by Alex Shaw
What about the kid’s videos? The fact that Sawyer had decided to run, to leave Tracy, proved he was not a real man. What of his Tracy? This he regretted – losing her. He could never be with her again, now that she had betrayed him, even if she forgave him for shooting her lover. It was his code, loyalty. Fox was not a man to forgive betrayal, he hadn’t done in the past and he wouldn’t now. Shooting Sawyer was rough justice but in his mind was just that - ‘just’. Tracy would have to accept this and move on.
Fox shook his head and chuckled to himself demonically. Shit, he had felt more alive in that minute that at any other time since leaving the Regiment. Like a boxer making a successful comeback for the world title, he had felt elated. He had killed, but, more importantly, he had saved. Saved the life of an innocent school girl. In the almighty’s book of ‘good and bad deeds’ he was sure that saving her cancelled out ending the life of a terrorist or even a philanderer. Sawyer, a pathetic little man who had not only cheated on his own wife, but taken another’s?
Fox felt bad for Sawyer’s wife, that was all; the man had no children. Fox was not religious, but in situations like this, after he had killed, he would sit and reason it out. This, however, had been the first time he had shot a man who had not endangered his own life, an unarmed civilian. His first attempted murder? Perhaps Sawyer was dead, he had been told nothing.
The cell door opened breaking his train of thought. A uniformed police officer, with greying temples, pointed at Fox. “Get up and follow me.”
Fox rose and walked out of the cell it was shut behind him by a second officer. The three men walked down a harshly lit corridor to an interview room. The door opened and he was ushered inside. A further two officers were sitting at the metal table.
“Please take a seat, Mr Fox.” DCI Mincer was fifty five and had a round face that tended to put those he questioned at ease. These were enviable traits for the anti-terrorist squad. Fox sat and Mincer started the tape recorder.
“Interview with James Celtic Fox. Officers present, DC Flynn and DCI Mincer.”
Fox smirked at the second name; Mincer gave him a look that said ‘I’ve heard it all before’.
“Interviewee has declined the offer of council.” Mincer started the interview. “Mr Fox. Can I call you James?”
“Only my mother calls me James. My name’s Paddy.”
“Can I call you Paddy?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Paddy, we’ve checked the information that you gave to our desk sergeant and I have a couple of questions.”
“Fire away.”
Mincer ran his right index finger down a page of text. “You were in the army?”
“Correct, man and boy.”
“The Gordon Highlanders? You left the service in 2004.”
“When I turned forty.”
“Right, but after looking further at the army records you left the highlanders in 85 after serving four years. How do you account for this?”
Fox rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“Classified?” Flynn snorted. “What do you mean?”
Paddy shrugged. “I’ve signed the official secrets act. I can’t discuss that with you. I could tell you, but I’d have to shoot you.”
Flynn blanched. “Is that an appropriate comment?”
Mincer placed his hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “Well, let’s move things on a bit. Ray?”
Flynn nodded and took over the questioning whilst Mincer listened. “You shot four men. Did you know them?”
“No.”
“What about Sawyer?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you shoot him?”
“I didn’t know it was him.”
“But you shot him.” Flynn folded his arms.
The scene flashed in his mind. The cars, the girl, the X-Rays and then Leo Sawyer. “Yes. He was running, I thought he had a weapon.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“You shot an unarmed man. An innocent man.”
“I also shot three X-Rays. I thought Sawyer was the fourth. I made a mistake.”
“You murdered three men and attempted to murder a fourth.”
Fox’s eyes flashed, so Sawyer was alive? “I rescued a girl. A girl who was the victim of a kidnapping. Where is she now? How is she?”
Mincer spoke. “She was taken away by her uncle. She is safe.”
“Who was she?”
Flynn undid his top button. “A school girl studying a Roedean. Now back to you…”
“What about the two, in the other car. Are they in custody?”
Flynn took a deep breath, but Mincer, playing ‘good cop’, spoke. “No.”
Fox shook his head. “If your officers had listened to me first, rather than arresting me, there wouldn’t be two terrorists running free on the south coast!”
Flynn was breathing deeply, Fox could tell that this was not a game to him; he really was ‘bad cop’. “You shot an innocent bystander who was your former boss. Coincidence?”
Fox smiled he would not rise to the bait. In the jungles of South America he had been interrogated by people with no rules and was now being snarled at by a man wearing an M&S machine washable suit. He spoke slowly. “Yes, Mr Flynn. It was coincidence and an accident. I did not know that it was Sawyer when I pulled the trigger. It was a decision I took, but it was wrong. Unless you have been in a fire-fight Mr Flynn, you have no frame of reference.”
Flynn fumed. “This was Shoreham Beach not bloody Baghdad!”
“But the guns were the same.” Fox replied.
“Ok, ok.” Good cop again. “Now let’s go through your statement from the beginning.”
Residence of the President of Belarus, Minsk, Belarus
Crushing the sheet into a ball with his fist the special advisor to the President of Belarus bellowed. “No…No…NO!”
Having never seen him so angry, the head of the Ministry of Energy shook as he spoke. “Eduard Alexeievich, what will be our response?”
Eduard Kozlov put his left hand on his hip and held the crushed memo up in his right. His eyes were burning with fury, his fist trembled as he spat. “Our response? They dare to prevent the nation of Belarus from receiving its gas? Our response will be to demand that they continue to supply us!”
Kushnerov dared not speak further but forced himself to do so. “I understand Eduard Alexeievich but what of the $500 million we owe them?”
“They are thieves, Yarislav Ivanovich, thieves! Nothing more. When we were one country, it was our shared gas, but now they expect us to pay $100 per 1,000 cubic meters! Our ‘strategic partner’ wants to bankrupt us!!”
Kozlov sat heavily at his desk. Kushnerov remained standing whilst the Presidential adviser rubbed his eyes hard with his fists before gesturing that his visitor should take a seat. There was an uneasy silence.
Both men had been part of the brokered agreement late the previous year fixing the price of gas for the next. Russia had already attempted to increase the price for several of her largest customers including neighbouring Ukraine, stating that all such prices were based on ‘outdated Soviet agreements’. The result: Russia turned off the supply to Ukraine for several days in late December. Deliveries to Russia’s largest European customers fell in turn as Ukraine allegedly ‘skimmed’ the gas it needed from an export pipeline transiting its territory.
Belarus too faced the taps being turned off. Under immense coercive pressure and minutes before ringing in the New Year, Belarus hastily agreed a price. $100 per 1,000 cubic meters of gas - a massive increase from the previous price of $47. To soften the blow however, Russia agreed that Belarus would pay just $55 per 1,000 cubic meters for the first half of the year then make up the difference of nearly $500 million by the end of July.
It had been a delaying tactic – both sides knew this, but Russia had a further objective. Concerns were voiced in the EU parliament about the union’s reliance on Russian fuel; RusGaz supplied a quarter of Europe's
gas. Member states were starting to get nervous, looking into the possibility of finding alternative suppliers. In the Kremlin, worried words were exchanged. This was exactly the opposite image that RusGaz wanted to promote. In order to secure the transit of gas, thus allaying the fears of the Brussels ‘Eurocrats’, Russia threw Belarus a ‘bone’. Sell half of your national pipeline company ‘Beltransgaz’ to our gas company ‘RusGaz,’ your bill will then be paid and we will guarantee no more price increases. More importantly, the Russians did not need to add that the EU’s fears would be dismissed.
The ultra-nationalist President of Belarus was loathed to sell off his countries assets until told by his own people that they could not afford to run them! Feigning indignity in public, but realizing his lucky escape in private, he agreed. RusGaz purchased a percentage of Beltransgaz for $2.5 billion and to show good faith made initial instalments totalling $625 million. Yet by the due date for the Belarusian ‘gas bill’ Belarus had defaulted. RusGaz’s money had been transferred to the Belarusian Ministry of Finance and the $500 million went unpaid.
Kushnerov broke the silence. “We must ask the Finance Minister to pay up.”
Kozlov opened and closed his red rimmed eyes. “That is what I shall advise the President.”
Kushnerov, by nature a timid and nervous man, clasped his hands tighter. He did not like this double dealing and trickery. For him a price was a price and a deal a deal, the old Soviet way, but now everything was skewed by capitalism, the need for greed. “So what is our response?” The conversation, as he feared his lunch just might, had come full circle.
Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. London, United Kingdom
The international reporters and journalists sat and waited for the press conference to start. The Ambassador’s press secretary had just finished going over the rules that they must abide by, do not interrupt His Highness whilst he is speaking and do not address him unless he asks for questions. The Saudis did press differently to almost everyone else. In their opinion the press were to listen, accept and report. The crew from the BBC and Sky News exchanged looks and rolled eyes.
His Highness Umar Al Kabir, Saudi Ambassador to the United Kingdom entered the conference room and sat. Behind him on the wall was a large banner emblazed with the Saudi national emblem, the cross swords above the palm tree. He looked at the amassed reporters from the international press and started his statement to them.
“At approximately eleven a.m. today my niece, Princess Jinan was abducted from her place of education by a group of unknown men.” There were deep intakes of breath around the room and camera flashes. Prince Umar continued, “She was gagged, bound and placed in the back of a car. Her father, my brother Prince Fouad, was contacted by the kidnappers this morning who made ridiculous demands.” He paused and looked around the room, the flash bulbs of innumerable cameras painted his face. He nodded then continued. “I am happy to say that as of one p.m. today Princess Jinan is safe.”
There was a muttering around the room and several reporters threw up their hands, whilst others attempted to ask questions. Umar reined back his annoyance and instead address them directly. Reigned
“Yes you. Please ask your question?”
The reporter from Sky News started to speak, “Your Highness can you please tell me if she has been rescued or returned?”
Umar nodded, “She was rescued by a very honourable British citizen who happened to see her with the kidnappers.” His lips curled up to form a smile, he was about to play his trump card. “You have video footage of the rescue already; you have been showing it on your networks for the past three hours.”
The room exploded as hands were thrown up, others left the room retrieving mobile phones in order to call their networks.
Umar held up both hands, “Gentlemen, and ladies, on behalf of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia I wish to personally reward and thank my niece’s savour. I will be meeting with him here within the next two days, all of you are invited.” Prince Umar stood, nodded and left the room.
The press secretary was mobbed by reporters and camera crews wanting more clarification.
In Whitehall, Robert Holmcroft slammed his fists on the desk top and swore out loud for the first time in years. His friend, Umar, had just bamboozled him. He had publicly thanked a murder suspect for saving the life of Princess Jinan, a man who was currently being held pending charges! The deaths had been playing on international TV screens all afternoon. As the Home Secretary, he had the power to issue a ‘DA - Notice’, an official ‘request’ to news editors not to publish items on specified subjects, for reasons of national security.
This story should have come under DA-Notice 05:United Kingdom Security & Intelligence Special Services. But he had been too late, ‘the cat’ was well and truly ‘out of the bag’ with this story thanks to a pair of juvenile delinquents with 3G mobile video telephones using You Tube.
The light on his desk phone flashed, he glared at it before pressing the answer button. “Yes!”
There was a pause; his secretary was taken aback by angry tone. “The Prime Minister is on the line.”
Holmcroft let out a sigh, “Put him through.” This was going to be a very difficult conversation.
Minsk, Belarus
The man with no official title was the first passenger to step off of the Belavia flight from Moscow. He was greeted by a large black government sedan and driven away without completing any form of customs formalities. Maksim Gurov was the deadly hand of the Premier Minister of the Russian Federation.
A ‘former’ member of the Russian KGB, the FSB as it became in 1995, he had been in the First Chief Directorate responsible for foreign operations and intelligence-gathering and within this commanded the ‘Vympel’, the most secretive and deadly of all the KGB Special Forces groups.
He did not officially appear on any staff list. He was known only within the Russian Premier Minister’s very small and select circle of advisers, the powerful and the deadly. This meeting was to be with Ivan Sverov, Head of the Belarusian KGB. No official records would be kept; the meeting would have never taken place because Gurov did not officially exist. He had not done so since 1995.
Gurov sat in silence in the back of the sedan as they sped towards the presidential dacha in the Minsk woods. He had a simple proposal to deliver and expected a simple answer. He would be back in the air within three hours, the last passenger to be let onto the plane.
The Mercedes paused briefly, as the heavy iron gates were drawn back, before continuing on into the grounds of the dacha. A light rain had started to fall obscuring what was left of the weak daylight that attempted to penetrate the heavy tree cover.
Inside the dacha, Sverov stood by the fire place enjoying the warmth from the burning logs. Behind him on the wall the eyes of the president seemed to peer from the large oil painting. It was August and the dacha felt unseasonably cool, a severe winter was expected for the people of Belarus. He heard his security team open the front door and straightened to receive his guest, the man from Moscow.
Gurov was not a memorable man by looks or stature. At just under six feet he was average height, weight and build. He had the look of a middle level banker, that was except for the eyes, an unnerving dull grey that did little to hide the seriousness of his mind behind them.
Sverov extended his hand. “It is a privilege to finally make your acquaintance.” The handshake was firm and he fought the urge to shiver. “Please take a seat.”
Gurov nodded and sat. “Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“My pleasure.” There had been no choice, his President had been informed that this man was coming, but Sverov saw no reason to be impolite. He sat opposite his visitor, a low table separating the two. A pot of coffee sat in the middle.
“It has been brought to the attention of my Premier Minister that your country has certain unpaid debts relating to the supply of gas. “
Sverov blinked but said nothing. This was not his ar
ea of expertise. The KGB had nothing to do with the Ministry of Energy.
Gurov continued. “It was necessary for RusGaz to terminate your supply. I am not here however to speak of unpaid bills or to collect payment. Please do not see me as an enforcer. I am here to deliver a suggestion, a proposal to you, which could write off the $500 million that your country owes mine. I have sent your President only the outline of the proposal. It is you, as Director of the KGB, who would implement it.”
“I see.” He didn’t. Who did this Russian think he was?
Gurov handed him a large envelope. “In here you will find detailed plans, methods of contact and time lines.”
Incredulous, Sverov placed the contents on the table. “Forgive me, I do not quite understand. I report directly to the President of Belarus and it is from him whom I take my orders.”
Gurov looked into the Belarusian’s eyes. “Once this meeting is over, call your President. Until then accept what I say.”
Sverov folded his arms. He had nothing to lose. “Carry on.”
“You have a man we need to use, Voloshin Konstantin Andreyevich.”
Sverov’s eyes opened wide. Voloshin was one of the Belarusian KGB’s closest guarded agents. A Spetsnaz member trained to carry out international covert operations and acts of sabotage in his countries name. A ‘deniable operative’ as the West liked to call them.
“Do not be surprised that I know of this man director. Our paths have on occasion crossed. It is a tribute to you that I wish for this agent to be used.”
Sverov looked down at the papers. “You say that everything is laid out here?”
“That is what I said. I do not have much time to brief you, director, therefore I believe it would be advantageous if I were to speak and you to listen.”
Sverov nodded, said nothing and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, United Kingdom
Paddy Fox pulled at his shirt collar in an attempt to loosen it slightly. He hated being dressed like ‘a monkey’ and had always managed to have his top button undone when working for Dymex. Now however, in the Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, it had to be buttoned. Ironically he was dressed as though he were attending a job interview. In the waiting room next to him sat DC Flynn, acting as a minder from Scotland Yard. Fox was under arrest for murder and attempted murder, even though there was a campaign in the media to have all charges dropped. The Sun had even nicknamed him the ‘Desert Fox’ for saving the Saudi Princess. They had interviewed his neighbor, Jim, who, although not mentioning the Regiment, did imply that Fox had been a ‘special’ soldier.