by Will Jordan
He heard a faint chuckle on the other end. SNAFU – Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. ‘Figured as much.’
Chapter 20
Norilsk, Siberia
Making her way up the shaky and draughty jet bridge towards the main terminal, Samantha McKnight was thoroughly glad to be on solid ground again after the hair-raising descent into Alykel airport. Crosswinds had hammered them all the way, the big aircraft lurching from side to side as the pilots fought for control. Normally a comfortable flyer, she had found herself gripping the armrests tight as they landed with a heavy, shuddering thump, the undercarriage groaning under the strain.
This was turbulence, Siberian style.
They had left Andrews Air Force Base a good hour after Drake and the others had departed for Chechnya, and though Norilsk was much further east, their journey was actually rendered considerably shorter by flying north of the Arctic Circle. Thus they had a head start on the other group, and she intended to use it.
‘Christ, I hate flying,’ Frost mumbled beside her.
McKnight glanced at her travelling companion. Frost’s diminutive frame was bulked out by a thick padded jacket over which she had slung her laptop bag and electronics kit, while her feet were encased in heavy boots that would have made professional mountain climbers jealous. She had woken up only ten minutes earlier. With her eyes still bleary from sleep and her dark hair sticking up at all angles, she looked thoroughly unimpressed with their new surroundings.
‘I thought nothing fazed you, Keira.’
Frost gave her a sour look. ‘There are only three things in life that I hate. Warm beer, cold weather and bad flying. So far we’re two-and-oh.’
McKnight was spared further grumbling when their FSB minder strode back down the jet bridge to join them, having gone on ahead to clear the way for their arrival.
A powerfully built man with a shaved head and a black goatee beard, Stanislav (or Stav as he referred to himself) was there to serve as their official liaison, translator and guide. In reality his job was to keep an eye on both CIA operatives and ensure they didn’t do anything they weren’t supposed to.
He spoke passable English, and contrary to their expectations of stoic, brooding silence, he’d been happy to use his language skills incessantly on the flight out here. In the past eight hours McKnight had heard his views on everything from the war in Afghanistan to the relative merits of McDonald’s versus Burger King. He and Frost had even got into a heated debate on which was the best gun to use in Modern Warfare.
‘We go this way, my friends,’ he said, jerking a thick finger up the jet ramp. ‘Stav has taken care of things. No passports, no problems.’
Another thing McKnight had learned about him over the past eight hours – he liked to refer to himself in the third person.
Still, in this case he was telling the truth about there being no problems. His status as an FSB agent allowed the entire group to breeze straight past whatever security checks were in place here, and into the public terminal beyond.
The building was a wonder of 1960s Soviet architecture – a big, square, uncompromising concrete structure that looked as if it hadn’t changed since the day it was built. The walls were bare whitewashed stone, with big concrete pillars rising up from the cracked tile floor.
Hot air vents blasted heat from all directions, and there were angry red signs everywhere telling people to have their travel documents ready for inspection. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and greasy food.
The few people milling around were a sombre-looking bunch, mostly men in their forties and fifties standing in silence, with the grim resignation of condemned prisoners walking the green mile. Everyone looked depressed and pissed off. Not that she could blame them – she was far from pleased to be here herself.
‘We have car outside,’ Stav said. ‘Follow me.’
Without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and strode towards the main doors on the other side of the concourse, moving with the confidence of a man used to owning any situation he’s in.
The cold air struck McKnight’s exposed face as soon as the automatic doors shuddered open. A frigid wind was blowing in from the north, picking up scraps of old newspaper, empty crisp packets and other small bits of trash scattered around, and carrying with it occasional wisps of dry frozen snow. The sky overhead was completely black, the few working street lights rendering the muddy, oil-stained car park even more grim and depressing.
‘Jesus, what a shithole,’ Frost whispered, echoing her thoughts.
As if to emphasise her point, another frozen blast of air whipped against them, seeming to penetrate right through the heavy layers they both wore. Suddenly the blustery wind and sleet in DC didn’t seem nearly so bad.
She glanced at their chaperone. ‘What time is it, Stav?’
He glanced at his watch and did some quick calculations in his head, no doubt trying to account for the time zones they’d crossed. ‘Three-twenty in morning.’
‘What time’s sunrise?’ Frost asked.
He grinned at her. ‘February.’
McKnight couldn’t hide a faint smile of amusement. This far north of the Arctic Circle, the darkness of the polar night was constant and absolute. It would be several weeks before Norilsk even saw the sun again.
‘You said there was a car for us,’ she reminded him, eager to get down to business.
As if on cue, a big silver Mercedes M-Class cruised in from the other side of the terminal building and slid to a stop in front of them, chained tyres rumbling on the potholed road. Its paintwork was caked with frozen mud and ice, the twin exhausts billowing steam.
Never had a vehicle looked so out of keeping with its surroundings.
The driver’s door flew open and a giant of a man emerged. He was a serious-looking guy, easily 6 foot 4 and built like two brick shithouses stacked on top of each other. His neck was as thick as the average man’s thigh, his dark hair shaved into a brutal flat-top.
He’d been squeezed into a grey business suit for the occasion, but it was obvious he was more of a jeans-and-jacket man. Saying nothing, he thrust out one huge hand, obviously waiting for the new arrivals to hand over their bags.
Frost merely shook her head, clutching her laptop bag a little tighter. As much as a good soldier never allowed his weapon to be more than an arm’s length away, so she refused to be parted from the tools of her trade. She might have been half his size, but the hostility in her eyes was unmistakable.
Stav said something in Russian to the giant, perhaps sensing her mood and thinking it best to avoid confrontation. The giant shrugged, not caring one way or the other, and returned to the driver’s seat, the suspension sagging noticeably under his weight.
‘Okay, no problem,’ Stav said, clapping his gloved hands together. ‘We go.’
With the matter apparently decided, the small group piled in – Frost and McKnight in the back, Stav up front with the driver. As the doors slammed shut, the relief was instantaneous. The frozen, litter-strewn car park seemed a distant memory – now they were in a world of crisp leather, gleaming consoles and walnut dashboards. Without saying a word, the driver gunned the engine and off they went in a spray of snow and exhaust fumes.
The airport was about 30 kilometres west of Norilsk itself, forcing them to take the scenic route to reach the town. Though perhaps ‘scenic’ was the wrong word. The landscape they were passing through made the Somme battlefield look lush and verdant by comparison.
The winds that whipped across the open steppes must have been absolutely brutal, scouring and flattening anything that dared to grow more than a few feet tall. This was Arctic tundra, some of the coldest and most inhospitable territory on earth.
Trees grew in the more sheltered spots, or had grown once upon a time. Today they were little more than tortured, leafless skeletons, acid rain from the smelting complexes having long since killed them off. Even the snow on the lifeless fields was dirty grey.
At one point they
passed the remains of a massive factory or warehouse about 100 yards from the road. McKnight had no idea as to its original purpose, but all that remained now was the metal framework, standing like the mighty skeleton of some long-extinct animal.
Everything here looked faded, grey and decayed. Despite the warmth and comfort of the vehicle they were travelling in, she couldn’t quite suppress a shiver as another blast of icy, filthy rain slammed into the windscreen.
‘Mind if I ask you something?’ Frost said, stirring her out of her thoughts.
There was something strangely comical about the way the fiery and temperamental specialist was sitting in the big leather expanse of the rear seat, with her jacket puffed up and her equipment bags piled all around. She looked like a reluctant child on a boring family day out.
Without waiting for a response, she immediately launched into her question. ‘What was all that shit between you and Ryan earlier?’
McKnight felt herself tense up. She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘I had a few things I’ve wanted to say to him for a while now. I guess that seemed like the right time.’
‘You mean you were pissed at him for shutting you out?’
McKnight gave her a sidelong glance, saying nothing.
At this, the young woman chuckled and shook her head. ‘Jesus, it’s like being in high school again. Fucking hormones flying around all over the place.’
‘I’m glad you find all this so amusing,’ McKnight said, torn between irritation and curiosity at her reaction. ‘I gave up a lot to be part of this team. Now I’m starting to wonder if it was worth it.’
Sighing, Frost looked at her frankly, a twinkle of amusement still in her eye. ‘You think he’s giving you the cold shoulder, huh?’
‘I’m just calling it like I see it. I’ve barely seen him since I moved to DC. He’s done everything in his power to avoid taking me into the field. Hell, I had to practically twist his arm just to be part of this job.’
‘Sam, for a smart woman you can be frighteningly dumb at times.’ Frost’s annoyingly smug smile was still there. ‘Let me tell you something about Ryan. He’s an asshole.’
The blunt, matter-of-fact way she said it caught McKnight off guard, and she actually laughed for a moment. ‘Thanks for that insight.’
‘I’m serious,’ Frost persisted. ‘He’s overbearing, socially dysfunctional, a workaholic and a control freak. And most important, he’s overprotective of people he cares about.’
What she was saying made little sense to McKnight. ‘So he pushes me away, shuts me out and generally treats me like a piece of shit, all because he cares about me?’
The younger woman shrugged. ‘I said he was dysfunctional, didn’t I? And he’s a guy, which means he can’t deal with all that emotional-attachment shit. Instead he just runs away from it. Which in this case means running away from you.’
McKnight hesitated. On the face of it, Frost’s assessment seemed ridiculous. And yet even she had to admit it did fit with Drake’s behaviour, however bizarre it seemed.
‘But he cares about you too,’ she protested. ‘And he never hesitates to take you into the field. What’s the difference?’
Again she saw that crooked grin. ‘Because he knows I’d break his arms if he tried that shit with me. Maybe you should do the same thing.’
McKnight made a face. ‘Not that I haven’t been tempted …’
‘I’m serious,’ Frost persisted. ‘Ryan’s got no time for people who won’t stand up for themselves. Keep that in mind.’
The next twenty minutes or so passed mostly in silence as the Merc bumped and skidded along the slush-covered, potholed highway, trying to avoid the spray from rust-encrusted haulage trucks as they roared past. Even Stav was quiet, perhaps sensing the atmosphere in the back seat.
Then, at last, they caught a glimpse of their destination.
The first signs were the great plumes of steam rising up into the darkened sky, accompanied by a fiery orange glow reflecting off the low-lying clouds as if from some immense volcano smouldering away beneath.
McKnight was finally confronted with the full might of the Russian industrial centre cresting a low hill, almost a city in itself. The glow of furnaces was visible within the monstrous square buildings, conveyor belts and machinery running without pause, chimneys belching smoke and steam. The whole smelting complex was surrounded by immense slag heaps, almost mountains in themselves.
If she’d been asked to describe a vision of hell on earth, she doubted she could have come up with a better example than this place.
Just west of this industrial nightmare was the dingy grey town of Norilsk. Even from this distance she could see the towering apartment blocks glowing like beacons in the gloom, though the light appeared hazy and indistinct. Smog from the factories and smelting works, still running at full capacity despite the early hour, lingered over the city like a blanket.
‘Wow,’ Frost breathed, awed by the sight.
‘I’ve seen pictures of Norilsk online,’ McKnight said as she watched the vast pillars of glowing smoke. ‘Don’t do the place justice.’
Up front, Stav twisted around in his seat. He’d seen the same things they had seen, but through different eyes. ‘It is cool, yes? The factories provide many jobs here. People come to work for a while, then move on.’
She got the picture. Norilsk’s population was one of transient workers. They would stay for a few years, enduring the appalling conditions while slowly amassing a small fortune in the refineries, then leave for more pleasant climes.
Which was just about anywhere.
‘How far to the smelting works?’ she asked.
Stav exchanged a few words with the driver. ‘Five, ten minutes. But we have office at Norilsk police station. We set up there first, yes?’
She shook her head. Setting up a base of operations could wait. Getting answers was her goal right now.
‘Just get us to that refinery.’
The sooner they completed their mission and got the hell out of here, the better.
Chapter 21
Grozny, Chechnya
Drake recalled reading once that Grozny was the city most heavily bombed and shelled since the Second World War, and if the view from his window was anything to go by as they descended towards Grozny airport, he believed it. Even from 5,000 feet it was a mess of bombed-out buildings, big areas of waste ground where damaged structures had been bulldozed and never replaced, and shell craters that nobody had bothered to fill in.
The weather was lousy as the big aircraft lumbered in to land, with heavy rain showers and blustery squalls buffeting them all the way. Drake could hear the creak and groan of the airframe as the pilots fought to keep their heading, the engines occasionally whining with increased power.
After what seemed like an age the wheels finally made contact with the ground. They landed hard, bumping and rumbling on the rough concrete runway.
‘Give me a flight to LAX any day,’ Mason remarked beside him.
Drake wasn’t inclined to argue as they taxied towards the main terminal.
Reconstructed by the Russian army after being shelled into submission a decade earlier, Grozny airport served as a transport hub for both military and civilian aircraft in the region. It hadn’t yet opened to international routes, but it did handle domestic traffic from several Russian cities, which was probably why Anya had first flown to Moscow before taking a connecting flight.
In their case, however, the FSB jet was heading for a separate terminal reserved for military usage. In short order they had taxied to a halt, a set of stairs were connected and the outer hatch was hauled open. Eager to be off the aircraft that had been his home for the past eight hours, Drake virtually sprang from his seat, with Mason close behind.
Outside, a storm of heavy rain greeted them, lashing the tarmac and drumming against the aircraft’s fuselage like the pounding of hammers. Dark grey rain clouds hung low over the airport, promising that there was plenty more to come.
‘They ever have sunshine in this fucking country?’ Mason asked, surveying the rain-soaked runways with distaste. The last time the two of them had ventured into Russia together, they had had to contend with sub-zero temperatures and snowstorms.
‘Let’s go,’ Miranova said, leading the team down the stairs.
The tarmac beneath their feet was rough and uneven, and patched with newer material in places. Judging by the pattern of repair work, Drake was willing to bet a cluster bomb had been dropped in this area during the Chechen War. It reminded him of the buildings in Berlin: old shell and bullet holes covered over with cement, the battle damage repaired but never quite erased.
Miranova led them straight towards the terminal building, which was a new three-storey structure with concrete blast barriers and armoured glass everywhere. A group of big satellite uplink dishes on the roof loomed over them.
Clearly this was more than just an airport terminal, Drake realised as he approached. He suspected it was some kind of regional headquarters building, either for military intelligence or for the FSB themselves. Having their headquarters at an airport made sense if they wanted to quickly and unobtrusively move personnel or other assets into the country.
The appearance of a smartly dressed man flanked by a pair of armed agents behind a set of glass doors up ahead only furthered his theory, and Drake kept his eyes on the man as they approached.
He was of average height, neither tall nor short, and just starting to develop middle-aged spread, judging by the tighter buttoning around his waist. Drake guessed him to be in his fifties, his features rugged and characteristically Slavic: wide and rounded face, high cheekbones and a long down-turned nose that seemed to push his lips into a disapproving pout.
One of the agents beside him held the door open for Miranova and the others as they hurried inside, all eager to escape the wind and driving rain.
The reception area beyond was very much representative of the building’s exterior – modern, refined and expensive. The floor was polished marble, mirror smooth and clean, making Drake feel oddly uncomfortable as he clicked and squeaked his way across the open space, leaving muddy footprints in his wake.