Traitors

by Alex Shaw

  Racine looked back at the hotel, knowing that she could never return. ‘How far to this place?’

  ‘It’s right across the other side of the city. I’d say about half an hour, give or take. Depends if any of the roads are closed and what damage was done last night.’

  ‘Damage?’

  ‘The Ukrainians started shelling again. They hit a couple of residential buildings. My sources tell me that there are civilian casualties.’ He stared out of the window.

  Racine said nothing. From the intel she’d seen of previous incidents, the men of the DNR had specifically chosen to launch their own shelling from positions hidden in between suburban apartment blocks.

  ‘Nice car.’ Racine smiled for effect.

  ‘Thank you.’ He grinned back. ‘I’ve always loved MGs. My granddad used to work at the Rover factory and promised one day he’d buy me one, just like his boss had.’ Weller stroked the steering wheel. ‘His boss had a Rover SD1. Lovely-looking car; a bit like a Ferrari Daytona only larger and way cheaper. This MG ZT is the true successor to the SD1. It was one of the last off the Rover production line when MG Rover was closed for good.’

  Racine wasn’t listening; she was watching a line of stationary traffic ahead. ‘Darren, is there a problem?’

  ‘Nah,’ Weller mumbled, ‘DNR roadblock probably … nothing to worry about.’ Weller crossed onto the other side of the road, switched on his hazard warning lights, and cruised past the line of cars. As he reached the roadblock, he put his hand out of the window and waved. Racine tensed. This was not the way to approach armed men in a war zone. Either Weller was completely insane or worse still he was leading her into a trap.

  ‘Zdravstvuyte.’ Weller greeted the men. ‘Press.’ The men waved the car on without a second look, more interested in searching an SUV that was at the head of the line. Weller beamed at Racine. ‘Why so worried? I told you, people know me here. They recognise good journalism when they see it … and they also recognise the car.’

  ‘Impressive. You must be doing a good job,’ she replied with another smile, letting herself relax a little.

  ‘Thank you, I am.’

  ‘How much farther?’

  ‘Another ten minutes, straight up this road.’

  Weller continued to talk as they approached the target. He was happy to discuss his previous ex-pat life in Kyiv and the reasons he’d started to work for his Kremlin-funded employer. Racine oohed at his ‘daring exploits’ and laughed at his jokes; in fact the more she did so the more information he willingly and unwittingly gave her. He finally asked, ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Olena?’

  Racine suppressed her urge to slap him. ‘No, I do not have a boyfriend. Moscow can be a lonely city.’

  ‘Ah, ha ha.’ Weller took a deep breath before speaking again. ‘I was thinking that perhaps when we both get back to Moscow, I could take you out sometime?’

  ‘If we both get to Moscow, I will take you out,’ Racine stated with a smile that concealed the true meaning of her reply.

  ‘Y … yeah, that would be great.’ A broad smile creased Weller’s face.

  Minutes later Weller brought the MG to a halt. To their right and set fifty feet back from the road, several tall, nondescript apartment blocks clawed at the sky. In front stood two smaller commercial buildings; one housed a sorry-looking fruit and vegetable shop – a gastronom – with a bank, and the other was office space with a commercial garage taking up the ground floor. A large metal up-and-over door faced the road.

  ‘Is this it?’ Racine knew it was because the street sign on the nearest building tallied with the geolocation of the VKontakte images she’d seen in her briefing back in Paris.

  ‘Yep. Our guys commandeered the garage from an Odessa-based company, and that’s where they carry out the interrogations. I’ll park us round the back; you can never be too careful.’ As Racine subtly surveyed the exterior of the target building, Weller manoeuvred the MG onto a narrow path and backed into a space. He switched off the engine. ‘You can put your bag in the boot.’

  ‘Boot?’ Racine knew what the word meant, but Olena Gaeva probably wouldn’t, so she pretended to be confused.

  ‘Trunk. Now let’s go; they’re expecting us.’

  After stowing her bag, Weller led Racine to the customer door. He pressed a bell and was almost instantly beckoned inside. The door was shut behind them and harsh strip lighting made them squint. Racine made herself appear relaxed and impressed as Weller shook hands with an unshaven man in combat fatigues. He led them along a corridor past a reception desk with a nude calendar pinned above it and turned right. There was a flight of stairs immediately on his right. He walked past the stairs and along the corridor, then knocked on a door at the end. Without waiting for a reply, he entered the room. A tall, powerfully built man with a black, bushy beard stood as they appeared.

  ‘Good morning. I am Artur but most call me Boroda. Please sit.’

  ‘Thank you for allowing us to be in your facility.’ Weller had switched to passable, if oddly accented Russian.

  ‘It is a pleasure to have ON here to record our work,’ Boroda replied without warmth.

  Weller smiled, oblivious to the harsh tone. He retrieved a Dictaphone from his pocket and asked, ‘So, Artur, can you tell me a little bit more about yourself and what exactly you do here?’

  ‘Of course. Once I was FSB Spetsnaz; this is no secret. I became bored sitting at home eating borscht, so I volunteered my services. Now here I am, doing what I was trained to do.’

  ‘What were you trained to do?’ Racine asked, making sure she flashed her best smile.

  ‘To interrogate enemies of the state.’ Boroda’s eyes remained fixed on Racine before he addressed Weller. ‘Did you not want to get all these details on camera?’

  ‘Of course. Has Vadim finished setting up?’

  ‘Yes.’ Boroda stood. ‘If you would be so kind as to follow me.’

  He led them out of the room, along the corridor and through a door on the right into what had originally been a large vehicle workshop. The room had been repurposed. It was furnished with a metal table and four metal chairs sitting in the exact centre. At one end the steel roll-up door was closed and at the other, Racine could just make out a door in the shadows. In each corner of the room a large spotlight had been set up to bathe the middle in flat, white light. Vadim stood at the far end, fiddling with the controls on a tripod-mounted television camera. Racine realised this was the same room Vasilev had been photographed in with Iqbal. Her pulse started to rise.

  ‘Both of you, sit, Boroda was curt, ‘I shall return.’

  Racine remained standing. She felt a chill. Something was wrong. She slowly moved her hand inside her jacket towards her Glock. Weller, meanwhile, started talking to Vadim. Racine assessed her options. The nearest unguarded exit was through the roll-up door or the smaller exit next to it, and if needed she’d sprint for that. As ever she was going to rely upon the element of surprise and her silenced Glock if she decided to abort the mission. The door abruptly opened and a pair of armed men entered, dressed in black fatigues and accompanying Igor Strelkov. The GRU colonel stalked to one of the chairs and sat. ‘Ms Gaeva, please join me. I am ready for our interview now.’

  ‘Of course.’ Racine smiled to conceal her surprise and took a seat. Had Weller arranged for her to see Strelkov?

  ‘I see you are confused, Ms Gaeva. Do not worry, everything is about to become clear. I pride myself in getting to know everyone I deal with, be they military or civilian, on a personal level. Now, your name I had come across; you I had not. So, I decided to reread your reports and ask around about you.’

  Racine fought the urge to let her gaze move towards Strelkov’s commandos. They were between her and the door she had come in by, but the one behind her was still unguarded. ‘It is quite an honour that you enjoy my work.’

  ‘Ah, but I do not, Ms Gaeva.’ He raised his right hand and his men advanced, AKs now trained on her.

  ‘What’s
happening?’ Weller’s voice was suddenly shaky and high-pitched.

  Strelkov looked at the TV journalist and switched to English. ‘Mr Weller, you are about to get an exclusive. I suggest you and Vadim start recording now.’

  ‘Right.’ Weller fell silent and stood next to Vadim who had, as ordered, commenced his filming.

  ‘There are two Kalashnikov assault rifles pointed at you, Ms Gaeva, yet you do not look panicked?’

  ‘I’ve been around weapons before.’ It was the cameras she was more concerned about. Racine realised too late her voice was too steady for a reporter.

  ‘I have read all your recent articles, in addition to some of those you wrote when you worked for a smaller publication. Indeed this other publication had you cover the opening of a new business centre here in Donetsk.’

  Racine knew Strelkov was awaiting her explanation, but she said nothing; somehow the DGSE had messed up. It was better for her to let the GRU colonel speak.

  ‘Did Mr Weller tell you his cameraman used to be in the Russian army? Well, that was not quite the case; Vadim was Spetsnaz, but he actually served under me in the GRU. Why am I telling you this? Well, Vadim has met Olena Gaeva before; Vadim knows Olena Gaeva very well – if you understand my meaning. He does not know you. You are not Olena Gaeva.’

  Her cover was blown. Her training told her to rebuke Strelkov’s accusations, to stick with her legend in the hope that it was a trick or a test. Racine’s arms were folded, her right hand an inch away from the Glock. If she was quick enough she could possibly draw the handgun from its concealed-carry position before the Russians opened fire; however, it would be suicide and she didn’t want to die today. She decided, for now, to stick with her legend. ‘I do not understand. What are you saying?’

  ‘Get to your feet. My men will now search you.’

  Racine complied. One of the commandos placed his AK on the floor and stepped towards her. Racine felt herself tense, her mind calculating angles of attack and defence. She took a deep breath … There was a sudden banging at the door. Eyes darted towards the sound. Boroda swiftly entered, an angry look on his face. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, an explosion rocked the street outside. The steel roll-up door wobbled, as though shaken by an irate giant. Those in the room with her either dropped to the floor or took cover. Automatic gunfire quickly sounded, and a line of holes appeared in the shutters.

  This was her chance.

  Racine spun and drew her Glock.

  The commandos were fast, and well trained.

  A burst of 7.62 shells tore at the concrete floor where, less than a second earlier, her feet had been. She threw herself backwards, crashing into the camera. Ears all but deafened, Racine rolled into the shadows, desperately hoping to keep avoiding the rounds until she managed to get to the exit. Her hope was short-lived. Something grabbed her shoulders and lifted her off her feet. Vadim had one huge paw on her pistol hand and the other on the back of her neck. As she struggled, another set of hands grabbed her and the Glock was ripped away. A fist hit her in the stomach, and she was thrown to the floor.

  ‘Secure her!’ she heard Strelkov yell from what sounded like a long way off.

  Vadim’s huge hand grabbed her throat, and Racine scrabbled for air. Her feet thrashed around helplessly in the dust. The corners of her vision dimmed. Everything went black.

  Chapter 13

  Chervonohvardiis’kyi District, Donetsk

  ‘We are under attack!’ Boroda shouted.

  Strelkov followed him out of the room and back into the corridor. ‘I can hear that. How many?’

  ‘Ten … perhaps more.’

  As they neared the front of the building, the rate of gunfire intensified. Strelkov opened his mobile phone to call for reinforcements and found that there was no signal. ‘How many men do we have?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Five?’ Strelkov was incredulous. ‘That is all you have to guard this place?’

  ‘It is a secret facility … We were not expecting to be attacked.’

  Strelkov knew there was nothing to be gained by assigning blame. He had fewer men but he had the advantage of cover and three floors to choose from. ‘I take it our men are on the top floor?’

  ‘Those who were inside, yes.’

  ‘Then that is where I shall go.’ Strelkov made for the staircase as another explosion rocked the building and caused plaster to fall from the ceiling. One commando raced ahead of Strelkov while Boroda stayed behind him and covered the rear. On reaching the top floor, Strelkov entered the room at a crouch below the window line and drew his sidearm. Three DNR men fired their Kalashnikovs from the various windows at the street below. Strelkov chanced a look through the nearest window and saw the bodies of two DNR men. One had fallen on the pavement and the other in the road. Across the street an SUV lay on its side. He addressed the DNR man next to him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘That BMW and that minivan parked there. Men got out and shot our two guys. I hit the Beemer with an RPG. It was fortunate there were no civilians around.’

  ‘One civilian death is a tragedy; a thousand is a statistic,’ Strelkov paraphrased Stalin.

  Strelkov took another look at the street. A moment later, a round snapped overhead, and another caused a piece of concrete to fly up and off the wall, barely missing him. He sat back down and checked his cell phone … Still no message. Was the local tower out or had his signal been jammed?

  *

  Aidan Snow had been to Donetsk ten years earlier, a time before SIS. Then it had also been autumn; or, as his American friends insisted on calling it, ‘fall’. The leaves on the towering trees lining the boulevards of central Donetsk had rusted a myriad of reds, yellows, and browns. Snow thought he recognised the road they were on now as one such boulevard; the type Soviet planners loved, wide enough for two lines of traffic each way, or a single line of tanks. A pavement met tall trees before giving way to shops and apartment buildings. The traffic was light, but the road certainly wasn’t empty as the first shoppers of the day were venturing out. The locals, he remembered, were less friendly than Kyivites but their lack of pleasantry had been compensated by the cost of the beer – in some cases, it had been half the price of Kyiv. Snow missed those carefree ex-pat days. Suddenly a distant explosion broke his reverie.

  ‘Bozhe miy!’ Oh my God! Yulia exclaimed in Ukrainian. ‘I must pull over. I cannot risk going any further.’

  According to his understanding of Donetsk, he was less than a block away from the target building where Iqbal was believed to be held. Snow opened the car door. ‘I’ll get out here. I don’t know what’s happening up ahead.’

  ‘If that’s The Shadows, they are a whole twelve hours earlier than agreed!’ Yulia said.

  Snow shut the door and watched as Yulia drove away without saying another word. He walked in the direction of the blast, bag in his left hand. After several steps, gunfire erupted. He jogged to the nearest store where he saw two other people had taken refuge in the porch.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Snow asked.

  The old woman spat her words out. ‘Idiots with too many guns and too much testosterone!’

  ‘I saw nothing,’ the second woman barked defensively. ‘I’m just trying to buy some food!’

  Snow stepped back out from the porch and looked up the street. He could hear a full-blown firefight, but he couldn’t see it. He skirted the front of the store and then the next. As he drew closer, the retort of the weapons became louder. In front of him a large, free-standing billboard still advertised a rock concert that had taken place before the start of the conflict. Snow moved at a crouch towards its thick metal legs and as he did so, the glass storefront behind him shattered. Snow went prostrate on the pavement, daring only to look up several seconds later. On the other side of the road, forty yards ahead, he saw men firing from the third-floor windows of a commercial building.

  The target address.

  The location where Iqbal had been tagged.

  Gunme
n dressed in civilian clothing, crouched behind parked cars and amongst the trees, took shots at the building. They manoeuvred and returned fire with practised military precision. Snow stayed still; if he moved, he risked being caught in the crossfire. One of the assailants held up his fist and the men around him instantly ceased firing.

  Snow’s plan, like the building he was watching, was now holed. He lay, at the side of the road and attempted to figure out what to do next, how to get into the target address, and how to rescue Iqbal.

  *

  ‘They’re leaving!’ a DNR militant exclaimed.

  Strelkov lifted his head above the windowsill and saw a group of men getting into a civilian minibus, one continuing to provide cover with a Kalashnikov.

  ‘Hit it with an RPG!’ Strelkov ordered.

  ‘We don’t have any!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I used our last on the BMW.’

  Strelkov grimaced. He moved back to the door and took the stairs down. He saw Boroda and another man guarding the front door. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Blat,’ Boroda cursed in Russian. ‘Divide and conquer?’

  ‘Perhaps. How would they know about this place?’

  ‘Sir, there are still half a million residents living in Donetsk, a million eyes, any of which could be turned against us.’

  ‘Check outside, confirm that we are secure,’ Strelkov ordered the soldier, before addressing Boroda. ‘What do you make of the woman?’

  ‘She’s strong and definitely well trained, but I’ll break her. Come back tonight and she’ll be singing like a canary.’

  ‘Who is she with? The Ukrainians?’

  ‘That would be my assumption, from the way she speaks Russian, and who else would want to infiltrate us?’

  ‘What about Weller?’ Strelkov asked.

  A thin smile appeared on Boroda’s lips. ‘He is a useful idiot.’

  ‘He vouched for the woman. He was responsible for bringing her to this facility.’

  ‘You think that Weller knows something?’

  ‘Anything is possible. All is fair in love and war, and I see he likes her,’ Strelkov scoffed.