The Kremlin Device

by Chris Ryan

  Towards the end we could hear the Chinooks circling. Then rounds began to go down behind us and bullets came cracking through the trees.

  By the time we reached the edge of the field we were sweating like pigs. One man, in the lead, ran out and shone a torch to bring the first Chinook in. At the same moment I heard Pat calling the second to put down an air strike

  "Into the trees!" he was shouting.

  "One hundred metres west of the LZ. One hundred metres and farther."

  The air was full of the heavy, thudding beat of big rotors.

  Through that came the violent racket of a chain-gun, putting down rounds at an incredible speed, making a noise almost like a chainsaw.

  The next thing I knew, one chopper was coming in. The pilot put his nose down right on the torch. A storm of snow was thrashed into the air by the down draught We ran through it with our burdens, straight up the lowered ramp. Within seconds everyone was on board and counted, and we were lifting away.

  Kneeling between the casualties, I got my back to Toad and shouted, "Pay. It's me Geordie."

  When he answered, "Where've you fucking well been, you old bastard?" I knew he was well switched on.

  "Pay," I said.

  "What did they do to Toad?"

  "Bolt cutters," he replied.

  "One finger at a time."

  "Ah, Jesus! How many's he lost?"

  "Dunno. Four maybe."

  "Bloody hell. Listen, what did he tell them about the device?"

  "Nothing.

  "Is that right?"

  "Absolutely nothing. Toad was bloody brilliant."

  "So they don't know about Apple?"

  "Not a whisper."

  "Thank God for that."

  SIXTEEN.

  We landed back at Lyneham to find a premier-league flap in progress. The Firm had been shitting themselves so badly that they couldn't wait till we reached Hereford before they started grilling me. Two men had been waiting in the airport arrival hall, and within five minutes of touchdown I was speeding westwards in a chauffeur-driven Rover.

  The fact that the British Government was in a panic came as no surprise. When the Chinooks had put us down at Krasnodar in the northern Caucasus, we were amazed to find an R.A.F Tristar sitting on the airfield, waiting to fly us home. So desperate had the situation become that our normal means of transport, a Here, had been deemed too slow, and the big jet had been diverted from Cyprus to get us back at twice the speed. The result was one of those disorientating flights which end at practically the same time as they start. We'd taken off at 2200, and three and a quarter hours later we'd landed at 2215 local.

  During our brief stopover at Krasnodar I'd spoken to Whinger on the Satcom. Naturally he was frantic to know what had happened, and I brought him up to speed. At his end, he said, the team job was staggering on.

  "I was hoping to come straight back and rejoin you," I told him, 'but I'm off to the UK for a debrief first. Nobody's sure where the Chechens have taken Orange. London looks the most likely. As soon as the dust settles, I'll get my arse back to Balashika as fast as I can."

  "Speak to you soon," replied Whinger laconically.

  Back in England, scene after scene played through my mind as we headed westwards through the night: the chutes of the free-fallers coming in like bats out of the starry sky; the Chechens humping away the components of Orange during the snowstorm; Akula floating face-down in his own pool; the blaze from the villa lighting up the snow on the mountainside with a huge, ruddy glow.

  My trouble in the debrief was that I'd already exhausted my small store of information. Talking to the CO in Hereford via Satcom from the Tristar, I'd already given all the details I could, and now, repeating my conversation with Shark for the benefit of the guys from the Firm, I felt as if the record had got stuck in the same groove.

  I sat in the back of the car with one man beside me; the other, in the front, kept screwing round to talk. I could only suppose that the driver had full security clearance.

  "Go through it again," said the guy next to me.

  "The whole meeting only lasted a couple of minutes," I said.

  "Akula just said, "You'd better send a message to the British Government."

  "And?"

  "That if we didn't release the Chechens who'd been arrested, London would be sorry.

  "Was that all?"

  '"London will regret." Those were his words exactly."

  "From which you assumed he was sending Orange to London and planning to detonate it there."

  "That's right," I agreed.

  "Couldn't the Yanks track the plane?"

  "By the time they knew what was happening it was too late.

  There were several planes airborne over the Caucasus. Any of them could have been the one they wanted. The most likely candidate was a privately owned Gulfstream that went to Malta, which is one of the Mafia's overseas strongholds. We think the device may have been transferred to another aircraft there."

  "What about at this end?"

  "We've got a watch on all major airports. The difficulty is, a small jet could put down in dozens of different places on a private strip, anywhere."

  "So you think the bomb may be here already?"

  "We've got to assume that."

  "And you can't search the whole of London."

  The man next to me made a wry grimace. Once more I thought of the guys in furry caps, carrying the components out through the snow.

  "I should have whacked them while I had the chance," I said.

  "What's that?" The man in front twisted himself yet farther round, and I had to explain all over again.

  Then I asked, "But do they know how to detonate the damned thing? Can the device be set off without the SCR?"

  "Probably, yes. The Americans say it could be, if somebody's had the right training."

  "Bloody hell!"

  "Exactly."

  "This Shark he didn't give any other clue?"

  "He never had a chance. He might have, but Sasha rushed in and dropped him."

  I described how the naked woman had come storming out of the changing cubicle, and how Sasha had drilled her through the back. My companions seemed quite unmoved by the saga: their only reaction was that the front-seat guy opened a briefcase and switched on the interior light to show me some mug shots.

  "These are what we got off the disk from Moscow," he told me.

  "Allegedly the Chechen Mafia's first eleven."

  "Well," I said.

  "That's Shark, for a start." The long face, hollow cheeks and heavy eyebrow were unmistakable.

  "That was Shark," I corrected.

  "You can eliminate him from your inquiries."

  "What about this one?"

  He showed me a photo of an even more cadaverous-looking man, but younger.

  "That's the brother, Supyan Gaidar. He calls himself Barrakuda. Anna showed me that photo in Balashika."

  "What about this one?"

  The third villain bore a strong resemblance to Sasha, but his face was broader and shorter. I shook my head.

  "Any of these guys could have been in the villa," I said.

  "If they were, I doubt if they came out alive. The only one I saw was Shark."

  "But this one," my neighbour persisted.

  "You're sure about him?"

  "Definitely Barrakuda. He's pretty much like his elder brother."

  "We believe he's in the UK by now," said the man in front.

  "He was last heard of heading for London.

  In camp the atmosphere was no less frenetic. Everybody from the CO down came at me saying, "Where have they put it? How do we find Barrakuda?" They seemed to think that because I'd been in Moscow, I must be an expert on the Chechen Mafia.

  They couldn't take in the fact that I knew nothing about the organisation's London dispositions.

  Also, people were naturally worried about the safety of our guys still at Balashika, and kept asking questions about the situation there. All I could
say was that, if they stayed inside the camp, they'd be OK.

  After an hour's further debrief the boss at last realised that I was out on my feet, and told me to get my head down. He saw that there was nothing further we could do until we got some definite leads. So it was that at 0030 British time, 0330 Moscow time, 0430 Grozny time, and the end of the world by my biological clock, I eventually had a hot shower, lay down in my room in the sergeants' mess and passed out.

  The next I knew, someone was shaking my shoulder.

  "Get up, Geordie," a voice was saying.

  "On your feet. They've seen him."

  "Who?"

  "Barrakuda."

  "Ah, Jesus! Where?"

  "Central London. A police surveillance team saw him go into one of the flats they've had staked out."

  I blinked and stared at my watch: 6:15. "What happened?" I croaked.

  "He came in a taxi, carrying a small hold-all."

  "OK," I said.

  "I'm with you."

  Tired as I was, I knew I had to go, because I was the only person in England who'd set eyes on Orange.

  Half an hour later I was heading back towards the capital, a member of the SP team, kit ted out to take part in yet another hit.

  I knew all the other guys well enough to fit in, and as I'd recently finished commanding an SP team for nine months, we all spoke the same language.

  As usual, our orders were unwritten but absolutely clear: our primary task was to recover Orange, but our scarcely less important aim was to silence Barrakuda and anyone found with him. If we got the bomb back and took out the immediate Mafia cell, the whole saga would become deniable. Anything the Chechens might say could be discredited. The operation was to be carried out as quickly as possible.

  As our Range Rovers hurtled up the M4 at a steady 100 mph." I noticed that the traffic seemed very light, and realised belatedly that this was Sunday.

  In less than two hours we had reached a small warehouse in Notting Hill that had been taken over as a forward mounting base: the wagons drove straight in, out of sight, and the guys tumbled out to get their kit sorted.

  By now the Firm had secured plans of the flat that Barrakuda was using. Markham Court was a small red-brick block, dating from the 1930s, in Seymour Place, north of Marble Arch. It belonged to West End Homes, a property company, and in June apartment No. 10 had been taken, fully furnished, on a three year lease by a firm based in Malta. The area was up-market residential, central and convenient, and in recent years had been heavily infiltrated by Arabs.

  The building had only five storeys, and No. 10 was on the top floor. A single lift went up from inside the front door of the building, with a staircase winding round the outside of the shaft.

  Lift and stairs both gave on to small landings, with two flats on each floor, to right and left. The only other access to each apartment was via a metal fire-escape, which served a back door leading out of the kitchen area.

  Only five floors, I thought. The height's no problem. After our sixteen-floor epic in Moscow, this was money for jam in technical terms. The problem was going to be spectators: once explosions started cracking off, people would inevitably assemble to gawp. Still, that was a matter for the police.

  The assault was easily planned. There was no need for anything elaborate like an abseil drop off the roof: all we needed was for our Red and Blue teams to arrive at front and back of the building simultaneously and secure the exits. Red would commandeer the lift and at the same time clear the front stairs.

  Blue would do the same at the back and go up the fire-escape.

  With the teams coordinated by covert radio, we'd blow both doors and storm the flat the aim being, in the first instance, to overpower the people inside rather than kill anyone and possibly rob ourselves of vital intelligence. Only if we met armed resistance would we use our weapons, and only when the bomb had been found would we get rid of Barrakuda.

  On the floor of the warehouse we laid out white mine tape to the exact dimensions of the rooms in the flat, and decided who would clear which. In the building across the street from the target, one startled family had to be evicted from their penthouse so that sniper observers could be installed and listening equipment brought to bear on the windows. Early indications suggested that the flat was occupied by two men.

  Meanwhile, a Russian-speaking policeman a young, dark guy called Michael, who looked more like a student than a police officer was seconded to Red team, with orders to come up and join us as soon as the flat was secure. Two nuclear technicians from Porton Down were standing by to neutralise Orange, when or if we found it.

  At 10:45 a.m. we were ready to roll. Our CO and ops officer were installed alongside the police in a control room set up in Marylebone police station. I knew that at the last minute, before we went in, the CO would take command of the operation by signing the formal order, but that didn't concern us at the sharp end.

  The police team who had Markham Court under surveillance confirmed that nobody had entered or left No. 10 since the arrival of Barrakuda, so we were reasonably confident that we'd find only two men inside.

  Red team slipped into the building so easily that we might have been arriving for Sunday morning coffee.

  Just as we were de bussing a small, heavily veiled Arab woman came out of the block. Funny, I thought, she's just like us, dressed in black from head to foot. She did a big double-take at the sight of us. I thought she was going to dart back inside, but she kept going and walked off along the street.

  One of our lads got a foot in the open door, saving us the need to pick or smash the security lock. Then it was three into the lift, two running up the stairs, and the sixth man staying down to guard the entrance.

  Outside No 10. I paused till I heard from the commentary in my earpiece that Blue team were in position at the head of the fire-escape. Then I quietly said, "Placing charge now." The door had a peep-hole in the centre at head level, but as we'd arrived in total silence the chances that anyone was standing with his eye glued to it seemed exceedingly remote so I ignored it and went forward to tape the det cord straight down the middle.

  With that done, I stood back against the wall, the other guys lined up beyond me.

  "Red, all set," I reported.

  "Blue, ready," came the answer.

  "OK then. Stand by... stand by.. . GO!"

  I closed my clacker. The bang was very sharp and loud in the confines of the little landing, and the front door split in half and caved inwards. I lobbed a stun grenade through the opening, squinted sideways as it cracked off, and burst into the flat.

  Two men in shirtsleeves were sitting at a table or rather, they had been. By the time I entered the room they were halfway to their feet, staggering backwards in shock from the explosions.

  "Stand still!" I yelled.

  "Hands up!"

  I saw immediately that the left-hand man was Barrakuda: a smaller version of Akula, with the same hollow cheeks, but younger, maybe in his late thirties, his features less haggard.

  He'd been taken completely by surprise. Before he could move two of our guys had him pinioned and cuffed with his hands behind his back. His companion was a big fellow, older and heavier, with stiff brown hair brushed up and back. He, too, was instantly overpowered.

  Blue team, bursting through from the kitchen end of the flat, confirmed that there was nobody else in residence.

  A rapid search proved that the device was not on the premises. We looked under beds, in cupboards, behind furniture:

  there was no recess large enough to conceal cases that size.

  From out in the hallway I reported, "Red leader. Flat secure.

  No casualties. Device not here. Repeat, device not here. Let's have the interpreter up soonest.

  Now I noticed two small suitcases standing by the wall inside the front door. I picked one up. The weight told me it was full.

  Back in the living room I saw that our prisoners' jackets were hanging on the backs of the chairs where
they'd been sitting. On the table stood an open attache case made of crocodile skin, which immediately reminded me of the Moscow apartment. This one contained only papers, but among them were two air tickets and two passports with green plastic covers.

  The passports were issued by the Republic of Chechnya and made out in Cyrilhic script, with Roman equivalents underneath the names. One belonged to Hussein Amadov, the other to Andrei Musayev. The photo showed that Barrakuda was using Musayev as a pseudonym. The Air Malta tickets were made out in the same names. The destination was Valetta, but the flight numbers and dates were so densely printed that I had to stare at them for a few seconds before I could make them out. Then I realised that the tickets were for 21 October that very day -and that the departure was scheduled for 12:45 p.m. Eh, I said to myself. These guys were about to do a flit.

  As I flicked through the documents, Barrakuda watched me without moving, but I could feel controlled hatred emanating from him. I was glad we had him cuffed. I still had my MP5 on its sling over my shoulder, so I moved in on him, jammed the muzzle into the front of his expensive-looking cream shirt and jerked it violently sideways, ripping off two buttons. Sure enough, under the hair on his scrawny chest was the tattoo of a long, slim fish.

  "You speak English?"

  He said nothing, but lifted both elbows outwards to mean, "No."

  I gave him a crack on the right ear with the barrel of the weapon, and although the blow rocked his head sideways, he hardly flinched.

  I turned to the big man and asked the same.

  "A little."

  "Where's the bomb?"

  He pretended not to understand. I repeated the question.

  Again it produced no answer. Then I heard a movement behind me, and there was Mike, the interpreter, in the doorway. Behind him I saw police officers moving in to evacuate the other flats.

  "Tell this guy I know who he is." I pointed at Barrakuda.

  "His real name's Gaidar, Supyan Gaidar. Tell him I want to know where they've put the nuclear device."

  As I spoke the names, I saw a flicker of unease run through the prisoner.