by Alex Shaw
The soldier looked past the trio onto the street before he nodded and beckoned them into the apartment building. Without another word, he went back inside his flat. Yuri pressed the button for the lift and the three of them rode up to his floor.
Yuri’s apartment – like most of its age – had two front doors, an inner and an outer. The outer was wooden with a spyglass and the inner door was steel covered in padding and quilted faux leather. Yuri shut both doors and held out his hand. ‘My money.’
‘Of course.’ Racine put her hand in her pocket, retrieved the bills, and held them out.
Yuri licked his lips as he took them. He nodded, then removed his boots, hat and coat. ‘Come into the kitchen.’ Yuri led them down the hall, past a bedroom and around the corner. ‘Sit.’ He pointed at a thin bench seat, upholstered in burgundy leatherette. ‘Now tell me again what is happening here?’
The old man filled his kettle with water from a bottle before setting it on the gas stove whilst Racine elaborated what Snow had explained on the street but in greater detail; the cover story seemed to appeal to Yuri’s sense of moral justice, as much as the dollars had appealed to his wallet.
‘Where are you really from?’ Yuri asked as the kettle started to whistle behind him.
‘Moscow,’ Racine stated, her accent backing up her claim. ‘But I live here now.’
‘Hmm,’ Yuri grunted. ‘That is what it sounds like but … ah, it is not important. I am not a traitor, neither to Ukraine nor Russia; let me make that clear. I just want my pension paid on time and for the city to go back to the way it used to be. I don’t really care who is in charge as long as that happens.’ He rose and removed the kettle. ‘You want tea? I have no coffee – it costs too much.’
‘No, thank you,’ Racine replied.
‘Is the apartment next door the same as this one?’ Snow asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The layout … the floor plan; is it the same?’
‘It is the exact reverse.’
‘That means the living room is next to your living room?’
‘Correct. The two balconies are awfully close. A design flaw, if you ask me. I found the neighbour’s teenage son on my balcony once; he was after my pickled cucumber.’
Racine remained stone-faced. Snow, attempting not to snigger, said, ‘Never mess with a man’s cucumber.’
‘Exactly. They have gone now, fled. And my cucumbers have long since been eaten.’ Yuri pointed to a collection of empty jars on the windowsill. ‘I used to pickle the cucumbers and tomatoes from my allotment.’
‘How many Russians are in the apartment?’ Racine asked.
Yuri let a large breath puff out his cheeks. ‘There are – I believe – always several guards and then there are the men who do the questioning.’
‘You’ve seen them?’ Racine asked quickly.
‘Yes. They look like officers and are older, but not ancient like me.’
‘Have you seen them today?’ Snow now asked.
‘As I told you earlier, I saw your medical student relative being taken inside. One of the interrogators was with him.’ Yuri took a tin containing tea from the cupboard and spooned loose leaves into a china cup.
‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’ Racine smiled.
‘I am not senile.’ Yuri studied them. ‘Whatever you are about to do, I don’t want to see it. If the Russians ask me about you, I will have to tell them everything I know. Everything you have told me. I will say you threatened me. Held me hostage. Do you understand?’
‘We do,’ Racine replied.
‘Thank you for the money. Now I have to eat something and then I shall sit here and listen to the rubbish Russia is broadcasting on our radio.’
Taking this as their cue to leave, they walked back to the hallway.
A radio switched on in the kitchen, a commercial Russian station, followed by the sounds of food being prepared.
‘Do you think Iqbal is still next door?’ Snow asked.
‘If he’s not, we have a problem,’ Racine said. ‘A kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and a living room. The living room has a balcony, so he’ll be in the bedroom.’
‘Which is bang in the middle of the flat.’
‘We need to breach from two sides.’
‘Balcony and front door,’ Snow said.
‘I’ll take the balcony.’ Racine wanted to be first in. ‘Look at the size of you. I’ll go; I’m less likely to be seen.’
‘No. You take the door – they’ll be less likely to shoot you.’
‘No. I’ll take the balcony. You’ll probably fall off.’
‘OK.’
Racine noted an odd look in Snow’s eyes. ‘What?’
‘This may be a gamble too far. It could be a trap. You know that right?’
Her inner voice warned her that it was, but her outer voice betrayed no emotion when she replied. ‘We don’t have a choice. Are you scared? Do you need another kiss?’
‘I need Iqbal alive.’
‘And you think I can’t take care of myself?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
Racine shook her head. ‘I’ll see you next door.’
She silently headed into the living room. She opened the balcony doors and stayed low, studying the neighbouring balcony. It was empty. She gauged the distance – less than two metres. If she balanced on the railing, she’d be able to jump across. Making sure the Makarov was secure inside her jacket, and now committed, Racine stood. The cool autumnal air hit her face. She casually looked out at the street below. A bus pulled in at a stop, several unremarkable-looking cars passed, pedestrians hurried on the pavement and in the distance a pair of military trucks turned right onto a parallel street.
No one looked up.
No one paid her any attention.
She climbed onto the railing as near to the wall as she could; it creaked and wobbled but held. She bent her knees, took a deep calming breath, swung her arms and then launched herself forward as though she were attempting the standing long jump. It felt like she was floating as the railings of the target balcony grew nearer, but then she noticed the handrail was wet, as if the whole balcony had been recently washed. The soles of her boots clipped the slick, paint-covered iron and she jerked forward. Racine tumbled face first towards the damp concrete. She lowered her right shoulder, took the impact but mitigated this by rolling and coming to a halt against the railings on the far side of the balcony.
She was winded and momentarily immobile. As she recovered the door to the living room opened. The sound of a television wafted out and was immediately followed by a figure holding a Kalashnikov. He was an athletic-looking man in military-issue fatigues, a Russian soldier not a member of the DNR. Not seeing her at first, he pointed his AK one way, and then the other. He spotted her and paused. Confused, he hesitated; his mind attempting to understand what he was seeing.
Racine kicked out viciously at his shin. The Russian grunted and hopped, off balance. Now Racine sprang to her feet and grabbed the Kalashnikov with both hands. They pirouetted, and the Russian still on one foot slammed backwards into the handrail. It creaked loudly in protest, and Racine drove the Russian harder into it. He was strong and determined. Racine now threw herself against him, her momentum rather than her weight making the railings groan again, and then something snapped. The pair froze as a section of the railing plummeted to the ground three floors below. The Russian teetered on the edge, eyes wide. Racine let go of the AK and kicked him hard, in the chest. The burly Buryat fell backwards off the balcony, mouth open but not making a sound. Racine stepped away from the edge, panting. So much for sneaking in and out unnoticed.
She withdrew her Makarov from her jacket, took a final deep, calming breath then spun around the open door and into the room. Eyes and pistol tracing arcs, she dissected the room, searching for threats. It was empty save for the distinctively Soviet-era furnishings and a modern television. Her eyes glanced at the screen and noted what seemed to be Sy
lvester Stallone brandishing a large machine gun. She continued on as cinematic explosions sounded. Directly ahead the double doors leading to the hall were open, and then the doorbell rang.
Positioned on the opposite side of the flat to the kitchen, the sound of Rambo III blaring from the television had masked her scuffle on the balcony. She stepped out into the hall, and turned left with the reassurance of nothing but a wall behind her. Up ahead a large Russian soldier was already at the door and pulling it open. His head snapped sideways when he noticed her and then he jerked backwards as a single shot sounded. The tall figure of Aidan Snow pushed past the falling man and into her line of sight. His Glock angled her way, but when he saw her, he nodded and shut the door.
The assault had turned noisy. Speed rather than stealth was required.
Racine pointed at the door to the room on her left and then at herself. Snow acknowledged her instruction as they both heard sudden shouts and movement from the kitchen. The SIS operative now focused his Glock up the hall.
Racine’s left hand reached for the doorhandle of the room to her left when a round, fired blind, ripped through the wood and tugged at her jacket. She jerked back and away to the side, flattening herself against the wall. A second round erupted, this one lower. Footfall sounded now from the direction of the kitchen and Racine saw a Russian soldier dart around the corner, with a short-stock Kalashnikov up and ready to engage them. Snow sent a pair of rounds into the man’s head. Finger on trigger, the soldier was propelled backwards through the bathroom door and sprayed the hall with white-hot rounds. He came to rest sprawled over the toilet bowl.
Racine checked her jacket and noticed a hole through the fabric. The bullet had missed her, but the expensive leather was ruined. She cursed under her breath; she’d get another one made up and charge her employer for it. More importantly, however, she felt her side and confirmed that it was only her clothes that were holed. The stench of gunpowder stung Racine’s throat and an eerie silence now fell upon the flat. It was too quiet, and their assault so far had felt too easy. She noticed that Snow seemed worried too. More sounds came from the kitchen, a hurried conversation. Did that mean there were two more men there, or only one using a phone? Either way they were not her primary threat – whoever had taken pot shots at her through the door was.
That was where Vasilev would be.
Snow had his Glock trained up the hall, ready to take on anyone who was still in the kitchen. He glanced back at her, as she pointed at the door, then herself and then him. He nodded and, moving quieter than she would have expected, he positioned himself up against the wall on the far side of the door.
She locked eyes with him and mouthed: ‘Three … two … one …’ before she kicked in the door.
They bomb-burst inside, each carving out different arcs with their pistols, searching for hostiles. She moved left and low and he went right. Their weapons abruptly stopped moving as they found two figures, a soldier and a hostage. The soldier was standing behind the hostage, using him as a shield. The hostage looked dirty and afraid.
Neither was Vasilev.
The soldier had one hand around the hostage’s neck and his other on a Makarov held an inch away from the man’s skull.
‘Drop your weapon or I’ll kill him!’ he shouted, in Russian.
Without hesitation Racine fired. The soldier’s head was instantaneously replaced by a crimson cloud.
‘Ahhhh! Please nooo!’ the hostage shouted, in an odd accent Racine took to be regional British.
‘Is that your man?’ Racine asked.
Snow let out a deep breath. ‘It’s him.’
‘Of course I’m him,’ Iqbal said. ‘Don’t shoot me!’
‘How many Russians are in the flat?’ Racine asked.
Iqbal squinted. ‘There were two guarding me. I don’t know how many others there are.’
‘Stay here,’ Racine ordered and turned on her heels back to the door.
‘Wait! Don’t leave me,’ Iqbal visibly started to panic and raised his still-bound wrists.
‘We’ve come to take you home. We’ll be back,’ Snow said.
Iqbal nodded.
Moving as quickly but as lightly as she could, Racine passed Snow, taking the lead. She didn’t want him obscuring her view.
Racine swung back out into the hall, and changed her stance, making herself smaller. She hoped Snow knew she was taking ‘low’ and leaving him to take ‘high’. They tactically moved down the hallway then rounded the corner, Snow sideways on to watch their six, the sound of their footfall inaudible. Racine held up her fist. They stopped; she cocked her head to listen. The door to the kitchen was half closed, and through the opening they could hear a voice now speaking in a hurried, but quiet tone. They knew from the layout of the apartment next door that the kitchen was L-shaped so the seating area would be immediately to the side of the door.
Moving with speed and precision, Racine entered the kitchen.
She saw one man.
Not Sasha Vasilev.
The soldier was standing with his back to the sink. His left hand held a mobile phone, and he was talking into it. On the small kitchen table, a Kalashnikov lay just out of reach. In his right hand he held a Makarov, which was a mistake, but he was barely out of his teens, and his reaction saved his life. As soon as he saw Racine he recoiled. Both phone and pistol fell from his grasp and thudded on the linoleum floor as his hands shot above his head and he jabbered, ‘No … Pl … please!’
‘Don’t move,’ Racine snarled, in Russian.
‘We need to leave,’ Snow stated, ‘and quickly.’
‘Go. Take his AK.’
Snow took the rifle and left the kitchen.
Racine addressed the cowering, young soldier. ‘Where is Sasha Vasilev?’
The soldier’s mouth moved but the words it formed were silent.
Racine darted forward and pistol whipped him about the head. The soldier crashed to the floor. Racine bent down, grabbed him by the hair and manhandled him to the table. She had no time to be polite. ‘They’re all dead. If you want to live, answer my question.’
‘Y … yes,’ the youth stammered, blood dripping from a cut on his temple.
‘Who were you calling?’
‘Str … Stre … Strelkov.’
‘To tell him we were here?’
The soldier said nothing, but his eyes betrayed the truth and he started to shake.
‘Did you tell him we were here?’
‘He … he wanted me to confirm your arrival.’
Racine realised Strelkov knew they were coming; they’d been lured into a trap. ‘How many men?’
‘Two … two trucks. Fifty Russian troops.’
‘How far out?’
‘Three minutes away.’
She’d seen two trucks from the balcony. Racine felt a roaring in her ears. They were out of time. ‘Where is Vasilev?’
‘Vasilev?’
‘Raduga, the interrogator.’
‘He went home.’
Racine shuddered. Had he escaped, fled back to Russia? ‘Home? Where?’
‘A penthouse apartment on Pushkin Boulevard.’
‘Do you know the exact address?’
‘Yes, I’ve been there.’
‘Tell me.’
He told her.
*
‘You’re British? You’re the SAS?’ Iqbal asked.
‘Not all of it,’ Snow replied as he placed the Kalashnikov on the floor and worked on undoing the bonds around Iqbal’s wrists.
‘Relax. You’re being rescued.’
‘Is that true? This isn’t some kind of a trick?’ Iqbal’s eyes became moist and he had to sniff back his tears.
‘It’s true,’ Snow confirmed. ‘I’m going to take you home, Mohammed.’
‘My name’s Mo … to my friends,’ Iqbal said as he pushed himself to his feet, grimacing.
‘My name is Aidan.’ Snow noticed the state of Iqbal’s feet. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Cour
se I can bloody walk if it means getting out of this place. Just got a few cuts and bruises. Nothing a pint couldn’t put right.’
Snow inspected Iqbal’s feet. ‘What size do you take?’
‘Eleven … 44 European.’
Snow checked the feet of the dead soldier. ‘It’s your lucky day.’ He heaved the man’s boots off and made a face at the smell. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘Dead man’s boots,’ Iqbal noted, flatly.
‘I wouldn’t take his socks. Here.’
‘Ta.’ Iqbal took the military boots. He closed his eyes and winced as he gingerly slipped his first foot in.
‘Your feet need to be looked at, but we’ve got to get you out of here first.’ Snow eyed Iqbal up and down as he put on the second boot. His clothes were filthy, and there was fresh blood splatter on his face.
‘Ready.’ Iqbal stood. Tears welled in his eyes.
‘It’ll get better, trust me. The more you walk, the less it will hurt … but then your feet will fall off.’ Snow smirked.
‘Great.’
There was an angry banging on the front door. ‘We’ve got company. Mo, listen to me, I need you to get behind that interior wall and stay down until I say otherwise, got it?’
‘Wait, I think I heard Raduga talking about sending more soldiers, about them waiting for you to arrive first.’
‘You think?’
‘My Russian’s rubbish.’
‘OK.’
Snow met Racine in the hall. She had an AK to the back of the young soldier. ‘Unwanted visitors.’
‘It was a trap. There’s a Russian force of fifty, two minutes out.’
‘Racine, get out the way you came in. You don’t need to be here.’
‘What about you and Iqbal?’
‘We’ll manage. We’ll have to. Now move!’
Racine said nothing. There was no time and no other option. She left the soldier with Snow and carried on into the living room.
‘Speak to the men in the hallway. Say “everything is fine”,’ Snow now ordered the man.
‘F … fine?’
‘Yes, fine,’ Snow said, prodding him again.
‘Everything is f … fine,’ the young soldier stuttered, his voice faltering.