by Chris Ryan
Porter snatched the keys. Buzz Cut wandered around to the rear passenger side and climbed inside. Then Porter turned to Cooper and said, ‘Do you know how to get to Zhirkov’s place from here?’
‘I spent seven years working in Moscow,’ Cooper replied snootily. ‘I worked the streets more than any other agent at Six in that time. So yes, I think I know my way around.’
‘Get in the back. You’ll show us the route as soon as we’ve dropped this guy off.’
Bald glowered at Cooper as the latter ducked into the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut. ‘This twat is really starting to piss me off.’
‘We’ll be rid of him soon enough,’ Porter replied. ‘Soon as we’ve got Street.’
‘The quicker the better. Otherwise I’ll end up slotting the cunt. No matter what Tannon says.’
The sun was sinking towards the horizon as they pulled out of the multi-storey. Eight-thirty in the evening, the last light of the day coating the clear Moscow sky in brushstrokes of orange and pink. Porter took the wheel, Cooper riding shotgun, with Bald sat in the back with Buzz Cut. The latter gave directions to the airport exit. After five hundred metres they passed the Radisson Hotel and continued south. Four hundred metres later Buzz Cut pointed out a wide gravel parking lot to the right of the exit road.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Stop here.’
Porter slowed the G-wagon down to a crawl as he steered over to the side of the road. He stopped but kept the engine running as Buzz Cut dived out of the back of the wagon. The driver hurried across the lot to a white BMW X3 parked up in the far corner and hopped into the front passenger seat. As Porter pulled away he could see the BMW reversing out of the parking lot. Porter knew the routine. The second car would ferry Buzz Cut back to the British embassy on Smolenskaya Street, on the eastern bank of the Moscow River. The exchange meant Bald and Porter didn’t have to set foot anywhere near the embassy.
And if we’re caught, Six can deny they had anything to do with the mission.
‘Which way now?’ he asked Cooper.
‘Take the M11 south. We’ll take the ring road across the city. It’s always busy, but it’s the quickest way to get where we’re going.’
‘You’d better be right. If I find out you’re lying to us, Jock here will put a hole in the back of your head.’
‘There’s no need for that tone. I’m well aware of your threats against me.’
‘Twat,’ Bald said under his breath.
They took the next junction and rolled onto the motorway. At the toll booth Bald handed over a fistful of roubles. Then they headed south across the canal until they hit the Moscow ring road. Which was when they ran into their first obstacle of the mission: Russian roads, and Russian drivers. A lethal combination, made worse by Russian traffic cops. Everyone in Moscow was terrified of getting a speeding ticket, it seemed. No one dared edge over fifty miles per.
The AC was working overtime as they made slow progress on the ring road, circling around the northern edge of the city. The Moscow evening was hot and sticky. Smell of distant peat fires slithered in through the air vents. High-rise blocks stretched out across the skyline, the balconies piled high with rubbish. Porter glanced down at the clock on the dash.
2044 hours.
Seventy minutes since they’d landed at Sheremetyevo. In another two hours they would reach Zhirkov’s stronghold.
They stuck to the ring road, passing several exits. President Gabulov’s smirking face beamed out at them from roadside election posters. At nine o’clock the sun finally dipped down below the horizon, a band of gold that glowed beyond the high-rises. Cooper directed Porter to the next exit and they slingshot north-east on the M8, leaving Moscow’s orbit.
Porter said, ‘How long to the mansion from here?’
Cooper said, ‘Ninety minutes.’
The dash clock read 2104. We’ll get to the mansion at around 2230 hours, Porter realised.
Fourteen hours after the Russians.
‘What’s the plan once we get there?’ Bald asked.
Porter rubbed his jaw. ‘We’ll OP the estate and the surrounding grounds. Find the optimum point of entry. Deal with the guards at the boathouse and get Street out of there.’
Bald considered. ‘We’ll have to watch for cameras. Sensors. If the mobster’s got any thermal or infra-red kit, we won’t stand a fucking chance of getting inside without alerting them.’
‘Zhirkov doesn’t have anything like that,’ Cooper said.
‘Why not? He’s rich enough to afford it.’
‘He’s a personal friend of the president. That gives him a certain level of protection. Better than any security contract could buy.’
‘What about cameras?’
‘I know where they are,’ Cooper responded. ‘Zhirkov can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, so I spent a lot of time out in the garden when he hosted his parties. I know all the dead spots.’
Porter stared at Cooper for several moments. Questions reverberated inside his skull. Twenty-four hours ago Cooper was selling his old mate out to the Russians. Now the bloke wants to help rescue Street. He’s changed tack.
He put this to the back of his mind. Gripped the wheel and refocused on the road ahead. Eighty miles to the mansion.
A few hours from now, if everything went to plan, the op would be over. I’ll be back home, Porter thought. Back to my boring, stress-free life.
The one where I’m not tempted to hit the bottle every day.
They drove on.
Into the darkening Russian night.
THIRTY-EIGHT
North of Moscow the road turned into one massive construction site. Mounds of excavated soil and digging equipment lined the sides of the motorway. Apartment blocks and shopping malls and office complexes were cropping up everywhere. Porter had the sense of a sleeping giant awakening after a long slump. Flush with money, ready to reassert itself.
After eleven miles they passed Pushkino and the landscape shifted again. Long stretches of dense woodland, interrupted by rolling fields of wheat and sugar beet, faintly illuminated by the light of the crescent moon. Flat terrain, rugged and poor, marked by the occasional ramshackle village or closed-down garage.
Darkness closed in around the land as they continued north. Stars specked the coal-black sky, the temperature on the dashboard plummeting to a cool fourteen degrees. They passed the city of Sergiev Posad, the G-wagon juddering as it rumbled along the worn-down tarmac. Ten minutes later they were crossing the district line into Vladimir Oblast.
‘How much further to go?’ Porter asked. Cooper didn’t reply. He was gazing out of the side window at the gloomy vista, looking wide-eyed at the black nothing, a man lost in his troubled thoughts. Porter nudged him with his elbow.
‘I said, how long to the stronghold?’
Cooper blinked at the road ahead. ‘Half an hour. No more than that.’
The guy resumed his staring-out-of-the-window thing. He looked pale. Like a convict coming out of a long stretch in solitary. Cooper was feeling the strain, thought Porter.
No wonder. His balls are on the line here.
Same as ours.
At 2231 hours Cooper broke his silence and told Porter to take the next left off the main road. Porter made the turn and arrowed the G-wagon down a potholed country lane for two miles, plunging deeper into the Russian countryside. They hit the end of the lane, hung a left and carried on for another mile. Past an old army barracks that looked as if it was abandoned long ago.
‘You weren’t joking,’ said Bald. ‘This mansion really is in the fucking middle of nowhere.’
They took the next right and rolled on for another half-mile. Thick forest flanked the sides of the road. After five hundred metres Cooper said, ‘It’s the next left. Zhirkov’s place is down there.’
Porter switched off the headlamps, driving on with just his sidelights to make the G-wagon less visible to any sentries guarding the approach. He downshifted through the gears, slowing the
motor down to ten miles per hour as he took the turn.
The approach road curved slightly before opening up, revealing a single-lane road that extended towards the distant lakefront. Pine forest to the left and right of the road. At the far end stood a huge estate surrounded by a tall earthen rampart. Cooper pointed at it through the windscreen. ‘That’s it. That’s the place.’
Porter peered at the estate through the windscreen, three hundred metres away at the opposite end of the approach road. The rooftop of the main building was visible above the top of the rampart, a Chinese-style pagoda with turrets at each corner. Like a medieval castle. An imposing gate faced out from the front of the estate.
‘This Zhirkov bloke must be fucking minted,’ Bald observed, admiration creeping into his voice. ‘This place is massive.’
‘He’s richer than you can imagine,’ said Cooper.
Porter said, ‘What now, Jock?’
‘We’ll have to pull over. Make our way on foot. This road’s too exposed.’
Porter nudged the G-wagon off to the left, veering towards a footpath at the side of the road. He nosed the wagon down the footpath for several metres until it was hidden from view by the surrounding foliage. Then he killed the engine.
‘What now?’ Bald asked.
‘We’ll move closer. Recce the defences. Find a way past the perimeter. Once we’re in, we’ll OP the boathouse. Wait for an opportunity to hit the guards and nab Street.’
‘Works for me, mate.’
‘What about me?’ Cooper asked.
‘We could plasticuff the fucker,’ Bald suggested to Porter. ‘Stuff him in the boot, like.’
Cooper shook his head. ‘You can’t leave me here. I’m the only one who knows the layout.’
‘Bollocks. You’re not trained. You’ll be a liability.’
‘I handled myself at the cabin.’
‘Bastard’s right,’ Porter grumbled. ‘We need his knowledge. We need to know the optimum point of entry. Where the cameras are located. All that shit.’
Bald grunted. ‘Fine. But if he tries anything, we drop him. No ifs or buts.’
They stepped out of the wagon, jumping down to the dry, crusted earth. The temperature was still somewhere in the low teens, the stars studding the black expanse above. Grasshoppers chirped in the woods as they changed out of their white shirts, dress pants and shoes into the dark clothes and sneakers Buzz Cut had left for them in the back seat.
They dumped their old threads in the back seat. Then Bald retrieved the two Yarygin pistols from the glove box while Porter fetched the kit from the leather bag in the boot. He took out the Petzl head torches, the flexible plastic restraints, the Klom snap gun, gloves and bolt cutters, plus the two burners.
All three of them were carrying their travel documents. Porter also had the wad of rouble notes tucked in his back pocket. Everything they would need if they had to make an emergency exit.
Porter left the two digital cameras in the boot, along with the heap of Moscow guide books. They wouldn’t be needing tips on art museums where they were going tonight.
He slammed the boot shut and remote-locked the G-wagon. Passed the snap gun and bolt cutters to Cooper, then took one of the Yarygin pistols from Bald. Porter rested the head torches and gloves on top of the wagon, released the empty clip from the underside of the Yarygin mag feed and began thumbing in rounds from the box of ammo. Bald did the same with his weapon, the pair of them loading the clips. Eighteen rounds to a mag. Thirty-six rounds between them.Not much, thought Porter. But it’ll have to do.
They divided up the spare rounds left in the ammo box. Fourteen bullets. Seven apiece. Then they distributed the rest of the kit, Bald taking one of the head torches, a pair of gloves and the plasticuffs, along with one of the emergency burners. When they’d finished checking through all their kit, Porter looked over at Bald.
‘Ready, mucker?’
‘Aye. Let’s go.’
Before they set off, Porter turned to Cooper. ‘Follow our lead. Do exactly as we say. Make a sound and I’ll nut you.’
‘I’ll need a weapon?’
‘Forget it. They only gave us two guns. And we’re not about to give you a fucking piece.’
‘But how am I supposed to defend myself, if we’re attacked?’
‘Look hard.’
They headed off into the forest.
Porter led the way. He set off at a quick trot towards the mansion, following a route parallel to the approach road. Bald moved along a couple of paces further back, with Cooper at his six o’clock.
Standard operating procedure in the Regiment dictated that the best approach to an enemy stronghold was usually the dirtiest. Which meant having to make their way towards the rampart through the pine forest. They’d head for the section of the rampart closest to the boathouse, then observe the ground before making their next move.
Cooper had told them Zhirkov didn’t have any electronic surveillance but Porter figured his int might be out of date. If they found any advanced kit, they’d have no choice but to call the attack off.
We’ll probably have trekked all this way for nothing.
Street will be a dead man.
After a couple of minutes his natural night vision kicked in. Peering between the gaps in the trees he saw they were just over two hundred metres from Zhirkov’s estate now. At this distance Porter could make out the wrought-iron gate. Gold eagles were mounted on the posts either side of the gate.
He stopped and jerked his head at Cooper. ‘Which way?’
The agent pointed to a section of the rampart due east of the main gate, at their eleven o’clock. ‘The boathouse is on the south-east corner. We should approach from that direction.’
‘Any cameras over there?’
‘None. They’re all at the front gate.’
Porter gave his back to Cooper and ventured deeper into the pine forest, picking his way through the undergrowth as he moved stealthily towards the estate. They carried on for another two hundred metres until they reached the southern edge of the pine forest, facing the south-eastern corner of the estate. Porter stopped a metre short of the treeline and crouched down as he scanned the area immediately in front of him.
Beyond the treeline a narrow gravel path ran west to east, parallel to the earthen rampart. An access road, Porter guessed. Six metres away from him, on the far side of the gravel path, stood the defensive mound of earth enclosing the mansion.
The rampart was taller than Porter had expected. It rose steeply for two metres, the soil tightly compacted, presumably to absorb the blast of a rocket or mortar round. At the summit the ground had been flattened. From his point of view Porter couldn’t see beyond the mound of earth but he knew from Cooper’s description of the estate that a wire fence lurked on the other side.
Bald and Cooper silently dropped low either side of Porter. Cooper stayed still while the operators began observing the rampart, searching the ground for hidden sensors and cameras.
‘Can’t see anything,’ Bald whispered after a couple of minutes. ‘Looks clear enough to me.’
Porter lifted his gaze to the top of the mound. ‘Over there,’ he whispered. ‘Guards approaching. Two of them.’
Bald chased his mucker’s line of sight, looking to the east as a barrel-chested guy in a black t-shirt, matching slacks and boots paced along the crude walkway on top of the rampart. He carried a torch in his left hand and a walkie-talkie in his right. A holstered pistol was clipped to his belt, jutting out from underneath his black shirt.
In the faint light of the moon Porter saw a second guard in a beanie hat approaching, fifty metres behind the first guy. The tail-end Charlie. A regular patrol tactic. One guard leads, with the second man sweeping the ground immediately behind the first guard. If anyone tried to cross the perimeter after the first bloke had moved on, they would be caught by the tail-end Charlie. An effective tactic, for catching amateur intruders.
But it wouldn’t work against two ex-Blades.
They retreated a couple of steps further from the treeline, then settled down to OP the rampart through the sporadic gaps in the foliage. Bursts of static carried across the night air as the first guard passed by on his patrol. Porter watched him move on.
Twenty seconds later, the second guard walked past.
Bald and Porter both stayed very still, waiting until both guards had carried on to the next section of the rampart and were out of earshot. Then they crept back over to their positions at the treeline and continued observing the routine. Porter checked the time on his G-Shock.
2256 hours.
He set his stopwatch. Watched, and waited.
Twenty minutes passed. Then twenty-five.
On thirty minutes, the guard in the loose-hanging black shirt reappeared as he made his next sweep of the grounds. He went through the same routine, sweeping his torch beam over the gravel path directly beneath the rampart, occasionally pausing to speak into his walkie talkie.
He moved on.
Twenty seconds passed.
Right on cue, the guy in the beanie hat appeared.
Porter waited for the guard to move on. Then he turned to Bald. ‘Come on. We’ve got half an hour until those guards are back.’
They crept out of the treeline, crouching low to reduce their visual signature, their dark clothes helping them to blend in to the grainy blackness. Cooper followed Bald and Porter as they picked their way across the gravel path towards the nearest section of the rampart. Every so often they stopped to scan the terrain ahead of them, listening for any hint of the approaching guards or the bleat of a triggered alarm. But there was nothing except the sound of their own breathing, the soft crunch of gravel shifting beneath their boots.
They reached the rampart in half a dozen steps. Paused again. Then Porter gave the signal and they dropped to their fronts, chests pressed flat against the dirt as they belly-crawled up the side of the mound.
Porter went first. The mound was reinforced with stones and he felt his elbows scraping against the sharp edges of several rocks as he inched towards the summit. Twice he had to stop when his movement dislodged loose material from the mound and sent rocks and soil tumbling down the side. But the guard had moved too far away to hear and in another few seconds he had reached the summit.