by Alex Shaw
‘This is a high-risk mission, Racine.’ They never used her first name and hadn’t since she’d joined the service. To those who knew of her existence she was simply known by her surname. Baptiste in turn used his middle name. ‘This is the first confirmed sighting of our target for eight years.’
Racine sat and emptied the envelope onto the table and arranged its contents into neat rows. Baptiste, never briefed her at the office. It was a place that she had rarely entered. The situation surrounding the operation of The Department called for complete deniability. To anyone who cared to ask, Racine was a human resources consultant specialising in employment law. An occupation vague enough to draw no further questions when paraded out at parties, not that she attended many anymore. Racine hated small talk. She equated it with small minds. She looked up from the papers and met Baptiste’s eyes. ‘So he’s in Ukraine. He’s materialised as a “military adviser” to the insurgents calling themselves the government of the Donetsk People’s Republic?’
Baptiste nodded.
Racine looked back at the tabletop. Outwardly, her face was a mask of calm; inside was another matter. She studied the image of the man whom the DGSE was ordering her to terminate with extreme prejudice. She had been chosen to be his assassin, to be the one to end his life, the moment she joined the service. Her director had expressly stated why. It was a secret they shared, which even her controller and former boyfriend Baptiste did not know. Racine’s revenge, as Jacob had called it, would not merely be served cold, it would be icy.
She studied the eyes of her target in the photograph before her, Vasilev the bogeyman. His actions had been the driving force in the creation of The Department. Without his pernicious, traitorous actions, the DGSE perhaps would never have sanctioned her director’s quest. The Department’s sole remit, after all, was to locate and liquidate targets that other DGSE teams could not. Racine was aware of the weight of expectation on her shoulders, but this was nothing compared to the duty she felt to the dead. ‘How was he found?’
‘Identified by a refugee and confirmed by social media,’ Baptiste replied.
‘Social media? Really?’ Even if she had been permitted to do so, Racine had never understood the urge to discuss her breakfast or ailments with innumerable strangers. It was a concept alien to her. ‘Which one?’
‘VKontakte.’
This made sense, the Slavic copy of Facebook had a greater market share amongst Russian speakers. ‘How?’
‘The DNR has an official VKontakte page where they inform the “Russian world” of their latest proclamations and “successes”. They posted several photographs boasting about having apprehended a foreign agent.’ Baptiste pointed to an image from the envelope. ‘Vasilev was in the background.’
Racine studied the second 10 X 8 print with incredulity. It showed a man seated on a bare concrete floor, cross-legged and with his hands on his head. Next to the man, a figure in military fatigues stood holding an AK-74 and beside him another figure smirked at the camera. The smirking man was Sasha Vasilev. She felt her stomach begin to knot. ‘When was this posted?’
‘Yesterday … hence this briefing today.’
‘Yesterday? You mean this operation has been agreed and the intel verified in a day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where was the photograph taken?’
‘The image was geotagged. It was taken at a commercial garage in Donetsk. The DNR are either amateurs or believe themselves to be untouchable.’
‘Maybe.’ Racine’s eyes narrowed. ‘Either he’s taunting us or his Russian masters are. Is Vasilev still there?’
‘We believe so.’
‘Hm.’ Racine looked at another image of Vasilev. He stood with a man she recognised as Igor Strelkov. A GRU colonel infamous amongst the intelligence community as the man tasked to oversee Russia’s seizure of Crimea and invasion of the Donbas. ‘What about Strelkov?’
‘You are not to harm him or ruffle as much as a single hair on his manicured moustache. The CIA has the first claim on him.’
Racine scowled. The Americans thought they were the world’s policemen. ‘Since when did we start taking orders from Langley?’
‘This time we do, OK?’ Baptiste seemed unusually tense. He took a breath and let it out slowly before he continued. ‘There’s a lot of pressure on me to ensure this mission is a success and …’ He paused. ‘Look, I’m not comfortable about sending you in.’
‘Because you think I’ll fail?’
‘Because I think you won’t come back.’ Baptiste became solemn. ‘You know it’s too rushed. It’s a fastball. The chance of success is small.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Racine understood exactly what he meant, and that he of all people would be reluctant to let her go, but she had never liked showing her emotions, and wasn’t about to start today. What they’d once shared together had been a fun but immature mistake on her part. She knew he still felt the same way about her as he had done then, but she had ended it and moved on. Or so she told herself. No. She had. Racine crossed her arms. Her love life was irrelevant. All that mattered was revenge. It had taken the DGSE thirteen years. What would another one, two or three make? And yet she personally could not let Vasilev get away, even if eliminating him cost her life too. ‘I’m a field agent, an operational asset, and I’m a damned good one.’
Baptiste sat back and rubbed the stubble on the back of his head. ‘I know.’
The external discussion was over, but Racine’s doubts still gnawed at her. ‘Tell me, how do we know Vasilev is still there?’
‘Our officer at the embassy in Moscow is in contact with a pro-Ukrainian partisan unit operating in the area. They call themselves “The Shadows”.’
Racine sighed. She wasn’t one for theatrical codenames. ‘They have eyes on the target for us?’
‘They’ve started monitoring his movements.’
‘Am I expected just to creep into the middle of a conflict zone and assassinate a high-ranking member of the Donetsk People’s Republic?’
‘No. You need the right type of access in order to get anywhere near the target. Any new face will sound alarm bells in Donetsk. I’ve worked up a legend for you. You’ll be posing as a junior reporter for a pro-Russian mouthpiece. Luckily for us the real woman’s boss is a paid DGSE informer. He’s arranged for you to travel with the next aid convoy into Donetsk to interview key people in the Donetsk People’s Republic, including Strelkov himself. As de facto head of the DNR armed forces, Strelkov works hand in glove with Vasilev. Yes, I accept it’s risky, but the Kremlin needs all the positive PR they can get for the DNR and it’s so audacious they would not expect it. If they believe you’re writing up a piece glorifying their humanitarian convoys and praising their fight against foreign terrorists, you’ll be given full access. You’ll be hiding in plain sight.’
‘Until I shoot Vasilev.’
‘When and how you do that is up to you. You know best.’
‘I presume we’re holding the real journalist?’
‘We have her in a safe house outside of Moscow. As far as we know she hasn’t met any of the people you will be seeing.’
‘As far as we know?’
‘As I said this mission is a fastball and this was the quickest, cleanest route into Donetsk. This is the least bad option.’ Baptiste shook his head and looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’
Racine said nothing whilst she read the rest of her briefing documents, which detailed her ingress into Russia, before butting them and the photographs into a neat pile. The meeting was over. She looked up at Baptiste and without emotion asked him, ‘When do I leave?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Good.’
‘Racine, I—’
‘What?’
Baptiste blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’
‘You will.’
Baptiste collected the documents he had brought. He met her eyes and then saying nothing more left the flat. Racine made sure the heavy security door
was closed behind him before she moved back to the window and waited for him to appear on the street below, climb into his car and drive off. She was still watching when a larger, dark executive saloon pulled into the kerb and a grey-haired figure climbed out. Racine frowned as her eyes followed him heading for her building.
Racine crossed to the bedroom and scooped up her personal iPhone. There was a WhatsApp message from Saskia with more photographs of her ex-pat life in Singapore, and a text message from her father. She quickly replied to both then powered off the phone and put it in a drawer, next to her work iPhone. Her life was now on hold. She’d not be using either again until she returned from her mission.
Racine heard a noise on the landing outside her flat. It was the creaking of the door that faced hers and belonged to her elderly and somewhat nosy neighbour, Madame Cadieux. Racine studied the video display screen, and saw her neighbour in conversation with her boss, Maurice Jacob. Racine rolled her eyes. Jacob turned and pressed the bell. Racine counted to ten and then opened the door at the same time as the one opposite shut.
‘Hello, Racine, may I come in?’ Maurice Jacob asked.
‘Of course.’ She took a step to one side, let him in and then locked the door again.
Jacob walked to the window and looked out. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Always.’
Jacob turned, his face now in shadow. He raised his arm and pointed at the kitchen area. ‘Have you any wine in there?’
‘I’ll get you a glass.’
Racine moved to the kitchen, took a wineglass from the draining board then picked up a bottle of supermarket red next to the breadbin and poured the remains, filling the glass higher than any respectable Parisian would. She crossed the room and handed it to her director.
‘Merci.’ He took a sip, pulled a face. ‘Still drinking your cheap plonk.’
Racine shrugged. ‘It does the job.’
‘Let’s sit.’ Jacob took a chair facing the kitchen. After a second’s pause Racine sat opposite him. ‘We are almost at the end. Now is when you will be tested like never before, emotionally and physically. A lesser person would crumble. I myself am in the process of doing so.’ He waggled his wineglass before continuing. ‘I can’t pretend to fully understand what must be going through your mind at the moment.’
Racine folded her arms. Said nothing. She didn’t know either. She waited for her boss to make his point.
‘You and I, and now of course Director Grillot, are the only people who know of the historical connection you share with our target.’ Jacob took a large swig of wine, before he placed the glass on the table. ‘I am here to give you the opportunity to back out of this operation. Racine, neither Grillot nor I will say a word more if you decide to do so. You have my word on that.’
A voice in her head screamed at her to decline the mission, but other weaker voices called for revenge. When she spoke, Racine’s tone was resolute. ‘I am not going to back out.’
‘I knew you would not.’
Undisclosed location, Donetsk, Ukraine
What air there was in the locked room was tainted by the heavy tang of motor oil, and the only light came from a high, frosted window. The space was not meant for human habitation, but for the past month that’s exactly the use it had been put to. Mohammed Iqbal sat in the corner on the bare concrete floor, thankful for the fact he had been snatched in autumn after the oppressive heat of the Ukrainian summer had eased. He just hoped he’d be released before the winter snows started and temperatures plummeted.
Iqbal had become philosophical during his time in captivity. At any given moment his captors could kill him; on the other hand, they could just as easily set him free. He was no threat to them, the men of the DNR; what did he know about them? And what could he do? This wasn’t his fight; he had no dog in the ring. He was a medical student, and not a spy, he told himself. Two days into his incarceration, a Chechen had come to see him. A fellow Muslim. They had prayed together. The man gave his name as Artur but he had heard the jailer refer to him as Boroda. Many of the DNR fighters used a nom de guerre, a nickname to fight under. Most were chosen to intimidate enemies such as ‘Wolf’ – or ‘Diablo’; others were plain bizarre such as ‘Marlboro’ and ‘Motorola’. Iqbal knew ‘Boroda’ was Russian for ‘beard’ – the Chechen had a black, bushy beard. They spoke in Arabic, their accents competing with each other, but understandable enough. Boroda, Iqbal believed, seemed satisfied that he was neither a spy nor indeed an Islamic State terrorist, even though he questioned how a student from Birmingham spoke Arabic. Yet he was not released.
Afterwards, he had been kept isolated for two weeks until another prisoner joined him. The new arrival wore a suit and at first Iqbal had believed he was there to arrange his release, a liaison from the British Embassy perhaps. But no, the man was a Jewish lawyer called Magidov, who had been targeted because of his work for the prosecutor’s office. The lawyer was extremely anxious but talkative and spoke good English. Abruptly he was taken away and again Iqbal found himself alone with his thoughts.
So Iqbal continued to sit and wait. The thing he missed the most was not the fresh air, the daylight or, as he had discovered to his surprise, his girlfriend. What he missed the most was his wristwatch. He hated not knowing what the time was and having to guess. His watch had not been expensive or flashy; just a simple Casio G-Shock he’d bought on sale at ASDA back home. But it had been taken from him, along with his trainers. His footwear was returned when he was taken outside and made to work on the trench. At first, he thought they were ordering him to dig his own grave; however, as time progressed, it became clear the trench was for his jailers’ amusement. The majority of the time, though, he was in his socks and had freezing feet.
Iqbal yawned. He was always tired. He was no longer hungry; time had shrunk his stomach and, with it, his appetite. Through the small, square, high window, the sky was still dark; it could be eleven p.m. or three a.m. – he didn’t know. He yawned once more and closed his eyes, and relived once again the events that led up to his abduction …
*
Iqbal shut his apartment door, still smiling at the image of his girlfriend, Tanya, lying naked on his bed. He’d met her in his second year at the Donetsk National Medical University (DNMU) when she’d worked in the canteen. Her English was minimal but that had helped Iqbal improve his Russian. When the city around them started to fall apart, Iqbal’s parents and family, from both the UK and Pakistan, had begged him to return to England. He nobly refused to leave Tanya behind as even his dad hadn’t been able to get her a visa. DNMU had been relocated south to the Ukrainian port city of Mariupol, outside militant control. Those who could relocated; others stayed behind and continued to work and study. Iqbal chose to stay, along with the majority of students on his course. It wasn’t his war and it had nothing to do with him.
The one-room apartment was in a grim 1980s Soviet block, far enough away from downtown Donetsk to keep the rent low. But it was next to a gastronom – a Soviet-era grocery store. Since the conflict started, many things had increased in price or become scarce, especially western brands. Yet, somehow, the gastronom managed to keep supplies at an adequate level, even if most products were now Russian imports of dubious quality and provenance.
Iqbal made for the alcohol counter. It was barely midday, yet a pair of drinkers were propping up the ‘bar area’, which consisted of a shelf against the window and another wrapped around one of the building’s supporting columns. The two men were speaking animatedly to each other in Russian and eight or so empty plastic cups were strewn across the window shelf. It looked like they had been ordering cheap no-name vodka in fifty-gram shots. Although Muslim, Iqbal was not practising and drank alcohol, but the fact he point-blank refused to eat pork was harder for locals to swallow. Iqbal reached the counter and beamed at the woman behind it. She was young and always seemed pleased to see him, especially when he was on his own.
‘Butylka kon’yaka, pozhaluysta.’ A bottle of cognac, p
lease, he asked in Russian.
‘Yes,’ the girl replied in English before turning and taking a bottle. She held it up for his perusal and he nodded.
‘Come and drink with us, Blackie,’ a voice from behind called, the language Russian, the words slurred.
Iqbal gritted his teeth. Old Soviet prejudices labelled anyone whose skin was not white as ‘black’ regardless of race or nationality. Iqbal attempted to ignore the insult and continued with his transaction before thanking her and moving away.
‘I said drink with us, Blackie!’
Iqbal stared questioningly at the drunks.
The man spoke again. ‘What, you too good to have a drink with us real working men?’
‘Ya vas ne ponimayu.’ I don’t understand you, he replied in Russian.
‘Look at the idiot; he can’t even speak our language.’
‘Ah, leave him.’ The second drunk waved his hand.
‘You.’ The first drunk pointed at Iqbal. ‘Drink.’ He mimed drinking.
‘Nyet, spasibo.’ No, thanks. Iqbal wanted to get back to Tanya.
The drunk shook his head and pushed away from his perch. ‘Buy me a bottle and we’ll drink it together.’
Iqbal looked into the man’s eyes. His tone had become aggressive. Iqbal held up his palms and repeated again in Russian. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh yes you do!’ The drunk stepped forward and pushed him hard. Iqbal stumbled.
‘Just piss off!’ Iqbal snapped back in English, unable to control himself anymore. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are? Leave me alone, man!’
The drunk looked confused. ‘Piss?’
‘Eeennngleesh?’ the second drunk said, in thickly accented English. ‘You American man?’
‘No, I’m English.’ Iqbal moved forwards with the intention of making for the door, but the first drunk shoved him again.
‘Back off, yer twat!’ Iqbal raised his voice, his Brummie accent becoming more pronounced.
Without warning, the drunk swung his fist. It connected with Iqbal’s jaw, sending him sideways. Iqbal fell against the pillar, and the shelf splintered. The drunk threw another punch. This time Iqbal blocked the haymaker with his left hand and lashed out with his foot. The drunk grunted as Iqbal’s foot hit his shin. The second drunk now joined in. He grabbed Iqbal’s left arm with one hand and punched him in the face with the other. Iqbal staggered, managed to raise his right arm, and brought down his bottle of cognac on the second drunk’s head. The drunk let go, a cocktail of cognac, blood, and glass trickling down his face. He touched his head, lifted his hand away to look at it, and fell to his knees.