, a team of men already heading with him. “Stay on comms,” he added, each sniper and team leader with a headset on and radio on his hip, so that between the twelve men, there was a constant dialogue, though it would be Rad who would give the orders.

  Two minutes later, the trucks were roaring away from the airfield. There was nothing left for it but to make a fast and aggressive approach. Rad was confident the oligarchs would know they were coming now. A fight was waiting for them for sure.

  23

  Syrian/Israeli Border

  Putin had travelled overnight for the last few days to make it to the region surrounding the border. Security was high. The man who was still with the former Russian President knew the border crossing was also his own best chance out of the troubled, war-torn nation. He’d sat alongside Putin the entire journey, being his guide, driving him south as they moved away from the threats that were further north, as they fled the Russian fighter jets as much as the Syrian rebels.

  Putin had left Assad behind. The two men had shared a similar history in recent weeks, but knew their paths led in different directions now. For the Syrian leader, he was trying to see an end to the war that had left his nation ravaged. Putin's priority was to save his own life before he could look at anything long term.

  It was clear, however, that now not everyone was so impressed by the new man inside the Kremlin. The world had wanted Putin out, that much was clear. They just were not aware of what type of monster of a candidate it would take to remove him from office. Russia was now as much of a threat as it had been at any time in its troubled history, including Putin’s leadership.

  Putin hadn’t given up hope, however. He still had friends. Getting across to Israel would be another step on the long path of recovery.

  Mossad was contacted the morning after Putin arrived in the border region. Using covert contacts, Putin worked through his list of names, his call finally reaching the office of someone who could help. They spoke personally with the former President.

  Since the Russian presidential election, there had been no formal discussions between Russia and Israel, as there hadn’t been between many nations and the new regime. The Israeli government didn’t know, therefore, where they stood when it came to the latest Russian President. If the troubles in the region––and Russia’s actions in recent months were not helping in that regard at all––were to escalate, would they be able to count on Russian guns and warships as they had in the past?

  The commander of the Mossad units in the region was delighted to be in contact with the former President. Amongst the various security services around the world, it was feared the Russian leader had been k
illed already. Most knew he was in Syria, the sudden escalation in Filipov’s military effort since winning the vote adding weight to the many conspiracy theories.

  A clear line of communications was set up between the local unit commander and Putin. Mossad was told that there were only two men in the party––the former President, and his bodyguard. Both were to be granted entry into Israel and escape from Syria.

  The pick up was to be that night. By then, Putin was within one mile of the border, though the area was heavily watched. Israeli soldiers regularly patrolled the zone, the zone off-limits for civilians. Anyone seen walking in that area was deemed a possible terrorist trying to get into Israel. Snipers would soon take these people out.

  The unit of six men, three women, swept in shortly after eleven pm local time. Putin and the one man who’d loyally stayed with him when all the others had deserted him, were waiting at the designated collection point. Both Russians were searched, identity confirmed––this was done visually, as Putin was recognisable enough––and the unit escorted them into the armoured vehicle. By quarter past eleven, they were on Israeli soil, heading to a Mossad safe house.

  Putin had been clear: the Russian embassy was not to be informed of his presence there. He was going to spend time only with the Mossad agents who he’d been in contact with. The Israeli Prime Minister might also be a point of contact, though nothing had been formalised yet.