by L. A. Larkin
‘We split up. They search for a man and woman together,’ Yushkov says.
They stop at a T-junction to a main road. A sign indicates Salisbury is to the left and London to the right. Yushkov hesitates.
‘Go to London,’ says Wolfe. ‘We can hide at my grandma’s old bungalow. The Excalibur Estate in Dulwich Hill.’
‘Why there?’ Yushkov looks to his left, Salisbury way.
‘It’s a village of prefabricated houses earmarked for demolition. Almost everyone’s left, so there are streets of empty houses.’
‘Which house?’
‘Two, Mordrid Street.’
The question is unnecessary if they stick together.
‘Don’t even think about Porton Down. They’ll shoot you on sight.’
‘I have nothing to give SVR. Renata will die.’
Yushkov stares at the sign, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. A driver behind them honks in frustration.
‘Please, Vitaly! We’ll find another way.’
Yushkov slams the steering wheel with both palms. ‘I have to give them something. She dies tomorrow.’
‘You can’t help her if you’re dead.’
Traffic is building up behind them. More drivers sound their horns. Wolfe glances back, frantic.
Yushkov takes the right turn to London. Police sirens are louder and closer.
‘Look!’ says Wolfe, into the sky.
In the far distance, a police helicopter bears down on them.
They approach the village of Boreham Woods. Outside the village shop is a delivery truck. The man unloading from the back lifts a box on to a hand trolley and wheels it into the shop.
‘We dump this van and hide in that truck,’ says Wolfe.
Further up the street is Holy Trinity Church, a Norman building with a bell tower and a small car park surrounded by conifers. ‘In there!’ she says.
‘You get out here,’ says Yushkov. ‘I’ll hide it.’
He pulls in to the side of the road.
‘You won’t make it in time.’
‘I will. Go!’
Wolfe jumps out of the van, throws her pack over her shoulder and runs across the road to the parked delivery truck. Yushkov starts up the hill. She checks nobody is looking, then crawls into the back of the truck. Only a few boxes remain and she hides behind them, listening for the sound of Yushkov’s footsteps. The sirens are deafening. Tyres screech, doors slam, people shout.
‘What’s going on up there?’ a man says. Wolfe catches a glimpse of the delivery man through the open door.
‘Oh my goodness,’ says a woman. ‘They’ve got guns.’
‘Hands above your head!’ someone yells.
Wolfe creeps forward so she can see better. The U-Bend Plumbing van is in the middle of the road, engine running, door flung open, and Yushkov stands with his hands above his head. Two armed officers have guns trained on him. Police cars block either end of the street.
‘Kneel!’
Yushkov hasn’t even attempted to hide the van. He has surrendered.
59
At Heathrow’s Terminal Three, the man behind the destruction of the Queen Elizabeth sips a weak tea in a takeaway cup as he reads the front page of the Post. He stares at the image of the sinking aircraft carrier engulfed in flame; death toll 142. So be it. All his life he has felt powerless, struggling to be taken seriously. Only his wife believed in him. Now even the unflappable Royal Navy is in turmoil. The exhilaration of revenge is like fire in his veins.
But his aim is to save civilisation, not destroy it. Politics is broken, protest useless. He has exhausted all other avenues. It’s time to move on to bigger targets. Then, finally, they will have to listen. The only way is to disable the war machine, to force a halt to the billions upon billions wasted on finding increasingly efficient and more horrific methods to kill.
He glances at the carry-on bag at his feet. Inside is more than enough Psychosillius. He’s developed his own mutation. Stronger. Faster. And he’s found a way to fool airport security.
On page four he reads of Yushkov’s capture. He feels sorry for Vitaly. A man, like himself, who never fitted in. His ‘accomplice’, Olivia Wolfe, is still on the run. She’s too smart to get caught and he knows it won’t be long before she works out who he is and what he plans to do.
He’s banking on it.
His flight is called. He stands in line, ticket and passport in hand. He shows both to a smiling female flight attendant and boards the plane.
60
Dulwich Hill, South London
The café in Dulwich Hill is popular with cabbies and clubbers and is open all night. Wolfe sits at the back, making her meal last as long as possible before she makes her way to her grandmother’s derelict bungalow. It’s warm inside, the tea’s hot and there is a television. The volume is turned up loud so Dot, the café owner, can keep abreast of the latest news on the sinking of the UK’s largest warship.
Dot shakes her head. ‘Those poor lads. And the humiliation. First frigging trip! We look like right pillocks!’
Dot slaps the counter with a tea towel.
On screen are re-runs of HMS Queen Elizabeth’s grand departure from Portsmouth Harbour, escorted by a flotilla of boats and pleasure craft, a brass band parading up and down the quay as families and well-wishers wave Union Jacks.
‘It didn’t sink though, did it?’ says a cabbie, who’s just finished his plate of sausage, beans and chips, his black cab parked outside. ‘They bombed it. Now what did they go and do that for, hey?’ He taps his nose conspiratorially. ‘Something’s just not right.’
Wolfe can tell the TV commentators are getting stonewalled by the Royal Navy and the Ministry of Defence, because the same old theories are running on a loop - anything from a Russian submarine torpedoing the pride of the Royal Navy to an Islamic State terror plot involving some kind of biological weapon. She finds it hard to believe the Russians would act in such a nakedly aggressive way. If Isil has committed an act of bioterrorism, then the already febrile Middle East might explode into full-blown conflict. Either way, the attack is an act of war, and Wolfe’s stomach knots as she imagines the consequences.
‘It’s a plague ship, that’s what it is,’ an old bloke in the corner pipes up. ‘Germ warfare.’
Wolfe glances at the old fellow and guesses he is probably at least partly right. She’s convinced somebody has used Psychosillius, but as she doesn’t know how it affects people, her guess is as good as his. She is sure of one thing, though. This attack is just the beginning. Who or what is next?
Counter Terrorism Command, MI5 and MI6 have failed to stop this plot, and Casburn is at the centre of it all. He will be furious. Humiliated. Desperate. Unless he captures who did this, he will likely serve out the end of his career in the most godforsaken shithole the British Government can find.
God help the person Casburn believes responsible.
61
Yushkov tastes the blood in his mouth and feels the sting of his smashed lip. But he doesn’t spit out the blood. Instead he sucks on the wound, creating a ball of rusty-tasting saliva, so desperate is he for something to drink. Since his capture, he has been hooded, driven to a location he estimates is some two hours from Porton Down, hands and feet bound to a metal chair that’s welded to a thick metal sheet, which in turn is screwed into the concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse. When his hood was removed, the brightness of the four powerful pedestal lights, angled so they seared his eyes, made it impossible to see his interrogators. This place had been prepared for him.
The last time he’d been interrogated, he’d been in a sterile white box of a room, subjected to sleep deprivation and intermittent blasts of hot and cold air, but the ‘little chat’ had been terribly British. Civilised even. Casburn had played the nice guy, Flynn the threatening one. When the good cop, bad cop routine failed, they’d threatened to revoke his British citizenship, to give him back to the Russian military. When this failed, Flynn
lost control, giving Yushkov a solid punch or two to his stomach. Yushkov had kept his cool. Nothing they did surprised him. He had survived far worse.
But this is different. The balance of power has shifted to Flynn and MI5. Casburn is little more than a spectator. There are no video cameras or voice recorders. His interrogation never happened and he does not exist. The stench of desperation oozes from their pores and drips on to his face as they lean over him, trying to intimidate. They attempt to hide their alarm, but Yushkov knows something bad has happened. It is Yushkov’s silence that’s led Flynn to violence, pulverising his captive’s body like steak with a tenderising hammer. The agent is all muscle and knows where to land his blows for maximum effect. Yushkov’s left eye is so swollen, it has closed up. Breathing is difficult, his ribs almost certainly broken. The drug - probably sodium amytal or sodium pentothal - keeps his vision blurry and his head lolls like a newborn’s. At least it dulls some of the pain.
Flynn and Casburn leave, but somebody watches him, hiding in the darkness behind the floor lamps. How many hours has he been here? There is no clock. He’s begged them to tell him the time but Flynn uses it as a bargaining chip, demanding he gives them something useful, before they give him what he wants. When they leave for a break, Yushkov looks up at a shattered skylight and thinks he can discern a purple tinge to the night sky. If it’s dawn, Renata doesn’t have long to live. At 08.16 the SVR will kill her. Why won’t Flynn listen?
Yushkov is sweating profusely, his T-shirt and jeans soaked, thanks to the drugs and the intense heat from the lamps. They are deliberately cooking him. Dehydration, lack of sleep and the drugs make it hard to think.
Yushkov tries to wriggle his wrists free of the handcuffs, hoping the blood from his lacerations will lubricate his skin. He’s already dislocated one thumb, but the cuffs’ grip is vice-like. He throws his head back and roars in frustration, then coughs as he nearly chokes on his own blood.
‘Casburn! I will tell you something. Casburn!’
Olivia has a connection with Casburn. Yushkov is more likely to convince him than Flynn.
Shoes on concrete, glass snapping underfoot. Then chewing. That eternal chewing. Casburn’s face appears. Grey eyes, hard as granite. A crew-cut. He’s got to be ex-military.
‘This better be good, Vitaly, cause we were having a coffee break.’
Yushkov blinks his one good eye, as sweat drips down his temples.
‘You save Renata. She is innocent. Contact SVR. Please. Buy her some time.’ His words are slurred. His mouth isn’t co-operating with his brain.
Casburn stops gnawing on his Nicorette gum and sighs. ‘With what? You’ve gotta give me something.’
‘I arrange meet with Sergey Grankin. Pretend I have what he wants. You capture SVR agent. You get answers to your questions. You tell SVR, if they want him back, they give you Renata.’
‘Fuck this!’ Flynn says, throwing his arms up in exasperation.
Casburn tries to keep his voice calm. ‘We’ve been through this, Vitaly. We thought the Russians had the canister. Now we know they don’t. So I don’t give a shit about Grankin. Tell me who you gave it to?’
‘I never had the canister.’
‘Christ! While you sit here feeding us lies, a hundred and forty-two people have died. Look!’
He holds up a photo of a sinking ship. Yushkov squints, trying to focus. Casburn continues. ‘The bacteria you stole was released on board a Royal Navy aircraft carrier. Who did this, Vitaly? Who was the buyer?’
‘I did not steal it.’ Yushkov tries shaking his head but everything spins. What did Olivia say when she was reading the files? ‘Harvey was Russian asset—’
‘We know. He tried and failed to get it.’
Yushkov is grasping at straws. ‘Bruce Adeyemi gambles. Money problems—’
Flynn slams a punch into Yushkov’s jaw. ‘What is the next target?’
Yushkov spits out blood. ‘I do not know. I will do anything, anything you ask to save my sister, but I cannot tell you what I do not know.’
‘Tell me about Kabir Khan,’ Flynn demands.
‘I do not know this man.’
‘Liar! March 2000, Afghanistan, before you murdered your commanding officer.’
Yushkov swallows. He daren’t look up in case Flynn sees his rising panic. It was a black operation.
‘You were sent to assassinate a Taliban leader named Fazi. You slaughtered a whole village.’
‘No, no. Captain Razin did this. I try to stop him.’ His head bobs weakly.
‘You run. A boy helps you. Hides you from the Taliban.’
Yushkov squints at Flynn in disbelief. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Who was the boy?’
‘The boy? I don’t understand—’
‘His name!’
‘Gull Zaman.’
Flynn glances at Casburn and runs his tongue over his dry lips.
‘Why did he help you?’
‘Because I tried to stop Razin butchering his village. He led me to safety. Hid me. His uncle dug out the bullet in my shoulder. Gull Zaman helped me cross the border into Pakistan.’
‘And in return for his help?’
‘Nothing. He showed compassion.’
‘Compassion!’ Flynn scoffs. ‘This man is Isil. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He’s behind the attack on the aircraft carrier. He’s going to kill again—’
‘No. He’s a good man. He is shopkeeper in Hounslow. He came here as refugee.’
‘Did you train with him in Pakistan?’
‘No.’
‘Your mate Gull Zaman did. He came to this country as part of a sleeper cell.’
‘You lie.’ A sudden surge of energy fuels Yushkov’s outburst.
‘He was radicalised.’
‘No!’
Casburn is suddenly in his face. ‘Recognise him?’
He holds a photo of a bearded man in his late twenties in traditional Pashtun dress, outside a London mosque.
‘It is Gull Zaman.’
Flynn grips Yushkov’s face, shaking him. ‘Liar! That’s Kabir Khan. But you know that, don’t you?’
62
Yushkov squints at the photo Casburn holds up. ‘I tell you, this is Gull Zaman.’
‘When did you last meet him or his associates?’ Flynn demands, tightening his grip on Yushkov’s jaw.
Yushkov knows where this line of questioning is going and he sees the train-wreck that is his life finally coming to an end.
‘A few days ago. I buy a pistol.’
‘Truth at last!’ Flynn says, releasing his hold on Yushkov’s face. ‘He sold you an illegal firearm.’
‘Yes.’
‘And why would a shopkeeper sell you a gun?’
‘People want him dead. He is protecting his family.’
Casburn holds up a photo of Yushkov sitting next to a young Middle Eastern man at a café. In exchange for the Glock 19, Yushkov handed him four hundred pounds in cash. ‘This man you’re with,’ Casburn says, ‘is Samad Sayyaf. He is part of Kabir Khan’s terror cell.’
‘I did not know this. I bought a gun for protection. That is all.’
Yushkov knows his protestations are useless. They have evidence linking him to a man they claim is an Isil terrorist. But he may still be able to free his sister. ‘What do you want? I will do it. Anything. Just save Renata.’
‘Kabir Khan has disappeared. Tell us where he is and we talk to the Russians about Renata.’
Despairing, Yushkov slumps forward as far as his bound hands will allow. ‘I meet him once at his shop, and another time at his house for a meal. That is all I know.’
‘Then we’ve no reason to help your sister.’ Flynn makes a show of looking at his wristwatch. ‘Oh dear. It’s seven fifty. How long has she got?’
‘Help her, please,’ Yushkov pleads.
‘How fucking long?’ Flynn yells in his face.
Yushkov wants to rip his head off. ‘They kill her in twenty-six minute
s. Please! Let me go. I will find Gull Zaman for you, just don’t let her die.’
Yushkov has never begged for anything, but now he would gladly get on his knees, if he believed it could make a difference. They walk away.
Yushkov yanks at his restraints. ‘Help her! Please!’
Flynn’s face appears like an apparition; his arrogant smirk, dark hair and stubble remind Yushkov of the commanding officer he shot in Afghanistan. Flynn tilts his head as if inspecting a particularly fascinating corpse. ‘Think they’ll fuck her before they snuff her?’
Yushkov lunges forward and manages to head-butt Flynn’s nose. There’s a snap as a bone breaks and Flynn leaps back, covering his face.
‘Fuck you!’ Yushkov yells.
‘He broke my fucking nose!’ says Flynn, blood pouring down his lip.
‘Help my sister!’ Yushkov shouts.
‘Give him some more,’ barks Flynn.
Somebody appears with a syringe. Flynn points a Taser at his chest.
‘Stay still,’ Flynn orders.
‘He’s had enough,’ says Casburn.
‘I have command here. If you don’t like my methods - leave.’
Casburn hesitates and walks away.
The cold liquid enters Yushkov’s veins and he almost blacks out. Flynn slaps his face and jerks his chin up.
‘What is Khan’s next target?’
Yushkov is lost in darkness. His jaw slackens. A bloody dribble slips from his mouth and lands on Flynn’s hand. Flynn ignores it, pinching his face harder. He repeats the question, yelling into Yushkov’s face.
‘Don’t . . . know,’ Yushkov mumbles.
‘Where is he hiding?’
‘Don’t . . . ’
‘Where is Olivia Wolfe?’
Flynn shoves his watch in Yushkov’s face. ‘You’ve got six minutes.’
He cannot tell them about Khan because he has no idea where he is. And Olivia has lost everything because of him: her job, her friends, her reputation. She is despised, tainted by her link, through him, to terrorism.
Casburn appears from nowhere.
‘Look at me!’ he says. ‘Tell us where Olivia Wolfe is hiding, and I’ll call my SVR contact.’