by Alex Shaw
Racine rose to her feet, using the wall for support. She took long, deep breaths. The ringing in her ears began to die away. She pushed off and threw herself back through the cloud of dust and smoke that was drifting from the shattered doors, expecting at any moment to be greeted by a hail of gunfire.
Immediately inside the white walls had been blackened. Vasilev lay face up, behind the shredded settee, as though he had been blown over the back. He had managed to divert the grenade as the parquet floor was smouldering from where it had exploded. This, however, was directly between the two gunmen. They were unquestionably dead, and Vasilev was motionless. Blood seeped from the side of his mouth and the back of his head. However, there was movement and noise from the two men in the kitchen.
One was on his hands and knees and the other was slumped sideways against the kitchen island. Racine scooped up the nearest Kalashnikov and fired a burst into them both, before advancing into the kitchen to deliver more rounds to the chest of each.
Before she could return to Vasilev, another explosion shook the flat. The door – someone had made entry. She swapped out the magazine on the AK and moved back into the lounge at a crouch. Her eyes flicked to Vasilev – he still had not moved – then to the entrance hall. Three armed men were advancing over the battered door and into the flat. The further in they got, the better their angles would become. Switching to full auto, Racine unloaded the magazine at the trio before moving forward. She dropped her rifle and grabbed the remaining rifle from the second dead gunman. She scampered into cover behind a wooden cabinet. Erratic return fire barked back at her, but she jinked left and opened up on the other side.
One of the three was down, the second was holding his leg, whilst the third was aiming his rifle with one hand, desperately attempting to pull his injured teammate to safety with the other. Racine shot them both in the head.
In the tinnitus silence of the flat she coughed. Gunpowder clawed at her throat, but nothing stirred. She advanced to the door and stepped out onto the landing. There was no one in sight, but it wouldn’t take long for more Russians to arrive. The door of the other penthouse was open. She couldn’t ignore it. With nothing to lose she moved over the threshold. The layout was the same as Vasilev’s own flat but this one had military cots littering the main room instead of expensive furniture. She realised then that the men who had been with Vasilev had been billeted there. She shook her head – she’d even heard them get into position earlier.
Moving further into the second flat, weapon up, she found an ammunition store. There were several AKs and a bag of grenades. She took two grenades, one for each pocket. Flickering lights coming from another room now caught her eye. She entered and came face to face with a room of monitors and hard drives. The screens were on and displaying a video feed. Her eyes narrowed as she recognised it as the flat where Iqbal had been held. The rooms were empty but she could make out strike marks from the rounds fired. She had not come to collect intel but to terminate Vasilev yet she now had to destroy this evidence of her presence in Donetsk. Pulling the pin on a grenade, she placed it on the floor directly between two servers and sprinted out of the flat.
She on the landing when an explosion shook the apartment building for the third time that day.
Back in Vasilev’s flat now she saw the Makarov she had dropped earlier lying in the hallway and not far from it her knife. She collected both, left the AK and made once again for her target.
Vasilev was propped up against the wall, next to the shattered balcony doors. His voice was ragged. ‘Very … very impressive.’
‘I am.’
Her eyes met his.
She fired twice.
The Makarov roared. Two 9mm rounds struck Vasilev in the chest, jerking him back into the wall. He slid sideways, his gaze still on hers. Irregular breaths escaped his lips and then his eyes rolled up and he became still.
She stood, immobile like a statue, like a monument to revenge, unable to remove her eyes from Vasilev’s corpse. The Makarov felt suddenly heavy in her leaden hands. She realised there was no blood at all seeping from his chest wounds. It was as though she had missed, or the rounds hadn’t penetrated his chest. He was wearing a ballistic vest.
Vasilev’s eyes snapped open. Racine pulled the trigger, placing a bullet an inch above and precisely between them.
Chapter 22
Voroshylovs’kyi District, Donetsk
As far as Snow could tell, the DNR had not sent any men after them up the hill on foot – but that did not mean that they were not being watched. Farther along the road and to the right, a fourteen-storey Soviet monstrosity of an apartment block had overlooked their hiding place, and anyone who had happened to stare down from their balcony would have been able to see Snow and Iqbal lurking. No one had come and after waiting for a further five minutes, the pair had broken cover and started to amble along the street.
‘Where are we going now?’ Iqbal asked.
‘We’re going to get a lift from the people who should have helped you in the first place.’
‘The A-Team?’
‘No, the OSCE.’ Snow smirked. He was glad Iqbal had managed to keep his sense of humour. ‘You do like your Eighties TV.’
‘Of course, man. Daytime satellite TV, a student’s best friend. Back home, that is.’
‘Have you ever been to the Hotel Park Inn?’
‘The Radisson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then yes, I have. My dad’s got one of their reward cards. When he and Mum came to visit me, they stayed there.’
‘That’s where the OSCE is based.’
‘Great, it’s not far up the road from here.’
‘OK, we need to get moving.’ He walked casually with Iqbal limping at his side. Iqbal was probably one of the only ethnic Pakistanis left in Donetsk. They needed to get off the streets but the risk of being spotted stealing another car or hailing the wrong taxi was too great. An engine growled behind them, loud for a civilian vehicle. Snow spun. An armoured all-terrain 4X4 GAZ Tiger was negotiating the corner. Snow grabbed Iqbal by the arm and hurried him off the pavement. Walking with a normal gait but as quickly as he could, Snow took them down the side of an apartment building and around the corner. Half a minute later the Tiger passed on the road, the turret gunner leaning against his 7.62mm PKP Pecheneg machine gun. Someone had literally brought out the big guns to find them.
Snow noticed that Iqbal had started to shake again. ‘Come on, Mo. We gotta go.’
‘Ladies first.’ Iqbal tried to calm his nerves.
They cautiously got back onto the pavement. Snow continuously scanned the road ahead and its passing motorists and pedestrians for potential risks. In his pocket, he had his right hand clasped around his Glock. The road ahead ended in a T-junction. They turned right to take them farther away from the traffic and their pursuers.
They crossed the road and walked uphill. Huge trees lined the narrow street and their bright autumnal leaves offered some concealment from the other side. At the top, they turned left at the T-junction. Snow noted the name of the street: Red Army Boulevard. Unlike Kyiv’s impressive street of the same name, this one was narrow, had residential buildings on one side, and sheets of corrugated iron sealing off wasteland on the other. A large sign next to an abandoned bank read: ‘Office furniture for rent’. The surrealism of urban warfare never ceased to amaze him. He imagined that the business had already ceased trading. Turning the next corner, they walked into the back of the Tiger. Snow grabbed Iqbal’s arm and hustled him back the way they had come, using the only cover available – a low brick wall.
‘Did they see us?’ Iqbal’s eyes were wide.
Snow looked around; they weren’t visible from the road. They stayed put, waiting for the Tiger to move on before Snow led the pair back onto the road.
They continued on their route for another six minutes before Iqbal pointed. ‘That’s the Radisson.’
Bordered by giant evergreens, it was a squat utilitarian building
that would not have been out of place in any Scandinavian country. The vehicles outside, however, were out of place. Snow counted six white OSCE Land Cruisers and several civilian SUVs with DNR flags attached to their bodywork.
Had Strelkov predicted their destination? Were the militants waiting for them? Snow took a deep breath and turned to Iqbal. ‘Now listen …’ Snow reached inside his jacket and withdrew the creased OSCE tabard ‘… we are going to walk in there, past any militants or Russians, and we are not going to stop for anyone.’
Iqbal looked unconvinced. ‘OK …’
Snow handed Iqbal the tabard. ‘Put this on.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. The DNR have never shot an OSCE member and I don’t see why today is going to be any different. Now follow my lead.’
Snow stepped out of trees and walked, head held high, directly towards the hotel reception. Iqbal was at his side, attempting to walk equally as proud and ignoring the pain in his feet. They took the ramp up; each step made them more visible to those inside. A militant in combat fatigues sat on a railing by the double doors, a cigarette hanging from his lips. It fell from his open mouth as he saw Iqbal approaching. Snow locked eyes with the man and spoke in his best plummy British accent: ‘Good afternoon.’
The militant gave a nod, his mouth still open, and they passed him. Inside, the reception area was white and minimalist except for the mustard-yellow reception desk and the dark brown wall immediately behind it. Both had stylised images of miners on them, painted in what looked like real mustard to Snow. The hotel employee on duty was young and wore an immaculate purple waistcoat over his white dress shirt.
‘Hello there, I need your help.’ Snow continued speaking English. ‘We have arrived today and were meant to be met by a colleague. I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve forgotten his name.’
The receptionist wrinkled his brow. He finally asked, in lightly accented English, ‘Is he a guest at this hotel, sir?’
‘Yes, he is. Perhaps you know him? He’s even taller than me, has blond hair, and is Dutch.’
‘Oh, I see. That is Mr Freek Benscoter.’
‘Freek?’ Iqbal repeated the name, incredulously.
Snow addressed the receptionist again. ‘Could you possibly call his room and ask him to come to reception?’
‘Of course, sir.’ He looked down at his computer, found the room number, and tapped it into his phone. Snow followed his fingers. Benscoter was in room 361. He put the handset to his ear and when the person at the other end picked up, he relayed the message quietly. He replaced the handset and gave Snow a professional smile. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, Mr Benscoter will be down in a moment.’
‘Thank you.’ Snow scanned the foyer again. The DNR militant from outside had since entered and was standing next to another man by a side door. They were both talking and staring at the reception desk. ‘Come on, we’ll move to the lifts.’
The two militants followed Snow and Iqbal with their eyes. Snow watched a light on the lift indicate that it was descending. The doors pinged and a giant stepped out. Snow breathed a sigh of relief; it was the same monitor he had seen at the garage.
Benscoter stopped when he saw Iqbal in the OSCE tabard. ‘Who are you?’
‘We need your help,’ Snow stated.
‘You are English?’
‘Yes.’ Snow looked back at the two DNR men; one was now on a mobile phone while the other still stared at them. ‘This man was held illegally, against the terms of the Minsk II agreement, by the DNR. He is also a British citizen. I rescued him today.’
‘Rescued? Who are you?’
‘I’m working on behalf of the British Foreign Office.’
‘I see, and what is it you want me to do?’
‘I need the OSCE to drive us out of Donetsk and back to the Ukrainian lines.’
‘We are here to observe. We do not take sides.’
‘You facilitate the release and handover of prisoners? This man was illegally held by the DNR.’
There were noises behind and the two militants started to walk towards them.
Benscoter looked over their heads at the men in uniform. ‘I see your point. You understand that I am not the boss. You must persuade Gordon Ward; he’s in charge and, like you, he is British.’
‘Show me your papers,’ the militant who’d been smoking grunted to Iqbal.
‘Everything is in order,’ Snow said. ‘We have every right to be here.’
The second militant glowered at Snow and took a step forward. ‘No Eeenglish.’
‘You must go. This is official OSCE business!’ Benscoter’s voice boomed.
‘Suka,’ Bitch, the second militant hissed and both DNR members moved away.
‘Please,’ Snow implored. ‘This is serious. We need your help.’
Benscoter held the gaze of the retreating militants. ‘I see it’s not safe for you to wait for Gordon here. Follow me.’ Benscoter pressed the open button and they followed him inside the lift. Once the doors had closed, he cast his eyes over Iqbal. ‘How long did they hold you for?’
‘What’s today’s date?’ Iqbal asked. Benscoter told him. ‘Two months.’
‘Where were you held?’
‘A couple of places – I don’t know where.’
‘Why were you in Donetsk?’
‘I was studying at the medical university.’
The Dutchman shook his head. ‘This whole thing is a farce. I was in the Dutch army and I’ve served as a UN peacekeeper, but what good we are doing here I do not know.’ The lift stopped and the doors pinged open. Benscoter continued to talk as he showed them into his room. ‘At least we are here and reporting on what we see.’
Snow walked to the window and looked out on the scene below. From the room’s limited vantage point, nothing seemed to have changed since they had entered the hotel. ‘Where is Ward?’
‘I am expecting him back at any time. He’s normally out and about, talking to the locals. He likes to think of himself as a man of the people – “hearts and minds” he calls it.’
‘I see.’ Snow knew what ‘hearts and minds’ was; the SAS had invented the doctrine.
‘Listen—’ Benscoter pointed at Iqbal ‘—you look and smell like shit. Please use my shower. I’m afraid that I don’t have any clothes that will fit you though. I’m going back downstairs to wait for Gordon. It is better if your request comes from me.’
‘Thank you.’
Benscoter glanced at Snow. ‘Thank you for letting me do something of help for once.’
After the Dutchman had left, Snow turned to Iqbal. ‘You heard the man, strip.’
‘But I hardly know you.’
‘Mo, get in the shower.’
‘I don’t suppose we could call room service? I’m starving, man. A club sandwich would hit the spot. Make that a chicken club. I’ve been dreaming about fried chicken.’
‘Wash. Soon we’ll be eating chicken in Kyiv.’
Snow found the unit under the television. It contained a small fridge, barely cold and stocked with two bottles of Georgian mineral water and a can of Fanta. Snow drank one of the waters leaving the other and the Fanta for Iqbal, and moved to the window. He opened it and cold autumnal air wafted in; the temperature had dropped.
Snow looked around the room and his eyes fell on the television; it had no doubt stopped playing BBC World or CNN. Mo started to sing in the shower just as there was a noise at the door. Snow drew his Glock as the door opened and a large figure entered.
The Dutchman stared bug-eyed at him, instinctively raising his hands. ‘It’s me.’
‘Sorry.’ Snow put the Glock away.
The Dutchman closed the door. ‘I received a phone call, and Gordon is five minutes out.’
‘Did you talk about us or our situation?’
‘Of course.’
Snow closed his eyes. ‘The Russians are monitoring the mobile network. I don’t know how good they are, but somewhere there is now a record of you talking about us
, which will eventually be flagged and acted upon.’
Benscoter’s mouth fell open.
‘Here’s what I need you to do. Meet Ward at the front of the hotel and have him go to the goods entrance. Mo and I will meet you there.’
‘He hasn’t agreed yet to take you.’
‘Make him agree; be persuasive.’
‘I’ll see you downstairs.’ Benscoter exited the room.
Snow felt in his jeans pocket for one of the two small Nokias he and Racine had taken earlier in the day. He couldn’t risk using it but some of the numbers stored on it could possibly assist the SBU. He’d pass it on to Blazhevich if, when – he reprimanded himself – they made it out. ‘Mo.’ Snow knocked on the bathroom door. ‘We need to go.’ Snow checked the window; he couldn’t see any more DNR or Russians than before, but that did not mean they weren’t there.
Mo exited the bathroom with a towel held around his waist. ‘That’s better.’
Snow noted the dark purple bruises on the Brit’s arms, legs, and torso. ‘You need to get dressed; our ride is on the way.’
‘Right.’ Mo vanished back into the bathroom. In the world outside the window Snow saw a white SUV appear through the trees and enter the approach road.
‘Ready.’ Iqbal hobbled over to the bed and sat. He was dressed in his dirty clothes. He held the OSCE tabard up. ‘Shall I?’
‘Yes.’
Iqbal slipped the tabard back on over his jacket, and then reached for his boot.
‘You’ll never get those boots back on with the state your feet are in. Wait a sec.’ Snow took the pillow case from the bed, ripped it along the seam, and then tore it in two. He crouched in front of Iqbal. ‘I need to bind your feet. This’ll hurt, but it’s the only way.’
‘Go for it.’
Snow took the thin cotton strip and wound it tightly around Iqbal’s right foot.
‘Did you learn how to do this in the SAS?’ Iqbal winced. ‘Look, I’m not daft. I get it that you are some type of super-spy. What about that Racine?’