by Chris Ryan
They found a bar with a free table, pulled up three chairs and loaded up on black coffee, pulled pork burgers and sweet potato fries. Their first cooked meal since they’d arrived in the US.
Porter popped some fries in his mouth and said, ‘Tell us about the mobster’s gaff.’
Cooper shook his head. ‘That wasn’t part of the deal. I said I’ll take you there once we land. I’m not saying any more until then.’
‘Not good enough. We need to know what we’re dealing with. Security details, guards, the works. If we go in blind, we won’t stand a chance of rescuing Street.’
‘Or we can call the whole thing off now,’ Bald threatened. ‘Hand you back to Six. Whatever deal they’re offering you will be off the table once we tell them you’re refusing to cooperate.’
Cooper pondered this while he stared at his burger. ‘How much do you know about Zhirkov?’
‘He’s a crime boss,’ said Bald. ‘Rich as fuck, and a complete nutter.’
‘He’s not just any old criminal,’ Cooper replied. ‘Zhirkov is the most powerful mobster in the country. He made his money by offering protection to the oligarchs during the aluminium wars. He guaranteed their safety, in exchange for shares in their companies.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’
‘But also very dangerous. Most of the other bosses from that time are either dead or in exile. Zhirkov is the last survivor.’
‘How’d he manage that?’
‘By being cautious, and keeping a low profile. The other bosses splashed their cash, bought up football teams and New York penthouses, but that was never Zhirkov’s style. He preferred to stay under the radar. Hardly anyone even knows what he looks like.’
Porter said, ‘Where’s the mansion?’
‘North of his hometown. A speck on a map, two hours north of Moscow. He bought the land years ago and registered the property under the name of his sister-in-law.’
‘Why build it in the middle of nowhere? I thought all those rich Russians lived in Moscow.’
‘They do. But it’s not Zhirkov’s usual residence. He had the place constructed as a private retreat. Somewhere all the top guys in his criminal empire could meet up. He held lavish parties there from time to time as well. Very exclusive. All the Russian elite were invited. The place is legendary, in the criminal underworld.’
‘What about security?’
‘There’s a permanent detail at the estate. They patrol the grounds in shifts.’
‘How many guys?’
‘A four-man team.’
‘Do they carry?’
‘A couple of them, I think. Zhirkov only trusts his most loyal guards with weapons. The others won’t be armed.’
‘Shotguns? Longs?’
‘Handguns. Nothing bigger than a nine-millimetre. You won’t be coming up against any serious firepower.’
‘Guard dogs?’
‘Not any more.’
‘The mobster used to have them?’
Cooper nodded. ‘The first time I went there, he had a pack of German shepherds. Vicious things. The second time, the dogs weren’t there. Apparently one of them got away and attacked his daughter. Scarred her for life. After that, Zhirkov ditched the dogs.’
Porter said, ‘What about the mansion itself?’
‘There’s a perimeter fence around the house, and an earthen rampart surrounding it. Like you get at old castles. To stop anyone firing RPGs at the property.’
‘Sounds like Zhirkov’s got a lot of enemies.’
‘He’s a crime boss. In Russia. You don’t stay alive for long in his world unless you’re extremely careful. The place was designed to be impenetrable.’
Bald wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, ‘How are we going to get inside if Zhirkov’s got the place on lockdown?’
‘You won’t need to break into the house itself. There’s a garden at the back, with a boathouse backing on to the lakefront. That’s where they’ll be holding Charles.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Zhirkov had the boathouse converted into a torture cell when he bought the place. To question friends and enemies.’
Porter stared at Cooper, ‘How do you know the place so well?’
‘Like I said, Zhirkov used to host private parties at the estate. I happened to be invited there on a couple of occasions, back when I was working at the embassy in Moscow.’
There was a definite note of pride in his voice. ‘Was this before or after you fucked over your best mate?’
Cooper stared back. ‘You think I’m not sorry about what happened to Charles? He was my friend, for Chrissakes.’
‘Some friend, letting him take the blame for those two agents who got murdered.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like. To live in someone else’s shadow. Charles was the star young agent, destined for great things. Me? I was just another name. I had a chance to make something of myself. Charles was in the way. It’s as simple as that.’
‘You shafted his career.’
‘It was twenty years ago. I can’t be blamed for everything that happened to him since. Charles has had plenty of opportunities to pick himself up.’
‘Yeah,’ Bald said. ‘Just long enough for you to screw him all over again with the dossier.’
Cooper glowered at Bald but made no reply.
Porter checked the time on the departures screen. 2052 hours. Thirteen hours since the Russians had taken Street from the safe house. He figured it would have taken them a couple of hours to get to the nearest airfield, cover their tracks and leave the country. Say, thirteen hours to fly to the mansion. With a stopover somewhere for fuel, probably. A fourteen-hour flight, plus the travel time at the other end.
Seventeen hours, total.
Which meant the foot soldiers would get to Zhirkov’s place for around 0800 hours tomorrow, local time.
Our flight gets in at 1925, Porter thought. That gives the Russians a head-start of eleven hours.
We’ll have to leg it there as fast as possible.
‘How long will they keep Street at the mansion?’ he asked Cooper.
‘As long as it takes to find out what he knows. All the state secrets and missions that Six has carried out. Anything that might be of use to Zhirkov’s paymasters over at the Kremlin.’
‘What happens after that?’
Cooper stared at his half-eaten burger. ‘Once Charles has told them all his secrets, they’ll want to get rid of the evidence. They’ll execute him.’
Porter looked over at the electronic board. A gate number had flashed up, next to their flight number. He shovelled the rest of the chips into his mouth, polished off his Coke and stood up.
‘Come on,’ he said to the others. ‘Let’s go.’
They boarded the Boeing 777 and settled into their business-class seats. There was less legroom than Porter remembered. Or perhaps he was just getting bigger. I’m not in the shape I used to be, he thought. Maybe it’s time to call it a day after this. Get myself a job on Civvy Street. See my daughter more often. Find a woman.
If we make it out of Russia alive.
Bald and Porter took the seats on the right side of the aisle. Cooper had the seat opposite. He sat upright, with his eyes closed, his hands resting in his lap. Looking relaxed. Untroubled. A cool character.
‘Why’s he so chilled?’ he wondered.
Bald shrugged. ‘What do you expect? That twat’s getting off lightly.’
‘Not that lightly. His career’s over. He’ll lose everything.’
‘Aye. But he’s avoided jail. Someone’ll give him a job after the dust has settled. On the Circuit, or in the City.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Until yesterday, he was a big deal at MI6. Bloke like him, he’s got a contacts list as long as a horse’s dick. All he’s getting from Six is a slap on the wrist. He’s got plenty of reasons to smile, mate.’
Porter nodded and said, ‘How long do you think we’ve got? Until Street spills his g
uts?’
‘Not long. Zhirkov’s toughs will have been trained up by the FSB. They’ll know all the interrogation techniques. The Russians are world-class when it comes to torturing suspects.’
‘Twenty-four hours?’
‘If he lasts that long, it’ll be a fucking miracle.’
Porter sat back, resting his head against the cushion. If everything went to plan, they’d arrive at Zhirkov’s mansion thirteen hours after the Russians. There was nothing else they could do now, except get there as soon as possible once they’d landed.
And hope Street hadn’t forgotten all of his interrogation training.
The cabin doors closed. Announcements were made as the plane started to taxi. A video played on the entertainment screens, a soothing voice telling the passengers to buckle up and turn off their electronic devices, though nobody seemed to be paying any attention. Twelve minutes later they were climbing into the sky. The seat belt signs flicked off. The lights dimmed.
Porter waited until Bald was fast asleep, then stood up from his seat and paced down the aisle. He snagged a few miniatures from the drinks trolley and got a funny look from the German stewardess with the school matron build. Porter didn’t care. He stuffed the miniatures into his pockets and slipped into the vacant toilet. Locked the door, and tore off the cap from one of the miniature bottles of vodka.
The stress of the op was beginning to get to him. In fourteen hours we’ll be landing in Russia, the voice in his head told him. Surrounded by enemies, with no way out if things go Pete Tong.
I just need a drink to take the edge off. Deal with the stress I’m feeling.
He was about to tip the voddie down his throat when he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.
The face of a drunk stared back at him. His eyes were bloodshot. His skin was puffy and bloated. He looked like shit.
I slipped up once at the safe house, thought Porter. I can’t afford to go down that same route again. Not when I’m going up against the Russian mob.
He remembered the promise he’d made to Bald.
To Sandy.
Well, fuck.
He re-screwed the cap on the voddie bottle. Tossed it into the bin, along with the rest of the miniatures. Pushed the voice aside, shoving it back into the dim, dark recesses of his mind.
Then he stepped out of the toilet. Bald was still snoring away. Porter sank into the seat next to his mucker, closed his eyes and settled into a restless sleep.
They kipped through most of the flight. Following one of the oldest rules in the Regiment. Sleep when you can, because you never know when you’ll next have the chance. There was no need to keep a close eye on Cooper. At forty thousand feet, he wasn’t going anywhere. They landed at Munich at 1210 the following day. Had a three-hour stopover, which they spent refuelling with toasted sandwiches and coffee at the airport Starbucks. Cooper sipped at his latté while Porter and Bald browsed through the guide books, committing a few of the major tourist sights to memory.
At 1535 they boarded their connecting flight to Moscow Sheremetyevo, on an Aeroflot Airbus A321. The final leg of their journey. Bald kipped some more, but Porter couldn’t rest. His mind was racing ahead of him, working the angles. If Cooper was right, once they’d passed through security and RV’d with the driver, it would take them around two hours to reach Zhirkov’s mansion. Which gave them an ETA of around 2230 hours.
Fourteen hours after the Russians would have reached their mobster boss’s hideout.
Fourteen hours to torture Street.
Nightmare scenarios played out in Porter’s mind.
If Street gave up what he knew, the Kremlin would have their hands on a sex tape they could use against the new American president. They would be in a position to make him do whatever they wanted. They could force him to drop sanctions, Cooper had said. Persuade him to withdraw from NATO. Anything.
That can’t happen. I’m not gonna let the Russians win.
Three hours later, they touched down at Sheremetyevo airport.
THIRTY-SEVEN
They were first off the plane, along with the handful of passengers in first-class. Porter moved ahead, followed by Cooper, with Bald as the tail-end Charlie. They shuffled down the jet bridge, rested but still weary, heavy-legged from half a day spent in the air. Porter handed his passport to a bored-looking officer at the security booth. The guy glanced at his visa for about a second before waving Porter through. Bald and Cooper went through the same routine. Then the three of them donned their Ralph Lauren baseball caps, concealing their faces from the surveillance cameras as they swept past the luggage carousel into the arrivals hall.
Security was tight at the airport. Police officers in ballistic vests patrolled the area, wielding PP-2000 submachine guns. Porter counted at least a dozen of them. He recalled the news report he’d seen on the TV at Heathrow.
The suicide bombing at St Petersburg airport.
Chechen terrorists. Blood and dust and broken glass.
The Russians were beefing up their security in the wake of the latest attack. That much was clear.
They bought coffee from a sour-faced woman at a drab-looking café. Sat down at one of the tables and sipped their shit coffee, scanning the hall to see if anyone had eyes on them. The cops didn’t give them a second glance. They were on the lookout for nervous-looking Eurasians, dressed in unseasonably hot outerwear. Not middle-aged white blokes in suits.
When they were sure no one was watching them, they ditched their paper cups and beat a path across the hall, following the signs for the multi-storey car park. Announcements pinged out in Russian and English as they rode the escalator to the second floor and took the emergency stairs to the third floor of the multi-storey. Most airport car parks were rigged with CCTV cameras, so Porter, Bald and Cooper kept their heads lowered as they swept out of the fire doors. They hung back by the lift, heads low. Ten seconds later a bloke in a slate-grey suit debussed from a black Mercedes G-Class wagon parked in the opposite corner and marched over.
The driver matched the description Tannon had included in their itineraries. Short and stocky, with a buzz cut and squinting eyes the size of pinpricks. As if someone had just kicked sand in his face. He looked to be in his mid-forties, and he moved at a brisk pace, eyes casually taking in every detail. Ex-military, Porter guessed. Probably a background in army intelligence. A four-year stretch in Northern Ireland, working surveillance. Then the tap on the shoulder by one of his handlers, the offer of a career in the secret service. The foreign posting to Russia.
That’s how they suck you in.
Buzz Cut carried an A4 envelope in his right hand. He cocked his head at Porter.
‘Gary Hutton?’ he asked. There was a trace of Geordie to his accent, watered down by the years spent working for MI6. Porter nodded.
‘That’s me.’
‘Anyone follow you here?’
‘No one’s watching us,’ Bald said. ‘We’re clear, mate.’
Buzz Cut nodded. ‘Your car’s over here. Follow me, lads.’
He turned on his heels and strode past the banks of silent motors towards the Mercedes G-Class. Vehicle of choice for the well-heeled in the new Russia. He waved a hand at it.
‘Tank’s full. Documents are in the glove box. All the paperwork is made out in the name of Gary Hutton.’
Bald gave the motor the once-over and nodded his approval. ‘Decent wheels for a change,’ he said. ‘Not like the knackered old bangers Six usually sets us up with.’
‘Where’s the kit?’ Porter asked.
‘In here.’
Buzz Cut circled around to the boot. He’d parked so that the back of the G-wagon was facing the exterior wall, away from the multi-storey CCTV cameras. The exterior wall was about a metre high, a block of smooth concrete overlooking the open-air car park directly to the east. Four hundred metres away stood the Park Inn hotel. Too far away for anyone inside the hotel to make out what was in the back of the G-wagon.
Buzz Cut poppe
d the boot. Inside was a black leather bag. Bald unzipped it and rummaged through the contents. The bag contained a pair of thirty-six-inch Neiko bolt cutters, two Petzl Tactikka head torches, black gloves, a Klom snap gun with a set of blades and a tension tool, and two sets of Asp tri-fold plastic restraints. More flexible than standard plasticuffs, which meant Bald and Porter could fold the restraints and carry them in their pockets instead of hanging them from a belt-loop.
Also included in the bag: two burner phones, virtually identical to the ones Porter and Bald used in DC, and a Garmin Montana handheld GPS unit with a car charging kit. Everything they’d need to break into the mansion, retrieve Street and deliver him to the British embassy.
‘Clothes are in the back,’ Buzz Cut said. ‘Dark jeans, t-shirts, waterproof jackets, trainers. Three pairs of each. Everything’s in your sizes, as you requested.’
Porter nodded. They would have to find somewhere to change before they made their assault on Zhirkov’s mansion. Buzz Cut handed him the envelope. ‘Cash. Clean, untraceable notes. In case of emergencies.’
Porter dipped a hand into the envelope. He pulled out a slim band of five-thousand-rouble notes. Fifty notes to the band. There were four wads in total inside the envelope. Two million roubles. Equivalent to a couple of grand in UK pounds.
‘What about weapons?’ Bald asked.
‘Glove box,’ Buzz Cut replied. ‘Two MP-443 Grachs.’
Porter recognised the weapon brand. Semi-automatics chambered for the 7N21, the Russian version of the 9x19mm Parabellum round. Nicknamed the YaP. The Yarygin Pistol. After the guy who’d designed it.
‘Ammunition?’
‘One box. Fifty rounds.’
‘What if we need anything meatier?’
‘That’s all we could get at this short notice, lads. Anything else would’ve taken more time.’
Bald clicked his tongue. ‘Fuck it. We’ll have to make do.’
Buzz Cut handed Porter the keys to the G-wagon. ‘There’s a car waiting to pick me up as you leave the airport. I’ll direct you. After that, you’re on your own.’