Traitors

by Alex Shaw

  ‘This is not your business. You must go now,’ he ordered in Russian.

  Snow feigned incomprehension and spoke in English. ‘Ah. Hello, I’m from the OSCE.’

  The uniformed man frowned and when he spoke again had switched to English. ‘You are OSCE?’

  ‘Yes.’ Snow picked a random name from his past, ‘Piers Samson, OSCE monitor. And you are?’

  ‘You can call me Boroda, and I am escorting you out of this building.’ Boroda kept eye contact with Snow as he moved to block his view and attempt to usher him back out of the room.

  ‘Hang on,’ a voice exclaimed. ‘We’ve met before!’

  Snow switched his gaze; the other man at the table had turned his head. The ponytail belonged to Darren Weller. ‘I think you’re mistaken.’

  Weller was now on his feet and pointing. ‘Oh, no, no you don’t. I know this man! His name is Aidan – Aidan Snow! He is not an OSCE monitor!’

  ‘Whoa!’ Snow held up his palms. ‘My name is Piers Samson and I’m with the—’ Snow shot his right palm out and hit Boroda on the jaw. The Russian stumbled. Snow stepped forward and delivered a quick elbow strike to the side of Boroda’s head. The Russian fell and his sidearm came loose from its open holster and skittered away. Boroda, eyes wide, made a grab for it but Snow stamped down on his wrist and he grunted in pain. Snow drew his Glock and aimed it at Boroda’s face. ‘Where is Mohammed Iqbal?’

  Boroda said nothing.

  ‘Bloody hell, Aidan!’ Weller blurted out.

  Snow glared at the other Englishman. ‘You couldn’t keep quiet, could you?’

  *

  Racine stepped away from Vadim and put her hands on her thighs to regain her breath. A lethal cocktail of blind fury and training had served her, but she still had to serve her country, and in order to do this she had to locate and liquidate Sasha Vasilev. However, first she had to escape. She searched Vadim’s pockets and found a roll of American dollars. Stuffing them in her jacket, she retrieved the knife and its sheath from where it had come to rest. It was a completely different weapon from the one she’d taken from the militant in her hotel room, which was now in her bag in Darren’s car. She briefly inspected the matte black knife. There was a serial number on the spine and in Cyrillic on the blade near the handle there was a stylised ‘K’ and the brand name ‘Korshun’. It was Spetsnaz-issue. Racine shuddered. She concealed them in her jacket pocket.

  Words penetrated from the other side of the door – she heard someone speaking English. A voice she hadn’t heard before, a native speaker. Racine moved nearer to the door and, though muffled, heard the words ‘OSCE Monitor’. If there was a monitor from the OSCE in the next room she could simply step out through the door and leave with them, demanding safe passage. But she needed to search the place for her target. Her mission was falling apart. Racine pulled the key carefully from the lock. The mechanism was new, oiled, and it slid out soundlessly. She peered through the hole. She could make out little except the edge of a circle of light and what could potentially be the leg of one of the floodlights set up for Darren’s interview. So, was she really next door to the interview room? She had to use the door regardless. She reinserted the key and slowly turned the lock. It opened with the smallest of clicks, the sound dulled by the oil. She waited and listened for any reaction. On the other side the conversation continued, and the voices now seemed raised. Racine took a large breath let it out and then, as relaxed as she could be, slipped back into the room.

  The man who had been talking had his back to her. He was wearing an OSCE tabard and was speaking in English, but he had a handgun pointed at Boroda, who lay on the floor. So if he wasn’t a monitor who or what was he? And why was he using English to address Boroda? Past these two Weller still sat in the chair she had last seen him in. She couldn’t see his face but the way he sat so rigidly upright implied that he was scared. There was no sign of Strelkov or any of his other men.

  Racine’s options were extremely limited. Either she announced her presence or she didn’t, and either the ‘monitor’ shot her or he didn’t. She couldn’t appear as a threat, so what – would she play the defenceless woman held captive? The fact that Weller was unharmed gave her hope that perhaps this was someone who would let her, a non-combatant, pass. All these thoughts spun through her mind in milliseconds, whilst in front of her the conversation continued.

  ‘I’m going to ask you again, where is Mohammed Iqbal?’ the monitor demanded.

  Boroda didn’t reply, so the monitor kicked him. ‘He was moved last night to the second facility.’

  The monitor looked up at Weller. ‘You know about this?’

  Weller held up his palms. ‘Hey, this is nothing to do with me!’

  ‘Like hell it isn’t,’ Racine wanted to shout but instead, in her accentless English, not the English of Olena Gaeva, but still sounding rather pathetic, she said, ‘Help me! Please, I’ve been kidnapped!’ She stepped out of the shadows with her hands held up showing empty palms. ‘You’re with the OSCE – please get me out of here!’

  The Glock swung from Boroda to Racine and the monitor turned and took a step away to enable him to cover them both. He frowned. ‘You’re with Darren?’

  ‘She most certainly is not!’ Weller said, emphatically. ‘She’s a spy, an enemy!’

  The man cocked his head to one side. ‘Any enemy of Darren’s is a friend of mine.’

  ‘Yeah, she is an enemy!’ Weller spat. ‘She’s not who she says she is, and neither are you, Aidan Snow!’

  ‘And you pretend to be a journalist, Darren.’ The man Weller had called Aidan Snow asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Claire, Claire Kenmuir.’ As she was speaking in English there was no point in using a fake Slavic name.

  Snow frowned. ‘My grandmother’s name was Claire, but she had a French surname – Flagel.’

  Racine tried not to react. Did Snow know who she was?

  ‘Now that we are all having a civilised chat, may I at least sit in a chair?’ Boroda asked, from the floor.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Snow said. ‘But kick your pistol away.’

  Boroda got to his feet and then made a show of booting his Makarov. It skated over the worn concrete, finishing up nearer to Racine than Snow. There was a moment of tension, of danger, as both of them eyed it and then eyed each other.

  Racine spoke first. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Snow said. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you appear in Donetsk?’

  ‘She came in with me, in a legitimate aid convoy! She pretended to be a Russian journalist. And then she broke my camera!’ Weller’s outrage at being duped had overcome his fear of being shot.

  Snow kept his eyes on Racine. ‘I don’t think you need rescuing.’

  Racine lowered her arms. ‘It looks like you might.’

  A narrow smile appeared on Snow’s face. He kept his Glock pointed at her. Racine could see the cogs turning. ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Why? Do you have issues?’ Racine returned the smile. Mirroring body language and facial expressions often helped when talking to men, she found.

  ‘No, you bloody can’t trust her!’ Weller snapped, with petulance. ‘And I bet she’s not really called Claire either!’

  ‘Darren, shut up,’ Racine ordered.

  She looked back to Snow. ‘You can shoot him, if you like?’

  ‘I’m tempted.’ Snow’s Glock pointed at Weller, who cowered, before it returned to Boroda. ‘Where is the second facility?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  ‘Because you enjoy having two working kneecaps.’

  Boroda’s eyes fluttered before he sighed and rattled off an address.

  Snow asked Racine, ‘Is that a real place?’

  Racine rubbed her wrists. ‘How would I know?’

  There were noises outside the interior door – shouted commands and the sound of feet scuffling the concrete.

  ‘Time to bug out,’ Snow said.


  ‘We can’t use that door,’ Racine replied.

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’m not staying here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We’ll go out the back. That’s where Darren’s parked his car,’ she continued.

  ‘I am afraid you will find the back door is padlocked,’ Boroda stated. ‘My men are coming for you. Better you drop your weapon now, Aidan Snow, and I’ll make sure they are lenient with you both.’

  ‘Lucky for us you dropped the key.’ Racine kept her eyes fixed on Snow as she slowly moved towards the Makarov and collected it from the floor. ‘I’ll shoot out the lock.’

  ‘OK,’ Snow replied, looking tense.

  Racine strode towards the door fitted to the left of the large, up-and-over garage doors. ‘You keep watch on the other door whilst I shoot.’

  ‘If you put a round in my back, I won’t be happy,’ Snow said.

  Racine ignored him. ‘As soon as I pull this trigger there’s going to be a lot of angry, armed men rushing in here. And then what? Have you got a plan, or are you really on your own?’

  ‘It’s just me.’ Snow now addressed the bearded man. ‘You and Darren are going to be our shield. You’ll walk in front of us, and if anyone asks, I am with the OSCE and you have handed your prisoner over to me. Understood?’

  Boroda scoffed. ‘I understand.’

  Snow moved into position but kept a wary eye on Racine. She held the Makarov in a two-handed grip, stood at an obtuse angle to the door, took a quick aim and fired. The retort was deafening in the unfurnished room, bouncing off the concrete floor and reverberating against the steel roll-up door. She took a step forward and kicked open the door, letting her momentum carry her out of the building and onto the street. She carved arcs left and right with the Makarov. ‘Move!’

  Boroda was next out, followed closely by Weller. Shouts now sounded from behind. The inner door flew open, and Boroda’s men poured into the room to investigate the noise, AKs up and ready.

  Boroda shoulder-barged Racine, knocking her to the ground, and shouted in Russian, ‘Stop them!’

  Racine hit hard, her whole body jarring and the Makarov coming loose. Boroda grabbed her lapels with his left hand and hit her across the face with the back of his right. Stars exploded before her eyes for the second time that afternoon and she tasted blood. A moment later Snow slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Boroda’s head. As the Russian relinquished his grip on Racine, wild rounds from the men inside zipped past her.

  Weller was frozen, looking on at the trio. Snow grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘It’s the green one!’ Racine answered before the panicking journalist could. ‘You get him to the car; I’ll slow them down!’ Using the Makarov, Racine fired a pair of 9mm rounds back through the door, causing the militants to take cover.

  Weller’s car was the only green civilian vehicle in sight, and they reached it seconds later. ‘Key!’ Snow demanded.

  Weller fumbled in his pocket and, hand shaking, gave Snow a key ring. On it was a picture of the flamboyant Russian pop star Philipp Kirkorov. Snow blipped the central locking system and got into the driver’s seat. He placed the Glock under his left thigh.

  In a few quick strides, Racine reached the car. She opened the rear door. Weller made no attempt to get in. ‘Get in or get shot!’ Weller didn’t move. Racine swung a fist, which connected with Weller’s stomach, doubling him up. She kicked him inside the MG before taking the front passenger seat next to Snow.

  The DNR militants had now realised fully what was happening and their aim had become more accurate. Rounds hit the tarmac inches to the side of the car. By the time they’d readjusted, the MG was squealing out of the parking space.

  ‘Take a left here!’ Racine instructed.

  ‘You said you weren’t a local?’

  ‘I’ve probably got a better sense of direction than you.’

  Snow turned the wheel hard. The MG leant to one side, but it made the corner. He floored the accelerator and the sports saloon powered away from the garage as the OSCE men and Russian troops at the front of the building looked on, bewildered. However, neither the troops nor the DNR made any attempt to follow them.

  ‘Bloody hell! Bloody hell!’ Weller was shaking hard. ‘What have you done? What have you done?’

  Racine looked back at the journalist via the rear-view mirror.

  ‘You’ve made everyone think I’m a spy. My career is over!’

  Racine sighed. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Quel dommage,’ Snow said, repeating the same phrase, but in French.

  Racine cast him a side glance. He definitely knew who she was.

  Snow continued, addressing Weller. ‘I’ve just rescued you from a DNR interrogation centre, you ungrateful git!’

  ‘And what are you, the sodding SAS or something? And as for you!’ Weller aimed his words at Racine. ‘You … you hit me!’

  ‘How are your “abs of steel”?’

  ‘Up yours!’

  Snow let out a chuckle. ‘Did he give you his “abs of steel” routine too?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I worked hard for these,’ Weller said, indignantly.

  They lapsed into silence as the car continued up the road. Racine’s head throbbed from the headbutts and Boroda’s slap. She felt woozy, but she had no time to rest. She knew her limit and she hadn’t reached it yet. Her identity as Olena Gaeva had been compromised, but there was no proof that her mission had. If she was lucky her target would be blissfully unaware that he was on her hit list. Her mission had undoubtedly just become a lot harder yet was still a go.

  But who exactly was Snow, the man who was now driving them away from a firefight? More importantly why was he in militant-controlled Donetsk? The obvious answer was that he was there for Iqbal. His Home Counties accent confirmed he was British, so that would make sense. Had Jacob briefed his opposite number at SIS about her and the mission? Impossible. Finding and eliminating Vasilev had been Jacob’s raison d’être for the entire time she had known him, and it had been hers also. So what then? Was there a leak or worse another mole? Snow didn’t seem stupid, and from what Darren had said about her and the fact that he was insinuating she was French, meant he probably guessed she was there for Vasilev. Staring forward out of the grubby windscreen she realised she could change none of this and it didn’t matter just as long as Snow didn’t get in her way; and if he did the Makarov in her lap remained pointed at him.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Snow said. ‘There have been whispers.’

  ‘It’s rude to whisper.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  Racine now saw no sense in not telling him. ‘I was looking for someone. He was meant to be at the garage with Mohammed Iqbal.’

  ‘You know about Iqbal?’

  ‘I saw a photograph of Iqbal with “the someone” I was looking for.’

  ‘Who is your target?’ Snow used the word pointedly.

  Even though Weller was listening she decided to take the gamble and tell the Englishman. He might perhaps have more intel on his whereabouts. ‘Sasha Vasilev.’

  Snow said, ‘I see.’

  Racine said, ‘Look, we need to talk but …’

  ‘Pas devant l’enfant.’

  Racine involuntarily cast Snow a look. He needed to stop being so damn obvious. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hey, I did French at school too! You both need to stop the car and get out.’ Weller’s voice had broken, exactly like an upset child’s. ‘I don’t care where you go. Just leave and I won’t say another word, I promise.’

  ‘I was going to drive you all the way back to Kyiv and turn you over to the SBU!’ Snow retorted.

  ‘What? No … no, please, they’ll lock me up!’

  ‘Exactly. You’re banned from Ukraine and wanted for aiding and abetting terrorists, yet here you are in Donetsk!’

  ‘This is the Donetsk People’s Republic!’ Weller protested. ‘It’s a sovereign
state!’

  ‘It’s cloud cuckoo land, and you are one of the biggest cuckoos in it!’

  Racine saw a DNR checkpoint ahead in the distance. ‘Pull over.’

  Snow drew the car over to the kerb. ‘I don’t think there’s a way around it. Any ideas?’

  ‘Darren can get us through,’ Racine said. ‘He did it this morning. Remember, he’s loved by the terrorists!’

  ‘They are not terrorists!’ Weller crossed his arms. ‘And, I refuse!’

  Racine turned in her seat and pushed the Makarov deep into Weller’s chest. ‘You either get us through that checkpoint, or this goes through you. Got it?’

  ‘OK.’ Weller’s face turned ashen.

  ‘We’ll switch places.’ Racine climbed into the back seat. She noticed Snow pretending not to look at her backside. ‘Get in the front, Darren.’

  Weller obediently dipped his head, opened the door, and then swung back in through the front passenger door.

  Racine whispered in Snow’s ear. ‘Now I have a gun pointed at your spine. It’s your turn to tell me who you are, Aidan Snow.’

  Snow locked eyes with her in the rear-view mirror. ‘SIS.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Weller said.

  ‘You know everything, Darren,’ Racine said. ‘Who is your controller?’

  Snow paused and in the mirror his eyes darted right, towards Weller.

  ‘Who is your controller?’

  ‘His initials are JP,’ Snow said, not wanting to give up the name in front of the ON journalist.

  Racine searched her memory. She knew Jacob had links with all the western intelligence agencies. JP in that case would be Jack Patchem, head of the Russian Desk. She lowered her Makarov. ‘I think, Snow, you’d better take off the OSCE vest now.’

  ‘I’d forgotten I was wearing it.’ Snow wriggled out of the tabard and stuffed it into the door pocket. ‘Look, I need to find Iqbal and you need the person interrogating him.’

  ‘So, stop wasting our time and start driving.’

  Snow said nothing. He checked the mirror and moved back into the thin flow of traffic before coming to a halt at the end of the queue behind an ancient Ford Sierra.