by Alex Shaw
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Sophie replied.
‘It’s not your fault.’ He put his arm around her and squeezed.
‘It is.’
‘No, Sophie, your mother has been ill for a long time and I’ve been too busy and too angry to see it. She refused to talk to me about it, even when I found out she had been taking pills for depression. She was grieving, unhappy, but it wasn’t your fault. It’s a chemical imbalance. No one knows what causes it. Sometimes people just need to be alone, and sometimes people are just depressed and sometimes, however hard we try to love people, we are just not meant to be together.’
‘Are you upset?’ Sophie asked, looking at the boats bobbing below in the gentle swell.
‘How could I ever be upset or sad, when I have the best girl in the world for a daughter?’
‘I love you, Dad,’ Sophie said, her eyes wet.
‘I love you too, more than anything in the world.’
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the birds hover on the warm air currents and the boats bob on the sea below.
‘I miss Celine.” Sophie said.
“So do I, she was feral like you.”
“I’m not wild!’
Her father chuckled, ‘How would you like to go on holiday?’
‘Yes! When?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Just the two of us. It’ll be fun.’
‘I’d love to! Where are we going?’
‘Hm, what about London? You speak English, don’t you?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Good that’s settled then. We’ll go to London and say hello to the Queen.’
Chapter 16
Present Day
Near Oleksandrivka, Donetsk region
The G Wagon slowed to turn off the highway and onto the much smaller lane leading to the facility. At the security barrier, a bored militant ambled towards them. His de rigueur Kalashnikov was held in his left hand. He placed it on the ground as he manoeuvred the barrier up.
The Mercedes continued and negotiated the gravel road, which soon became a mud track leading into the middle of the six-house village that accommodated the interrogation facility. A white Kamaz truck, part of the last humanitarian convoy, stood to one side. As tall as the single-storey dachas, it looked like a gigantic beast in the small clearing. Boroda and Strelkov got out and made directly for the building that housed Vasilev’s office. They found Sasha Vasilev sitting contentedly, smoking and reading papers.
Strelkov feared no man but Vasilev unnerved him; he got the feeling there was something sinister behind his eyes. He asked with forced authority, ‘Where is Iqbal?’
‘In his cell; unless he has escaped.’ Vasilev stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the battered desk and threw it on the floor. His jaw clenched. ‘He’s mine. Why do you want him?’
‘The British have sent a team. It is inbound now.’
‘The British?’ Vasilev frowned. ‘So they do want Iqbal? Are we not protected here? Politically they would not dare engage us. We are in DNR territory; that would be an act of war.’
‘It is a small, deniable team.’
‘How small.’
‘We know of two operators.’
‘Two?’ Vasilev’s face became a leer.
‘One is a woman,’ Boroda stated. ‘She is not British.’
Vasilev’s leer warped into a smile and he inclined his head. ‘There was a time when only Mossad deployed female operators to undertake “wet work”.’
Strelkov shook his head slowly. ‘Mossad are not coming. Think about it, Sasha, Israel would not seek to damage their relationship with the Kremlin. It cannot be them. This woman must be someone else. I believe she’s Ukrainian; that is the only explanation that makes sense. She was sent to infiltrate us and got caught up with the British mission.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘We shall lie in wait for the pair of them. It would be a coup to catch either one but both together? That would be a truly international incident.’
‘It would. Take Iqbal and put him in your vehicle,’ Vasilev ordered Boroda. The Russian looked at Strelkov, who bobbed his head in consent.
As Boroda left the room, Strelkov addressed Vasilev. ‘You should go too; it would be unfortunate if they attacked and you were to get shot.’
‘I appreciate your concern.’ Vasilev collected the papers from the desk and made for the door.
Strelkov paused for a beat before he followed. He gazed around the hamlet and counted six DNR militants. He knew others would be inside. More than enough to capture the man and woman who were on their way, but overwhelming force was needed if his hasty plan was going to work. They had to be lured into the open where they would have no option but to surrender. And then things would become highly political.
A leaf from a canopy high above landed at his feet; the colouring fascinated him, starting at one end with a red of almost a burgundy and ending at the other with a golden auburn. Nature truly was beautiful. He bent down to pick it up and then what sounded like a giant wasp buzzed his ear. The glass exploded behind him and Strelkov flattened himself into the earth. His eyes searched for the source of the silenced round, as the dirt by his cheek suddenly kicked up. ‘Incoming!’ he yelled.
There was a roar and an RPG tore through the clearing and hit the truck. The warhead exploded and a second later, a larger explosion lifted the rear of the Kamaz up in the air before it slammed back down against the earth. Another RPG sailed overhead and hit one of the houses, collapsing a wall.
*
Iqbal was jerked awake by the thunderous detonations outside his new cell.
Either his jailers were celebrating or the place was being attacked. Or perhaps he was being rescued?
Iqbal dragged himself to his feet and moved to the door. It was impossible to see through, but he could feel vibrations and smell burning as a whole succession of gunshots sounded. Images of the hostage rescue teams from action movies, blowing open doors, made him step back and away. It would be just his luck to get blown up by someone on his own side. Iqbal moved to the opposite side of the room. There were shouts from outside, some in languages he couldn’t identify, and then the shock wave from a huge explosion shattered the glass in the window high up on the wall above him. There was a whooshing sound followed by a second explosion.
The door burst open and two men crashed into the room. Iqbal recognised them as two of his guards. They hauled him from the room. Outside the sun was high in an azure sky. Rounds snapped by them as he was dragged bodily across the compound, his feet seeming to catch every sharp object making him cry out. The air cracked as a round missed Iqbal’s ear by millimetres. A yell pierced the air next to him. Stunned, Iqbal looked around; one of the militants was on the ground, holding his leg and moaning.
‘Run! Run!’ the guard urged.
A strong hand towed him. More rounds zipped past. Iqbal started to move on legs made weary by incarceration and interrogation. Four steps … five steps … He glanced back; the guard was flat on his back. He took another step. He felt suddenly weightless as he was thrown sideways by a blast-wave. Iqbal landed hard and tasted blood in his mouth. The world around him dimmed. The shouts and gunfire felt suddenly distant, as though he was hearing them from underwater. Thick hands grabbed him, hauling him up. Dazed, he didn’t notice who had hold of him or where they were going.
*
Strelkov rolled sideways and scurried down the side of the dacha. He drew his sidearm, an MP-443 Grach and studied the tree line. The attackers – he was absolutely certain that there were more than one – had used the dachas opposite as cover. The RPGs had been well aimed, both hitting their targets and incinerating the facilities’ supplies. Strelkov was pinned down. Two silenced rounds had been directed … targeted at him. Was he the target of this assault now? Had he been followed, or somehow tracked? He pushed the idea to the back of his mind – he had always been a target for the Ukrainians. His head deliv
ered to Kyiv would be a huge prize. This had to be the British working with The Shadows.
The men of the DNR were firing back, preventing the attackers from entering the village. He was reassured to see that at least a few of them moved like real soldiers rather than the drunken or drug-riddled thugs he’d encountered before. There was a noise behind him. He spun onto his back and brought the Grach up in front of his chest as a man flew at him out of the undergrowth. Strelkov didn’t hesitate; he fired twice, the rounds ripping apart the man’s chest. The body fell six feet short of him.
Strelkov got to his feet as a pair of men appeared. The nearest sent a ribbon of rounds in his direction. Strelkov shot him in the face as the rounds tore into the brick wall to his left. He fired again at the third man, who slumped backwards, his rounds tearing into the wall. They were coming from all sides; he had to retreat. He sought out the G Wagon and loped around the edge of the clearing towards it. Then something exploded from the trees and hit him in the waist and knocked him to the ground. Strelkov was winded. He was pushed onto his back and a blade flashed in his peripheral vision. Instinctively, he bucked and jerked to his left. The blade passed his eyes so close he felt the air part.
Strelkov clubbed his attacker’s head with his pistol, and twisted his shoulder. Off balance, the assailant slid. Strelkov sought out the knife hand, grabbed the wrist, twisted it back, and plunged the blade into the man who was holding it. The aggressor jerked and Strelkov saw his face. A horror registered in the man’s dark brown eyes and blood seeped from his lips as Strelkov pushed the blade deeper.
Strelkov turned away from the attacker and nodded at Boroda as he came tearing back towards him from the direction of their armour-plated G Wagon. Strelkov knew that unless the attacking force were using specialist rounds, they would not be able to hit Iqbal or Vasilev. On the count of three, with Boroda providing suppressive covering fire, both Russians surged back to the safety of the Mercedes.
Chapter 17
Donetsk region
A pale blue autumnal sky hung above the tall trees lining the road to Donetsk. All was still.
Racine lay on the cold, forest floor twenty feet back from the edge of the highway. The damp from the earth below had started to seep through her jeans and her leather jacket had ridden up, causing her back to become covered with goose pimples, but Racine had been trained to ignore the cold, to ignore both physical and mental discomfort. Through the gaps in the trees, she watched the road to the west, as it snaked towards the small Ukrainian-controlled town of Marinka while Aidan Snow, who lay ten feet to her left, covered the road as it headed east to the militant stronghold of Donetsk. Once a busy artery, the road was now home only to military vehicle and trucks carrying essential food supplies.
It would be only a matter of time before Racine’s abandoned Mitsubishi Shogun drew the attention of a passing DNR patrol. They had the location of the interrogation centre, but to just walk in would be madness, especially when they assumed the militants were expecting them. They needed intel and cover and driving in as members of a DNR patrol would hopefully provide them with both. She was, however, very aware that their plan was thinner than a Paris Fashion Week model.
Again, the words and face of Baptiste swam back into her mind. Were the odds that stacked against her? Was it expected that she wasn’t coming back? Was Jacob just using her to settle an old score? She knew the answer to all three was yes, but the score was not merely a personal one. It was the honour of her country she had to settle. It was time both Russia and Vasilev realised the cost of their actions against her, France, and the DGSE.
Snow spoke quietly. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Yes, 007.’
‘If I was Bond, I’d have brought a picnic and a bottle of champagne.’
‘Right now, I’d settle for a swig of cognac.’
‘How very French.’
‘Or a pastis.’
Snow pulled a face.
The plan she had outlined to him was, in essence, simple but relied on her being used as bait. It also relied on luck. ‘Something’s coming.’
Racine kept her eyes on the road as a white car appeared from around a bend. The car slowed and she recognised it as a white, boxy, Soviet-era Lada 1600. It was one of the world’s worst cars yet still functioning some thirty years after the Soviet Union had ceased to do so. The Lada stopped and two men lugged themselves out. Racine studied the pair, no more than thirty feet away from her position. They wore rough, forest-pattern camouflage fatigues, had heavy stubble, and carried AKs. More importantly, to distinguish them from both the Ukrainian army and the volunteer Ukrainian battalions so near to the frontline, they each had a white band affixed to the left arm of their field jackets.
Racine eased herself up to a standing position, brushed down her black jeans, and left cover.
The two men were so engrossed with trying to open the Mitsubishi that they did not see her until she had left the cover of the trees and almost reached them. The first looked at her and then the second. The men made no attempt to raise their weapons or to challenge her. To them, she was just a woman. Racine’s Makarov was in her jacket’s internal holster, ready if she needed to use it, but she wanted to keep things quiet; and for such instances she would use a different weapon.
A grin cracked the nearest man’s unkempt face in two. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘My mother lives in the next village,’ Racine replied quickly, in Russian, making the fear in her voice more pronounced. ‘I have come to see if she is OK.’
‘That is fortunate for you—’ the grin became a leer ‘—as that is exactly where we are going. You must understand this is a dangerous place. We are here to protect it from the Ukrainian government forces. It is not a good idea for a beautiful woman in an expensive car to be seen on her own.’
‘Thank you, I will be fine – it is not far.’
‘Open the back. We need to see that you are not smuggling anything into our territory,’ the second man commanded.
‘OK.’ Racine made a show of moving hesitantly around the two gunmen, who did not make any effort to let her pass. She felt their hungry gaze on her as she leant forward and pulled the large release lever on the Shogun’s tailgate.
Transferring his Kalashnikov to his left hand, the second militant slapped the side of the Mitsubishi with his left. ‘This is good transport.’
The first man now took a step sideways and peered at the dirt-covered number plate. ‘Where did you get it from?’
‘It doesn’t matter where she got it from, she’s giving it to us.’ The first militant laughed. His bloodshot eyes now met with hers as he edged nearer to her. ‘We are commandeering this vehicle for the militia of the Donetsk People’s Republic.’
‘You can’t. How am I going to get to see my mother? How am I going to get home?’ Racine said.
The militant tutted. ‘We will take you to see your mother, and then you can both join the other prisoners in the village.’
‘Prisoners?’ Good, they were getting somewhere. ‘What prisoners?’
‘It is a very serious situation. The villagers were collaborating with the Ukrainians, helping their army spy on us.’ He made a show of shrugging to illustrate his indifference. ‘We are holding them until they tell us what they know.’
‘If you’re a good girl, I’m sure we could arrange something.’ The nearest militant took a lunging step forward, attempting to grab her.
She’d had enough.
Racine’s speed and strength took both men completely by surprise. She pivoted sideways, moving around the militant’s reach. Her left elbow delivered a sharp, vicious strike to the side of his head, rocking it directly into the path of the blade she held in her right hand. It buried deep in his head behind his ear. He dropped, lights out, dead.
The second militant, mouth agape and eyes wide, had his hands up in the air as though he was trying to hold back some giant weight. As he stumbled backwards his mouth moved, but no disce
rnible words came out. Racine advanced, he fell flat on his back and Racine struck him heavily in the groin with her boot. He rolled sideways, doubling up, holding his crotch. Tears started to roll down his face.
‘We need one of them alive,’ Snow said, in his Moscow-accented Russian as he appeared at her side.
Racine realised she had perhaps gone too far, but she was impatient. ‘Do we?’
The militant, now in a foetal position stared up at the pair. ‘Please you do … you do need me alive! Please don’t hurt me!’
‘Hurt you?’ Racine crouched down and placed her blade against his filthy cheek; he flinched as it made contact. ‘I’ve already hurt you. Unless you tell us exactly what we need to know, I’ll kill you.’
‘Anything! Anything!’
Racine nicked his cheek with the blade and he started to shake.
‘First question,’ Snow said, taking over, to her annoyance, ‘where is Mohammed Iqbal?’
‘Who?’ The man’s face contorted as he tried to understand the name.
Racine cut his face again. ‘The British student.’
‘He’s a Paki!’ the militant sobbed.
‘Ah … so you know who he is? Where is he?’ Snow asked, continuing to use Russian.
‘We have him in the village.’
‘With the other prisoners?’
‘No. We lied. There is only him. He is being questioned by Raduga.’
‘We have the right place then,’ Snow said to Racine.
‘I’m sorry!’ The militant’s eyes were wide with fear and blood flowed from the two cuts to his cheek.
‘You are going to drive us to the village, and you are going to show us where Mohammed Iqbal is being held,’ Snow stated.
‘B … but they’ll kill me if I take you there!’
Racine grabbed the man’s throat with her left hand. ‘I’ll gut you like a pig if you don’t!’
‘OK … OK …’ the militant stuttered.
‘Roll over, lie on your stomach, and put your hands behind your head,’ Racine ordered. As Snow watched the road, Racine frisked their captive and found an old Nokia handset in his pocket. ‘You use this to communicate with your base?’