Out of the Shadows (Akira and Deane Thriller Series Book 1)

by Tim Jopling

Chapter 15

  Thursday, March 8th 18:15,

  Moscow, Russia.

  Akira, with Salenko in tow, left the Kremlin area and passed the towering structure of Borovitskaya Gata Tower. As they crossed over Moscow River, another gale force wind came in, with its chilling bite and thick snow for good measure. Akira, far more used to the humid weather of the Middle East raised his scarf closer to his face and pulled out several keys from his coat pocket.

  Just on the edges of the riverbank were old, dilapidated buildings that were falling away with the passing of time. All of them were two storeys high, but most had boarded-up windows and rotting brickwork.

  Akira stopped at the doorway of the third building along and looked back to make sure they had not been followed or had any unwelcome visitors. His eyes immediately locked onto a figure on the other side of the Moscow River. Akira turned to obtain a better look, but the individual had disappeared. He committed what little he had seen to memory and led Salenko upstairs to a small meeting room.

  Salenko had been there many times before and sat down at the nearest chair. ‘Did you finish the plan for the run up to the Polls?’

  Akira checked the view from the window before he spoke. ‘Read through these documents.’ He said nonchalantly. ‘This will be your schedule for the next four months. After that you will be the next President of Russia.’ His thoughts trailed off for a moment and he thought of the Kiprich brothers. Akira had just moments before approved the plan the brothers had put in motion. If they make any dents in MI6, it will all be a bonus. Let them have their petty feud, the upcoming war is the key.

  Salenko glanced at the documents but looked surprised. ‘This all sounds like it’s just a formality Akira.’

  Akira surveyed the view from the window one last time, but still couldn’t locate the individual he had seen. Speculation circled in his mind as to who it could be. A local who just happened to be in the wrong place was a definite possibility but Akira didn’t believe it. He remembered Martin Braga who had been the MI6 agent assigned to Russia for the last decade. One of the first things he had done when he came to Russia was to hunt that man down and ensure he would never be a threat again. Could it be his replacement?

  Akira turned around to face his ally. His tone was one of frustration as if being questioned on the election result was an insult in itself. ‘I will make it a formality.’

  Salenko couldn’t help but smile. Akira’s arrogance was infectious. ‘Once I am in power, I have your word now, we will reactivate the nuclear programme and move against the West?’

  Akira’s expression never changed as he spoke with that same passionless tone. ‘With everything we have.’

  Agent Patrice Marraud, a highly respected and experienced member of the French Secret Service, continued his journey away from the Moscow River and back towards the safe-haven of his small flat a few streets away from the GUM Department store. The dismal weather, together with Marraud’s constant state of cold, was beginning to get him down, but what he had just seen had confirmed what he had always suspected. Salenko was not the powerful force he had been made out to be in the press and political circles. Over several months, Salenko had been presented as an iron man, the saviour of Russia, and the only one who could lead them back to power. Marraud had always been sceptical, and after what he had just observed, was even more so now.

  Someone else was involved.

  Marraud adjusted his black woolly hat and fluffed his thick blonde hair as he walked through Alexandrovsky Gardens. Looking younger than his forty years the senior French agent, who had been posted to Russia straight after his work with Thomas Deane and Sam Olsen in London, wondered just how deep the mystery man was involved. Could it just be Salenko’s personal assistant? Or his potential Chief of Staff?

  Marraud was aware of his location and knew of every individual around him as he sat on a nearby bench and dusted off snow from his boots. The picture ahead of him could easily have been taken straight out of a Christmas card, the beauty was so striking. The green lawns were completely covered in a careful dusting of thick white snow.

  The constant silence eased any fears he had as the legendary French agent sat alone in the gardens and remembered the briefing he had received just days before. His memory recalled standing in a plush office in Paris, as the Head of the French Secret Service had ordered Marraud to Moscow in the belief that the growing uncertainty to the future of Russia could prove to have devastating consequences to the future of the West. Salenko’s popularity was soaring, as he based his campaign solely around reviving the patriotism of Russia and its power in the world.

  Marraud distinctly recalled the worried look on his superior’s face as they had both spoken about the continuous aggressive nature of not only Salenko, but his followers as well. He remembered his orders clearly in his mind. ‘Provide us with first rate reconnaissance of Salenko and his movements, we must know more of what is happening there.’

  Marraud hadn’t been in Russia long but had already made significant progress and was sure the man he had seen with Salenko was key. As he walked through the first public garden of Moscow, he glanced over to notice the changing of the guard, and found himself several feet away from the State History Museum. More snow fell as he passed the GUM Department Store. Marraud split his attention between a group of men lingering in Red Square and wondered just how Russian people could survive such winters on a yearly basis.

  As he stepped onto Ulita Ilyinka Street, the power and imposing structures of the Moscow Kremlin began to fade. As he came to the end of a side street, he was now some distance away from Red Square. Marraud opened the door to his building and rushed up the stairs.

  Over the years, he had seen many colleagues come and go. Some had left the service by their own accord, others had met grisly deaths, and some, in Marraud’s mind, were most probably still alive and being tortured for information in some god-forsaken hole. Throughout it all, he had learned to play the game. Be overly cautious on the smallest of details, and trust no one. The latter had become harder and harder with each passing year, and the tragic ending of his relationship with his beloved Martine had started to make him more aware of his life and his lack of trust in the people who cared for him.

  Emotions took hold of him but Marraud pushed them away. As he entered his flat, he went through his usual routine. For an instant he recognised he wasn’t as sharp as he should be and cursed himself for growing complacent. He made sure his senses were keenly alert to any movement or sound as he stepped in and inspected the studio flat. Satisfied that all was well for now, he booted up his laptop and connected the digital camera to the device via a cable. Several screens flashed by and a set of photos began to download. Marraud studied the ten images closely but cursed himself when he realised he hadn’t been able to obtain a clear shot of Salenko’s friend. Despair turned to hope as he zoomed in on another that showed Salenko sitting down in the grotty flat with friend standing over him, clearly leading the conversation. Marraud questioned whether he was reading too much into the image, but rated himself an expert in body language. He was becoming more and more convinced the mystery man would prove to be the key to ending the threat from Russia. As he sent his findings back to Paris for closer inspection, Marraud studied the view from the window. As he planned out his next move, he knew it would be safer at night to find out more.

  Burton stood in the kitchen and poured himself another black coffee. The two shots of whiskey had taken their toll, and it would soon be time for him to deliver the operation briefing. Despite all his hopes that the drinking would numb the pain, it hadn’t helped at all. Burton took out his black diary from his jacket pocket and looked for another family member or friend who could help him locate his family. With every passing name, his frustration began to grow. I work for the Government, you would think I would have found them by now! He put the diary away at the sound of someone approaching. His assistant appeared in the doorway. Burton rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Daw
n, are you following me around? You must have something else to do!’

  The young assistant gave a scything look to her boss and turned around to leave. ‘Thought you might like to know Mr. Elliott is in your office. He doesn’t like to wait I hear.’

  Burton raised his hands in apology and followed Dawn back to his office. ‘I’ll buy you some Quality Street at lunchtime or something Dawn, I’m sorry.’ Before he could say anything else he saw the Chief of MI6 appear in the doorway.

  Elliott held out a red folder. ‘POL1’s report. Makes for very interesting reading I might add. Operation Reprisal is to go ahead as planned.. Read it and make your way to briefing room one in Operations Command. S.U.C.O. will be waiting for you very soon.’ Elliott turned to walk away but paused at the door. For the first time he noticed the dishevelled look of Burton and spoke in a hardened tone. ‘Get it done.’

  Olsen logged off his terminal but still couldn’t focus. Ever since the lunch with Rachel he hadn’t felt himself and going back to work had felt like a betrayal. He felt so torn between the two things he loved most, Rachel who he simply couldn’t live without, and MI6 a place where he had the opportunity to make a difference. What if he couldn’t leave the job? He didn’t believe that was true, but he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else either.

  Inside briefing room one, Olsen read through some printouts regarding Cracow in Poland. From his training with Deane, he had made it a tradition before every operation he had ever faced to research as much as possible. Whereas others would rather work on specific skills, he felt more at ease to learn every conceivable detail of the country and town he would be travelling to. In addition, Olsen had delved through every ounce of data MI6 and other security agencies had on the Kiprich brothers. On the table in front of him, was a stack of photos and intelligence profiles, all about the terrorists.

  Around the large rectangular table, sat all member of the two S.U.C.O. teams. Olsen noted Jordan, the S.U.C.O. deputy team leader was at the far end of the room making a cup of tea, and approached him. ‘Alex, have you been reading up on Cracow?’

  Jordan stirred his drink and turned around. ‘Sure I have. I know all there is to know.’

  Olsen handed him several photos. ‘Here are a few more data sheets that may come in handy. I’m distributing them to the team.’

  ‘What the hell is this one Sam? The invisible man?’ Jordan held up one of the sheets which had very little information on it. The picture was an outline of a standard face covered with a balaclava, and the bare minimum of details.

  Olsen recognised it straight away. ‘It’s all I could find on him Alex. We have good profiles of the Kiprich brothers and most of his trusted allies but this one is a mystery to us and the other agencies. We don’t have a picture, we don’t have a name either, but we know he exists.’

  Jordan screwed up the piece of paper and threw it in the direction of the nearest bin. ‘You’re imagining it. Next you’ll be telling me he has little green men helping him out as well.’

  ‘Fine. Just don’t be surprised when we run into this guy, ok?’ Olsen bit his tongue and took his seat next to Carter. As much as Olsen wanted to put Jordan in his place, it wasn’t the time.

  That standard face, and known killer, followed his close friend Jozef down the stairs and out onto street level in Cracow, Poland. Since he had sent the report to MI6, Ferec had noticed how happy his friend had become. He also felt encouraged but knew it was never wise to underestimate the enemy. ‘You’re certain this will work Jozef?’

  Jozef turned round with an irritated look on his face. ‘Of course it will work. Akira has approved this plan personally.’

  At the mention of their much feared ally Ferec looked up. ‘Then why isn’t he here himself?’

  Jozef spoke with his usual disdain whenever Akira was mentioned. ‘He wanted some distance between us and said he had something more important to deal with elsewhere. I’m sure we will find out in due course. If he needs our help he will be in contact.’

  ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘I will return to the house and inform the others. You stay here and keep watch on this flat. There may be other agents based in Cracow. I want you to deal with them if they arrive is that understood?’

  ‘I will Jozef. Do not worry. Give my best to your brother Gyorgy.’ He watched his friend leave and turn into a nearby alleyway. Ferec crossed the quiet street and entered a small walkway surrounded by trees. He found a secluded spot with a perfect view of Bedford’s block of flats and planned to stay local to the home of the now dead agent. His eyes scanned the area as he took several steps back and disappeared into the darkness.

  Burton walked into briefing room one and noted all the team members had arrived. He carried several papers and one DVD, which he handed to the technician who sat at the back of the room. The S.U.C.O. commander made his way to the front of the room and passed the large conference table. In the past ten minutes, he had drunk two more strong black coffees, and had attempted to read POL1’s report. Burton found a copy and spread it out on the table as he tried his best to find some professionalism. ‘Ok everyone, listen up please. I’m handing out a copy of POL1’s report that has just come in. Operation Reprisal is a go. After my briefing, you’ll be on your way so pay attention.’ Burton’s lost his focus at the sight of an unwelcome visitor at the back of the room.

  Kevin Ramsey lingered at the door and took a seat at the far end of the conference table. He exchanged a look with Burton and then tried to give a friendly nod in his direction.

  ‘Ok…if you read POL1’s report, you can see that he’s located the Kiprich brother’s base in the area. We should have some images for that.’ Burton looked at the large display screen and waited for it to come alive. Seconds passed but still nothing changed. An irritated Burton looked for the technician at the back of the room. ‘Any time now would be helpful!’ The screen slowly flicked on and displayed a detailed satellite image. ‘Ok, this is a satellite image of the Cracow area. These two markers indicate the details mentioned in POL1’s report. From what he says, the Kiprich brothers have a house on the outskirts, which is here.’ Burton highlighted the area in the red. ‘Together with a storage area, which is about two and a half miles over to the South.’ This time the target highlighted in blue. ‘Now, for this operation we’re going to continue to use both the Alpha and Bravo teams of S.U.C.O. Olsen, I want you to take your Alpha team and tackle the storage area. We’re expecting you to encounter considerable resistance. A word to you, we want the storage bay destroyed. Whatever he’s got in there, get rid of it. Understood? The word has come down that there will be a 100% body count for this operation. Jordan’s team will storm the house which should be fairly routine, most of the key men will be asleep. As ever, reconnaissance will come first. Make sure of your surroundings before going in. These images are only about half an hour old. The more detailed images…’ The display screen brought up the same image but in greater detail. ‘That’s the one. This shows four men at the house and a eight at the storage bay. Any questions?’

  Ramsey kept an eye on Burton who appeared to be sweating. Throughout the briefing, he had tried to understand why Burton looked so pale and so uncomfortable.

  Burton continued. ‘Ok, in terms of your travel. You’ll be flown straight to Warsaw airport under dark, and from there a chopper will drop you off on the outskirts of Silesia, which is the closest town to Cracow. An armoured van will be waiting for you. It’s about 2 miles to the target area.’ Burton looked at the two-team leaders with his last detail. ‘Strike time is just after 02:00 hours GMT. That understood?’ No questions came to him, so Burton decided to wrap up his briefing, and felt proud of himself to make it through. ‘Get yourselves to the armoury and I’ll see you all when you get back ok? Good luck.’

  Ramsey gave encouraging words to Olsen and Jordan, the team leaders, leaving himself and Burton the only people left in the briefing room. ‘An average briefing Burton, but it’ll do. Our mutu
al boss tells me your problems are all behind you now?’

  Burton switched off the display and picked up his papers. ‘All sorted now, sir. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right? You look a little tired.’

  ‘Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure, sir. Anyway, I need to get back to my office and then down to Operations Command. Our mutual boss is expecting me.’ Burton managed a faint smile.

  Ramsey wasn’t convinced about Burton. He was hiding something. ‘He’s expecting me too. See you there in ten minutes?’

  ‘Sounds just fine to me, sir.’ He hurried out of the briefing room and into the nearest lift. Burton slumped against the wall and let out a deep breath. As the lift smoothly descended, Burton tried his wife’s mobile phone for the hundredth time in the hope she would answer and ease his pain.

  Elliott sat back in his black leather chair and authorised an operation with a C, in green ink, as his signature.

  It was a time honoured tradition, keeping in line with the first Chief of MI6, Captain Sir Mansfield Smith Cumming RN, who always went by the name of C and signed everything in green ink. To this day, all his predecessors do the same to honour the great man.

  Elliot placed the document on top of the nearest pile and turned his attention to a list of figures Ramsey had given him. He was now in his second spell as Chief, had been in his position for seven years and, in that time, had never seen things look so bleak. Years before, the number of agents at his disposal had been at its highest level. Elliott regarded all of his trusted agents as highly trained and supremely talented with skills in so many areas, the loss of one was a huge blow not only to the agency and service but also to the national security of his beloved United Kingdom and Europe.

  In the last year alone, over forty-five agents, most of which Elliott had known and in some rare cases even trained, had been lost in the line of duty. His eyes ran over the ‘Cause of death’ column. Some had perished in what had been classed as ‘Operational Accidents’, but what deeply worried him was the large number that had been assassinated. In some reports, the evidence appeared to suggest that they had been hunted down and killed. By whom, and why these agents? Or was it the locations they occupied? He looked again at the report, desperate to see something that could suggest a pattern but found nothing.

  Ramsey entered the room and saw the worried look. ‘The numbers don’t get any better with a second look sir, you can take my word on that one.’

  Elliott grunted in response and shook his head. ‘Forty-five, Kevin, forty-five of my knights! The names…have you seen them?’ He ran a finger down the page and read in a slow and sombre tone. ‘Agent Martin Braga killed in his flat at 11:15pm, September last year in Moscow. I knew him, had done for over a decade, he’d been our man in Russia for all that time and was one of our best.’ He threw his glasses onto the desk and rubbed his eyes. The strain and weariness of the plight of MI6 and the West in general weighed on his shoulders. ‘Braga was one of the most intuitive men I’ve ever known, he could read people so well.’ The thick black rings around his eyes seemed to turn a darker shade as he bowed his head and mumbled ‘He can’t have died for nothing.’

  ‘All the agents in that report were good people sir, they all put themselves on the line. I wish I had better news.’

  Elliott knew his deputy well and noted the expression. ‘Something else you want to tell me, Kevin?’

  Ramsey placed another piece of paper on the desk. ‘MI5 report another twenty agents have been killed this year. I took the liberty of contacting the C.I.A. who have lost a staggering seventy agents in the past year. Pakistan and France report similar totals, with a pattern across the board for our other Western allies.’

  To Elliott the fact that agents had been lost was not a surprise, but the numbers were. Over the last three years, the number of agent fatalities had been rising, but he had never expected it to reach levels that were now causing extreme concern and worry for the West and its valued protectors. ‘A pattern…how many men do we have? For my own peace of mind, I need a number.’

  Ramsey found another report. ‘We currently have just over three-hundred agents available to us, sir. Unfortunately, the number of those that are graded highly skilled and experienced has dropped by another twenty percent.’ He found another sheet from a different folder. ‘Seven years ago we had over six-hundred and fifty agents available, with MI5 reporting very similar figures.’

  Elliott rose from his seat with a grimace and stumbled over to the window. The office was quiet and with its low lighting and peaceful ticking of the grandfather clock, he felt completely at ease. Outside, the streets of London looked as normal and as undisturbed as they ever did. His thoughts turned to the innocent public as he watched the cars speed by in the distance, most of which were probably occupied by family men and women rushing home to be with their loved ones. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether the PM is right to shield them. Sometimes I wonder…’

  Ramsey walked over to join his superior. ‘Sir?’

  ‘My heart, Kevin, I’m thinking with my heart. One of my weaknesses.’ His blue eyes gave a slight sparkle and then faded. ‘It is right to keep it from them but our situation is grim. It will get worse too, we must prepare. A war is looming, but it’s not one that we’ve ever faced before.’

  Ramsey’s massive frame towered over the frail five foot eight inches of Elliott, his fiery eyes conveyed everything that MI6 and the West represented, freedom, defiance, professionalism and sheer determination. ‘We’ve lost a lot of agents, sir, I won’t deny it but we can come through this, no matter how long it takes.’ He shifted his position for a moment and considered his next move. ‘Perhaps it’s time to look at bringing back as many agents as we can, sir. Those that have retired or left for whatever reason.’

  ‘Re-activation?’ Asked Elliott quickly, his brow furrowed as he considered the option.

  A long silence lingered between two of the most powerful men in the United Kingdom before Elliott spoke again. ‘I will give it some thought. In our current situation, numbers are the key. It’s a path we may have to choose. I have faith in my knights, Kevin. Nevertheless, with the losses we’ve all suffered, I feel we’re missing something. Or maybe even someone.’