On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  The man was there. Tall. In the middle. He was circling on the spot, his big metallic gun pointing at the crowd.

  Toffer could see the smoke this time. It hung above head height. Real smoke. And he could smell the smell. He’d never experienced gun smoke before, but if he got out of this alive it would be a sensation he would never forget.

  ‘Daddy?’

  That broke his concentration. It was Amy, He quickly moved his hand and found her mouth. He pressed lightly, leaving room for her to breath.

  ‘Shhh, darling. Shhh. Everything’s going to be OK. Be still. Please’ A whisper. The tall man couldn’t have heard.

  Everything’s going to be OK.

  He was reassuring himself. He had to feel that way.

  For his girls.

  Ferenc Liszt International Airport, Budapest, Hungary

  Sam stood patiently in the customs queue. She was in the line marked ‘EU Arrivals’. There were eight people ahead of her. She had no bags to collect. She’d brought nothing with her from the UK and picked up nothing from Moscow. She needed a change of clothes, for sure. Once through customs she’d find a taxi and head off to a guest house she’d picked from the internet. She reckoned she’d be there in time for some evening grub. Then she’d get her head down. She’d work out what to do next tomorrow.

  After she’d bought herself some clothes. And some deodorant.

  It had been a bit of a whirl.

  Vlad had accepted her logic on the location of the FFO’s hideout. Twenty minutes later a Spetsnaz team were en route. Vlad had said they would take out the ‘village hall’ first, sending just a team of two to provide overwatch on the old man and woman’s house. Once the first target had been stabilised, the other pair would assault the first house Sam had been taken to. He reckoned it would all be over in a couple of hours.

  They’d got the report back just as Sam was halfway through a small plate of pig meat and toast - the only thing on offer at 7.00 am in the FSB canteen. That, and coffee you could seal a fence with. Vlad was with her. His phone had rung. Throughout he was mainly on receive, but it was clearly good news. He finished the call and carried on eating.

  ‘Well?’ Sam was frustrated.

  He took another mouthful. And a swig of his coffee.

  She smacked him on the hand.

  ‘Oi!’ He feigned hurt. And then he smiled.

  ‘You did good work, Sam Green. We got Kutnetsov - we think, the mortars, the mortar ammunition and a number of other weapons. He’s in custody, claiming he knows nothing. They’re sending through a photo of him. Could you ID it?’ Vlad forked some more meat.

  ‘Sure. What about the other man? My driver. Or was it just Kutnetsov?’

  Vlad finished chewing.

  ‘He was on his own. No one else. The team reckon, having been given your very clear description of the armoury, they’re a couple of AKs short. But it’s still a really good haul.’ He picked up his coffee and finished it. He placed the mug on the table and sat completely still. Staring at her. Not an unpleasant stare. Just a stare.

  And then the smallest of nods.

  ‘You’re something else, you know?’ He said. ‘To go in like that. With all the inherent dangers. They could have done anything to you. We may never have seen you again. But, you made it. And you made a connection none of my team would have made. The swing in the garden. Amazing. And you found it. Amongst all that detail on those pictures. It’s impressive. Fabulous.’

  Sam didn’t know what to say. Or do.

  It was nothing. Not really.

  She just did what she did. She didn’t think about it. In any case, what else was she to do? It was either South Ossetia - or Asda. Simple as that.

  Except ...

  ... what Vlad didn’t know was what she’d gone through whilst she was in the old woman’s hands. The ignominy. The abuse. The pain.

  The memory made her stomach lurch

  ‘What about the old folk’s home? Did they manage to get the man and the woman?’

  Someone who Vlad recognised had just come into the canteen. He raised his hand to the man, who nodded back.

  ‘Yeah, that’s strange. The two-man team went in. There was nothing there. The place had been razed. By fire. It was still smouldering. Too hot to enter, apparently. They thought maybe there was a body towards the back of the shell - on a bed? But they couldn’t be sure.

  Sam’s stomach lurched again - pork and coffee. It wasn’t a great combination.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Vlad asked.

  She swallowed and held her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Loo? I need …’ She pointed at her mouth with her free hand.

  Vlad was ahead of her. He indicated over his shoulder.

  ‘Out left, then first left. Can’t miss it. Are you OK …?’ The last sentence trailed off as Sam dashed out.

  She made it to the first pan in the first cubicle. And threw up. And again. She took some deep breaths. And threw up once more. Just bile. And one piece of pork. Brown, disgusting. The smell was rancid. Her stomach wretched again, but there was nothing left.

  Exhausted, she stood, wavering uneasily. She steadied herself with her hand on the wall. She pulled the lever, the contents of her stomach flushed away. She turned, moved out of the cubicle and faced the basins. Six, side by side. Mirrors above. She looked at herself. Ashen. Off-red curls that needed a gardener. Dark, functional clothes and a face the colour of an unwashed pillowcase.

  She was trembling.

  What have I become?

  What had she done?

  She had killed again. Probably. Certainly. The woman who had abused her. And her husband?

  She doesn’t like to be woken. The man’s words.

  The woman wasn’t awake now. For sure.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Sam? Sam! Are you OK?’

  She turned on the tap, bent down and took a gulp of water. She rinsed her mouth and spat it out. Brown fluid. Water and coffee tinged with flakes of pork.

  She did the same again. The result looked more like water this time.

  The door flung open. It was Vlad.

  ‘Are you OK, Sam?’

  She didn’t answer him. Instead she stared at the mirror.

  She saw a woman. Mid-height, slim build. Unremarkably dressed. A woman she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Sam!’

  The tap was still running. She formed her hands into a bowl, caught some water and splashed her face; the face of the woman in the mirror.

  ‘Sam!!’ Vlad was beside her now. He placed one hand on her arm. That broke the spell.

  She turned to him. The woman in the mirror did the same.

  A grimace of a smile. It was all she had.

  ‘I’m fine Vlad, now, thanks. I need some coffee. And I need to work out what to do next. I think I have somewhere to go today.’

  ‘Where? Where’s that?’ He sounded confused. Flustered.

  ‘Hungary. But first I need access to your files, please.’

  ‘You haven’t slept. You must get some sleep.’

  ‘I can sleep on the plane. I’ll book it now. And then if you could get me access to your files on the Hungarian prime minister, that would be great.’

  He chewed over her request.

  ‘Sure, OK. This is all a bit strange …’

  Sam ushered his wheelchair towards the main toilet door.

  Just before she followed him, she had one last look in the mirror.

  There was that woman again. The one she didn’t recognise.

  The woman spoke to her.

  Busy. Keep busy.

  The first flight to Budapest was in four hours. That was probably enough time to do the work she needed. Vlad had quizzed her as to what she wanted, and then, as he had a number of other things to do - like write a report on the previous evening’s events - he handed her over to one of his team. Vlad’s man had set up the necessary permissions, asked some overly detailed questions, which didn’t surprise her - he was
a spy, after all - and then left her to it.

  The FSB had a big file on Viktor Molnár, Hungary’s prime minister. It was clear to Sam she was only seeing so much detail. She tried to follow a reference in the file, but came up with ‘неразрешенный’: unauthorised. This happened a number of times.

  What was clear was Viktor Molnár had been, as she thought, a moderating influence in the Fidesz party. Until very recently. Hungary’s erosion of the influence of their judiciary, and the closing down of a lot of the left-wing press, had been ongoing for a couple of years. Recently, additional powers had been afforded to the prime minister, with new pro-Fidesz judges passing the necessary legislation. The EU had become so incensed with Hungary’s anti-democratic actions they had formally sanctioned Budapest via the European Court of Justice - something which had never been done before. Over the summer an uneasy truce remained. Throughout Molnár had said one thing to his own base, and something different when he was in Brussels. Hungary needed EU financial support - only a fool would upend that.

  But that’s exactly what Molnár had done. His tone had changed about three weeks ago - the files Sam were reading pointed to a single day in September. On that day, and for no discernible reason, Molnár had changed his tune. His anti-EU rhetoric stepped up a couple of gears and this appeared to culminate in last night’s announcement: Hungary was pressing ahead with their own legislation to leave the EU. And it was Molnár who was leading the charge.

  It didn’t make a great deal of sense. Nothing in the files made it clear. There was no revelation. Molnár had crossed the Rubicon and nobody knew why.

  The files gave her access to his background, travel, bank accounts and his property. He was moderately well off - a single bank account with the Hungarian OTP Bank. It was constantly in credit, with his main income being his official salary. His travel was particularly unremarkable. He spent most of his time in Budapest. In the past year he had visited Brussels four times, and Slovakia, Finland and Poland once. He owned a small estate just outside Budapest and took an annual family holiday to Calabria, Italy, with his first and only wife and two sons. He was originally a lawyer, his father a soldier and his mother a doctor. It was all very normal.

  And yet ...

  … and yet.

  Sam didn’t know. It was too normal. There were files she couldn’t access - but they didn’t appear to be recent. She’d check with Vlad, but sensed what she wasn’t seeing said more about FSB’s surveillance activity than it did about something nefarious Molnár was involved in.

  And yet …

  Last night on TV. In Molnár’s speech. He had said, ‘We are a people. We will not be defined by the vagaries of others.’

  What did that mean? It was out of context and meant nothing.

  But much more mysteriously, why did he utter exactly the same words, in the same order, as Kutnetsov had twelve hours earlier?

  Exactly the same words.

  Two men. One leading a country on the brink of political and financial suicide. And the other, the leader of a four-man cake and arse terror cell, that was now defunct.

  Exactly the same words.

  ‘We are a people. We will not be defined by the vagaries of others …’

  Was it coincidence?

  Could be?

  But Sam didn’t like coincidences.

  Not when it came to 14 words in two languages. Out of two mouths, separated by 2,000 miles and just 12 hours.

  There was only one other explanation.

  Someone was telling them what to say. Someone was making them do things they weren’t comfortable with. Molnár wasn’t a hard-liner. Kutnetsov was no more Islamic extremist than she was lion tamer. This was part of something. Something bigger than both of them. The new terror, maybe? Break up the EU. Blow up a nuclear power station. Set the world ablaze. And watch it burn?

  But then she thought she was mad. She was distracted. Dislocated from reality. She’d seen too much of her own horror. Experienced the very worst of the very worst people. Been tangled up in conspiracies so bizarre and unbelievable, that now she thought anything was possible. Planes brought down, killing hundreds, just to hide the murder of a single person. A biological bomb set off in a British underground station - laid by Muslim hands, but orchestrated by the Christian far-right.

  She saw terror everywhere. Religion against religion. Man versus man. Her own mind against itself. Hatred. Disgust. Fear.

  Sam felt all of those; she saw it writ large in the face of the woman in the mirror.

  Coincidence?

  There was only one way to find out.

  So here she was.

  In Hungary. At the centre of the dismantling of the European Union. In a country caught up in nationalistic fervour. Driven by anti-migrant fear. And led by a man who, until recently, had kept a very tight lid on it all.

  Vlad had added little to the sum of all knowledge. What was hidden, he reassured her, were FSB protocols. There was nothing she needed to know. Of course Russia was courting Molnár, encouraging him. Whilst Vlad didn’t necessarily agree, his country would be happy to see the breakup of the EU. If it went further, they would be equally delighted if NATO followed suit. And if Hungary left the EU, then that might well precipitate a collapse in both organisations. Moscow would be the winners. Their old satellite states would be easy pickings. The Soviet Bloc might well resurge. Certainly that’s what his premier wanted.

  The thought almost paralysed her.

  She had to do something.

  As of yet, Sam had no idea what that something was. What was she was going to do in Budapest?

  Her MO had always been the same. Be there. Where the action was. Make some noise. Watch the ripples. She’d have a much better chance of working things out if she were in the thick of it. And she had finished her job with the FSB. The FFO was no longer a threat. And the woman was gone. It was over. And they had paid her well - not that that was the point. She had some free time. Budapest was a lovely city - she’d visited before, a long time ago. And why not have another poke around? Lift up some slabs. Scratch at the sand. See what comes up.

  She had no idea what that meant, but it had never stopped her before.

  So that’s what she’d do.

  And now it was her turn at the front of the queue.

  She handed over her passport. The man in the kiosk looked her up and down. And then stared at the document.

  A light went on behind his eyes.

  What?

  He looked at her again, and then fidgeted. Sam thought he reached for something under the table. She couldn’t see.

  He smiled. If it had been more forced it would have popped off his lips and stuck to the glass that was separating them.

  It was Sam’s turn to fidget now. She looked left and right. Then back at the man with the unnatural smile. He was sitting bolt still. Not moving. As if breathing would unhinge the natural order of things.

  And then she spotted them. To her right. Two men in cheap suits heading her way. Out of an unmarked door behind the kiosk. They were big. If they were military they would have been paratroopers. And they were quick. She had nowhere to go, but even if she had they would have been on her before she had chance to move.

  One grabbed her arm. The other had taken out a black card case. He let one side of it hang, It was film-script stuff. There was an unrecognisable badge and Sam thought she saw the initials, TEK.’

  The Hungarian counter-terrorist police.

  Brilliant. Just brilliant.

  ‘Terrorelhárítási Központ.’ The man barked.

  She was right: the TEK.

  ‘What? What do you want?’ Sam. In Russian.

  ‘Come with us Miss Green. We have some questions.’

  Sam didn’t have a chance to argue. The paratrooper in the shitty suit who was holding her arm lifted and pulled her so her feet were almost off the ground. Thankfully he hadn’t chosen the arm that popped out of its socket if you looked at it in a strange way. That would ha
ve hurt.

  He dragged her to the door.

  The unmarked one.

  She glanced behind at the man in the kiosk. His mouth was ajar and his head was following her frogmarch to the door.

  She waved at him with her free hand.

  At least I’ve made it through customs.

  Joint Operations Room, Dover, UK

  ‘Situation, enemy.’ The Special Boat Service (SBS) major had a laser pointer. He sprayed the red light about on the screen, highlighting each section of the briefing. ‘Current int has three men, one woman.’ The screen changed; a new slide. A white van, no side windows. ‘Driver and passenger. Black. Coming through customs.’ The major pointed the red laser at the two men in the cab. Then another slide. Two men and a woman standing in a queue. ‘Another shot of the driver.’ The pointer was on the man’s half-exposed face. It moved and danced a circle around the other two. ‘A black woman and another black man. In the queue at Burger King, in the ferry terminal.’ A further slide. Blurry CCTV footage of four people entering the ferry terminal … the video tripped … and the same four leaving the building.

  A new slide. Four headshots.

  ‘These are the passport photos provided by Border Force.’ The major waited. Another slide. ‘And here are photofits of the four dressed as they were in their van. Note the height scale. The three men are taller than 185 centimetres. The woman, more like 170. They’re slim. We guessing East African.’

  The slide changed. Two words: ENEMY INTENT.

  ‘Intent. Absolutely no idea.’ The major looked to the back of the packed room. ‘Spooks? Met? Border? CT? Anything yet on what these bastards want?’

  Frank wasn’t expecting to be asked a question. He was sitting in the back of a room the size of half a tennis court. It was dominated by a dissected model of The Pride of Eastbourne, a P&O cross-channel ferry that was currently carrying 823 passengers, 370 vehicles and 119 crew to Calais. Except it was no longer heading to Calais. It had turned left and was steaming out into the North Sea.

  He reckoned there were 100 or so soldiers - sorry, highly-trained Marines (he’d been put right earlier; they were dressed like soldiers and what did he know?) - seated around the model: all of SBS’s M Squadron. They were the maritime counter-terrorist grouping. It was their job to handle things like this.