Traitors

by Alex Shaw

  ‘Larkin,’ Snow said, leaning against the wall next to her.

  ‘You studied Larkin?’ Her eyebrows arched.

  Snow nodded. ‘Yes but I can’t remember much.’

  ‘Perhaps we just remember the parts that mean more to us?’

  ‘So did your parents mess you up?’ Snow asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She looked up at the Englishman. She’d never really spoken about it to anyone, but somehow now wanted to. ‘My mum force-fed me bread, tarts and cakes until I was as big as a ball, and then my dad trained me until I lost it all.’

  ‘Trained?’

  ‘He was ex-army – like you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you as a fat kid?’

  ‘Neither could he.’ Racine half-smiled at the memories of her and her dad out running and then sparring together at a time when it had just been the two of them, a time after her mother had walked out on them. A time after Celine was dead. She blinked. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve never been fat, except between my ears.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘My parents were … are quite nice actually. My dad was a diplomat and my mum enjoyed being a diplomat’s wife. I was an embassy brat.’

  ‘Where?’ She’d decided she wasn’t going to talk about herself anymore.

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘C’mon, I doubt your formative years are classified.’

  ‘Moscow mainly but also East Germany and Poland.’

  ‘Hence the language ability?’

  ‘I used to give my embassy driver the slip and take the metro home. I’d sit and eavesdrop on the Muscovites.’

  ‘When was this before The Revolution?’

  ‘One of them.’ Snow shook his head and smirked. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve just got an ear for it.’

  ‘Only the one?’

  ‘Is everything a joke with you?’

  ‘Twelve times out of ten.’

  Racine’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said I was a “twelve” earlier.’

  ‘I did. And I meant it.’

  Iqbal snored and then muttered something in a thick, sleep-addled voice. Racine asked, ‘So who are his parents?’

  ‘They’re his mum and dad,’ Snow replied.

  Racine sighed and looked out of the hole in the plastic at the street. ‘Is there a Mrs Snow?’

  ‘Apart from my mother? No.’

  ‘Was there ever?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the job, isn’t it?’ Racine asked.

  Snow sighed. ‘And you?’

  ‘No partner and no children either, just in case you wondered.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Because I’m a woman.’

  ‘Sexist.’

  Racine opened her mouth to reply but then a sound from outside stopped her. On the street below a tracked military vehicle of a design she didn’t recognise slowly negotiated the uphill turn before moving away from their location. Behind it a group of men walked with weapons held in the ready position. ‘Looks like they’re moving their circle outwards.’

  ‘As long as they think we’re ahead of them we’ll be OK.’

  Racine looked back at Snow. ‘There is no we. We need to split up. I’m going on alone.’

  ‘We’ll always have Donetsk.’

  Iqbal snorted and woke up. ‘Wh … what?’

  ‘Good morning,’ Snow said.

  Iqbal peered at the pair before suddenly realising where he was. ‘Did I snore?’

  ‘Like a train,’ Snow said.

  ‘More like a warthog,’ Racine added.

  ‘Cheers.’

  Racine asked Snow, ‘How far to Vasilev’s?’

  Snow felt for the Samsung he’d stuffed in the pocket of his jeans before leaving the car. He’d removed the battery to prevent it from being tracked but now powered it back up. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. ‘About a click east of here.’

  Racine held out her hand and Snow gave her the phone. She checked the route on the screen then handed it back. ‘Have you still got that grenade?’

  ‘Why? Are you planning on blowing Vasilev up?’

  ‘A “girl” needs options.’

  Snow felt in his jacket pocket. ‘Here, I know it’s an unusual gift for a first date.’

  ‘Thanks. I love it.’

  ‘I’m glad because I don’t have the receipt.’

  ‘Really? How can you two act so normal?’ Iqbal asked. ‘We’ve been chased by and shot at by a bloody tank.’ Iqbal started to mumble to himself, as though he had just remembered what he’d been through. ‘A tank, I’ve been shot at by a bloody Russian tank.’ Iqbal shook his head and continued to mutter. Snow sat next to him.

  Racine looked through the hole in the plastic. Outside, the street was now still. There was no more military traffic, but she could hear distant male voices shouting. If Vasilev was at home then it was logical to infer that he had finished his duty for the day. If he was going to leave his flat again for food or entertainment she did not know. She had a window but had no idea how large it was. She turned her head. Snow was talking quietly to Iqbal, probably using Jedi mind tricks or whatever it was that the SAS and SIS had taught him. Her father was a huge fan of Star Wars and passed this on to her. Her mother had allowed her to have a ‘boy’s toy’ – a Princess Leia doll – however, she’d always rooted for Boba Fett. Without doubt, Snow was a Jedi. And a handsome one at that.

  She sighed. Mission mode. She worked alone, always had, and always would. Being with Snow had been convenient, but that was all she could ever allow it to be. The Russians and the DNR were looking for a group of three – not a lone woman and a pair of men. Although she wished Snow and Iqbal well, their successful escape was of no importance to her country. From now on it was her against the enemy, her against the Russians. ‘Time to say goodbye.’

  ‘Bonne chance,’ Snow said.

  Racine checked the street again. ‘Merci.’

  Snow took a step towards her. ‘Look, if I’m ever in Paris …’

  ‘If you’re ever in Paris, watch out for the dog shit.’ Racine winked and abruptly walked downstairs.

  Golden Ring Avenue, Donetsk

  Racine pocketed her Makarov and continued along the street until she took a left and cut back down to Golden Ring Avenue. What little traffic there was had become backed up because of a roadblock created by a green Kamaz military truck. In the distance, she saw the BMP-2 that had shelled them earlier reversing jerkily back onto the avenue and two taxi drivers standing by their cars gesticulating at the scene.

  ‘Take me to Pushkin Boulevard?’ she asked the two men.

  ‘What currency?’ asked the first driver.

  ‘Twenty dollars US.’ Racine was in no mood to haggle.

  ‘Done.’ The second driver opened his car door.

  As they drove away, the driver regarded Racine in his rear-view mirror. ‘Did you need me to perhaps wait for you, or take you anywhere else? I can do that. Walking or stopping cars is just not safe anymore.’

  Racine thought for a second; a car would be useful. ‘I will pay you one hundred dollars if you wait outside the address for me and then take me to another.’

  The driver grinned. ‘You bet.’

  Military vehicles blocked the road ahead. Racine instinctively felt for her Makarov pistol, still secure inside her jacket.

  ‘Don’t they understand that people have a living to make? That we have lives to get on with? No matter, we’re turning here.’ The taxi took a right, passing an empty sports shoe store on the corner. ‘I used to get my kids’ trainers there … now look at it.’

  ‘Are we far?’ Racine asked.

  ‘This is Pushkin Boulevard. Which number do you need?’

  Racine was about to answer when she spotted a black Mercedes G Wagon parked half on the pavement ahead outside Vasilev’s address. It had to belong to Strelkov. ‘Pull in over there and wait.’

  ‘What about my money?’
<
br />   Racine reached into her jeans pocket and withdrew a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Here, half now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The taxi passed the Mercedes and came to a halt at the next building that, before the conflict, had housed a phone store for the Turkish provider ‘Life’; now all that remained was the blood-red signage. Parked nose into the kerb, the taxi was one of many anonymous vehicles. ‘Life,’ the taxi driver grunted. ‘What life do we have here now?’

  ‘I may be a while. Please wait for me.’

  ‘You’re the only fare I’ve had today; of course I’ll wait.’

  Racine exited the taxi and angled herself towards the corner of Vasilev’s building and the side street. Unlike many of the dodgy, Khrushchev-era Soviet buildings on the city outskirts, the architecture here was grand – almost Parisian – and the ground floors of the buildings in the area were faced with huge, irregular-cut granite slabs. Very decorative, also easy to climb; the balconies of the first-floor flats were no more than twelve feet off the ground. Reaching the side of the building, Racine was in a blind spot and unable to be seen by the G Wagon. She peered around the corner of the wall and saw that, although the Mercedes was facing away from her, its side mirrors had been angled to provide views of the street behind and the pavement. She wasn’t going to get past without being seen.

  Racine cast a glance around. The side street was empty; all the traffic was on Pushkin Boulevard. She walked back into the road then ran at the wall. Using her training in parkour she launched herself up the side of the building with two powerful strides, twisted to her right, grabbed the railing, and vaulted onto the balcony.

  Shoulders protesting, she flattened herself against the wall to the side of the balcony door and counted to ten as she caught her breath, thankful that this balcony was bone-dry. It would have done little for her self-esteem to fall arse over tit a second time. She listened. There were no shouts from below, or within. She edged left and peered through the glass. The living room was empty, yet she could hear a television. Racine tried the handle; it moved, and she pushed the rickety door open. Once inside, she closed it, drew her Makarov, and edged forward through the room. She placed her feet carefully; her rubber soled boots made hardly any noise on the parquet floor, and the television drowned out her footfall. She glanced at the TV; it was showing a Russian military parade and a brass band was playing.

  Once out of the living room she warily entered a hallway, unable to hear if anyone was approaching. On the right and in the corner, she saw the front door; to her immediate right, another door led to what she could see was a bedroom. It meant that anyone in the apartment was probably behind her in the kitchen or the bathroom. She strode to the front door and slid back the bolt; as she did so, a toilet flushed. Racine turned the handle and was through the door before the owner returned from the bathroom. Directly in front of her was a lift shaft, hidden behind a cage. Looking up, she saw that the lift was at the top floor, outside Vasilev’s penthouse apartment.

  Racine took the stairs. The walls – as in most former Soviet buildings – had a two-tone paint job, green at the bottom and cream from the waist up; in her opinion, neither colour worked. She took the steps two at a time until she reached the fifth floor where she started to move as quietly as possible. Creeping around the final step, she was confronted by two front doors facing each other. The lower floors had four apartments each; here it was reduced to two, giving her a fifty-fifty chance of choosing the right one. However, one of the doors had two Russian soldiers posted outside.

  *

  ‘Strelkov.’ Vasilev’s voice was low and the tone even as he sat on the huge imported Italian leather settee. ‘You should have left more men to guard Iqbal. Now we have lost him!’

  ‘I should have? It was your plan, Sasha. Where were you when he was taken?’

  Vasilev pointed up at Strelkov with his finger. ‘That is different. I am an intelligence officer not a combatant.’

  Strelkov laughed out loud. ‘You are whatever we need you to be!’

  ‘So tell me, Strelkov, what is that?’

  Strelkov didn’t reply. Vasilev let out a sudden laugh then gestured with his arms, expansively; an action that immensely annoyed Strelkov. ‘It matters not. What could Iqbal know? He was only a poor student in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Really? You now believe this, or is this because your techniques failed on him?’

  Vasilev slowly got to his feet, eyes locked on Strelkov’s. ‘My techniques never fail. I do not fail. I am the best, which is why our president sanctioned my services.’

  Strelkov’s rising anger had triumphed over his feeling of intimidation. ‘Yet you got nothing out of him? He must know something. Twice today we were attacked. He was then rescued by professionals. What government does that for just one man?’

  Vasilev didn’t reply. His eyes were cold.

  Strelkov’s upper lip twitched. ‘I was never in agreement with our president’s plan to put you on display, but I as a patriot had no choice but to comply.’

  ‘No choice? A true patriot would never have contemplated questioning the Russian President’s orders. Don’t you get it, Strelkov? The president personally welcomed me back into our beloved country. The passport he presented to me is a symbol of Russian sovereignty. It is a statement to those who would oppose us – it proclaims that Russia will, can and shall protect each and every one of its Russian speakers regardless of wherever they find themselves. By posting my photograph online, we are not taunting the west, we are showing them they shall not win the war against our nation, our sovereignty and our very existence.’

  ‘You are a true patriot,’ Strelkov said, thinly.

  Vasilev’s gaze drifted towards the clouds floating outside. ‘I was torn away from the breast of Mother Russia and forced to become French. My parents gave me no choice, no consultation. Why was this? Because they were corrupted by capitalism and greed. They planted me in that cesspit Paris, expecting me to forget my culture, my language, and my identity. But I had a conscience and a plan. I knew that by working within the system, within the DGSE, I could bring about change.’

  ‘Very noble.’

  Vasilev’s eyes focused again on Strelkov. ‘Never question me again, or I’ll break you.’

  A smile spread across Strelkov’s lips. ‘You and whose army? The DNR?’

  Vasilev laughed. ‘You are a funny man, Igor. Real Russian humour was something I missed in Paris. The French were too contented, too kind.’

  ‘Yet that did not stop you from betraying them?’

  ‘How can one betray something one is not part of? My passport and ID papers may have said “French” but the blood in my veins was and always shall be Russian. I am a Russian patriot like you, Igor. Mine was a long game. Once I was in Paris and I saw the contempt the west had for us Russians I knew I had to be the one to teach them a lesson. Do I feel remorse for those in Paris I killed? No. Do I feel regret for those French agents I exposed overseas? No.’ Vasilev’s eyes burned with pride as he continued to glare at Strelkov.

  A thin smile appeared on Strelkov’s face. ‘I have never murdered a woman I loved.’

  ‘What do you know of that?’

  Strelkov smirked. ‘I know everything about you. You did not choose the timing of your return to Russia. You were forced to flee because your lover was about to expose you.’

  Vasilev sighed. ‘That is true. She was a foreign intelligence officer. One woman was worth nothing compared to the success of my mission. By the same token, the loss of Iqbal does not compromise our operation today. I am sorry, Igor, I really am for perhaps taking it too slowly with him. Maybe this was a time when brutal methods would have worked? In my heart of hearts, however, I do not believe that he knew anything. I mean who would trust him with anything? Right?’

  Strelkov remained silent for a beat before he spoke. ‘Nevertheless, the fact remains that Iqbal was rescued by a foreign team and you sit here in your apartment seemingly obliviou
s to the fact that if the British can snatch Iqbal then the French can snatch you?’

  ‘Let the French come for me.’ Vasilev held his head high. ‘Do not worry for my safety. I am ready for them; besides to send in troops here, that is an act of war.’

  It was now obvious to Strelkov that Vasilev was either not thinking correctly or perhaps had some kind of plan he was not divulging. ‘I am the soldier; you are the spy. Do I really need to spell this out to you? This was a black operation, a deniable mission and as such there can be no official reprisal or sanction from the British if we liquidate their team.’

  ‘Their mission is complete. They have Mohammed Iqbal.’

  ‘They have not yet left our territory; of this I am certain. Iqbal is in no fit state to leave on foot. They must use the roads, and the DNR have all roads in and out of the city sealed. Regardless of this, however, we must get ahead of the situation … I shall update the VKontakte page and issue a statement that we let Mohammed Iqbal go because we were satisfied he was merely an innocent medical student.’

  ‘The DNR will lose credibility.’

  ‘It will gain respect and display its humanity. Admitting one’s mistakes builds respect, and that is what the Donetsk People’s Republic needs.’

  Vasilev shook his head slowly and collected a half-empty bottle of vodka from the sideboard. He filled two shot glasses and handed one to Strelkov. ‘Do you really believe in all of this, Igor?’

  Strelkov took his drink. ‘The Donetsk People’s Republic? No, not all. The concept of Novorossiya – a new larger, grander Russia that encompasses all of our stolen territories including the Ukrainian lands? Absolutely. We Russians are the greatest race on earth, Sasha – on that we do agree. I will not rest until we are united.’

  ‘Then you will be very tired.’ Vasilev raised his glass in salute. ‘To Novorossiya!’

  Strelkov threw the vodka down his throat. ‘I will leave you now. Iqbal is gone but tomorrow there may well be new prisoners for you to interrogate.’

  Chapter 20