by Alex Shaw
Flakes of snow clung to the shoulders of the Russian Premier Minister as he entered his private dacha. His protégé, the President of the Russian Federation, fresh from his conference with the Americans and British, had arrived first and sat in a thick winter coat in front of an unlit fire.
The Premier Minster spoke. “You wanted to see me?”
Melnikov gestured to a spare chair. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, tell me about Maksim Gurov.”
“What would you like to know?”
“We agree that he is responsible for the current situation with the Arabs, but I would like to know why he has perpetrated these acts.”
“Gurov has been a trusted servant of the state for as long as I have. Lest we forget his dedication to the service and the sacrifice he made.”
“Living as a dead man?”
“In part.” The older man’s eyes narrowed momentarily. Only he knew the true extent of Gurov’s clandestine past. “He is a man who does nothing without reason.”
“Am I to presume that he has been ‘turned’ by an enemy of our country?”
“No. I can think of no greater patriot, ourselves included.”
“What then?”
Privalov remained silent for a moment. “I have no answer, but I should.
“We need to know his reasons.”
“He must be interrogated.”
Unlike his mentor, Melnikov did not have a background in the KGB and talk of such things made him mentally flinch. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Nikolai Denisovich, I know that I do not need your sanction to make this man disappear but I feel for both our sakes that he should do so.”
“We are certain of his guilt?” The President needed reassurance.
“We are.” The Prime Minister replied.
Melnikov looked at the man seated next to him, the man who was responsible for rebuilding post-Soviet Russia. The man, responsible for his Presidency, the man who would be president again. “Then it shall be so. What of the mad man in Minsk?”
Privalov cracked a seldom seen smile. “The President of Belarus has been informed that he and director Sverov have been ‘hoodwinked’ and that they will not be receiving any type of payment from us.”
Melnikov shook his head. “Why did that fool ever believe we would approach him with such a scheme?”
“He has been the biggest fish in his pond for too long, besides Gurov is a man of much persuasion and influence.”
“That is why he advised you?” Melnikov’s anger momentarily surfaced.
“Yes.”
The President stood. “Let us hope that this has not tarnished mother Russia’s international image for ever.”
From the veranda Privalov watched the presidential limousine pull away.
Nevsky entered and nodded. “Vladimir Vladimirovich.”
“You were with him at this meeting?”
“Yes. The evidence against Gurov is quite damning.”
“I am aware of that. What was the mood of the British and Americans?”
“They were very eager that we should accept their findings.”
“That is to be expected. They are too weak to be dishonest.”
Moscow Oblast, Russia
The meeting had been expected and planned for. Indeed Gurov was only surprised that it had not been called sooner. Heavy snow had started to fall as he manoeuvred his Mercedes out of a Moscow December and hit the highway. It was a hundred kilometre journey to the secluded dacha that his Premier Minister always used. Gurov did not see the point in building a glorified wooden hut an hour’s drive from the city. Even more so in this weather, with the roads slowed by falling snow. In this respect, he mused, he was not Russian. No, once this was all over he would retreat to a villa for a holiday, perhaps not Dubai as that had become rather dangerous. He had always wanted to visit the Maldives. Yes that was it. On a far flung beach he would take a month to sip imported Vodka and read of the news of his mighty nation’s recovery. Until then however he would play his part, either way.
Gurov saw his turning and left the highway, immediately having to slow to account for the snow laden rural road. The snow had got progressively thicker. He wished that he had ordered the ‘M’ class jeep with its four wheel drive and not the sleek executive saloon that he was now perilously piloting. But such things were now immaterial. He looked up, the sky was clear.
Privalov stood on the veranda. Impervious to the swirling snow he watched Gurov bring his car to a halt. He signalled his security detail to ready themselves as Gurov exited the Mercedes and moved swiftly up the stairs.
“Vladimir Vladimirovich.”
Privalov did not shake hands. “We should go inside.”
In the seconds that Gurov’s eyes took to become accustomed to the dark interior of the dacha he felt a pain in his the back of his left leg as an unseen boot pushed him to the floor. Before he could react two pairs of strong hands dragged him across the floor and pushed him into an armchair.
“What is this?”
“Your chance at redemption.” Privalov replied in an even tone.
Gurov’s eyes settled upon Nevsky. “Why is that traitor here?”
Nevsky stepped forward. “You have nerve; even now you protest your innocence. It is you who is the traitor!”
“That is enough director.”
“Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich.”
Privalov spoke again. “Why?”
Gurov fixed his Premier Minister in the eye. “You made a promise to me Vladimir; you gave me your word as an officer of the KGB. A man’s honour should mean something but yours was worthless. You broke your promise.”
“What is he talking about?” Nevsky edged forward.
“He gave you my job, Nevsky. You then aided him in destroying my motherland.”
“So Gurov, it has come to this? It is you who has tarnished the name of mother Russia and ended countless lives over what? A broken promise?”
Gurov’s eyes were still burning into Privalov. “Your lack of honour has caused our country to become a laughing stock. You have guided us backwards whilst our former republics flourish.”
“You over estimate your own importance Gurov, if you really believe that with you heading the FSB things would be different. As President I raised this country from its chaotic market experiment. The bandits were banished and...”
Gurov sprang to his feet. “The bandits flourished under your FSB!”
Privalov’s bodyguards grabbed Gurov before he could advance.
Privalov stared at the man whom he had betrayed, the man who had once been a trusted ally. “Take him outside and shoot him like a dog.”
Gurov’s looked at Nevsky then back at Privalov. “May the people of Russia one day forgive you, for I will not!”
He did not resist as he was taken away.
There was a silence. Nevsky dared not speak, his boss did. “We should return to Moscow.”
There were shouts outside then an explosion. The window imploded and Nevsky fell. Privalov spun as a round tore through his wool coat. He hit the floor and scrabbled for cover. He heard the thud…thud…thud… of rotor blades. The heavy sound of .50 calibre rounds, then all became still except for the wind, which blew in through the broken window. Footsteps started to crunch in the snow, and Nevsky groaned. Privalov cautiously stood and looked outside. Gurov had gone, one member of his detail was down, his blood staining the snow, the others had their hands raised above their heads. Gurov had not been alone. At least one sniper had been covering him the entire time in addition to an attack helicopter. Gurov was away and clear.
Vladimir Vladimirovich started to laugh. Gurov had let him live. Live to face a humiliation he believed was worse than death but Gurov had miscalculated, he had been identified. Sverov had confessed all and as such, the Premier Minister of the Russian Federation, was blameless. The world would now have to accept the tapes for the fabricated lies of a traitor who had funded Islamic extremists. A man who just attempted to assassinate th
e architect of new Russia.
Nevsky sat up holding his arm. “What happened?”
Privalov looked down at the FSB director. “I doubt if anyone will ever know.”
SEVENTEEN
Pripiatsky National Park, Gomel Region, Belarus
The Volga with Ukrainian SBU number plates came to a halt next to the Lada Niva with the Militia livery. Dudka turned off the headlights and stepped out into the Belarusian night. The forest around them was filled with many strange noises, but none of them man made.
“Director Dudka, I can-not thank you enough for coming.” Snow shook the old man’s hand.
“Aidan Phillipovich, I am still indebted to you for what you did last time we met.”
Blazhevich extended his own hand “Aidan.”
“Vitaly.”
Dudka took a deep breath. “We can waste no time. I am expected in Minsk by morning which is why we shall be in Kyiv. So we must get back to the border. Vitaly, help Aidan Phillipovich with his associate. I shall keep watch.”
“Yes Gennady Stepanovich.”
Whilst Dudka looked down the road Blazhevich helped Snow ease Fox into the Volga. The large back seat was much more forgiving than that of either of the Ladas. Fox had become very weak and barely managed to acknowledge the SBU officer.
“We have a helicopter on standby at the border to take Mr Fox to a medical facility.” As ever Blazhevich’s English was precise.
Snow spoke in Russian, it was the first time he’d seen the SBU officer in almost two years, he wanted this to be between him and Blazhevich. “Vitaly, I never got a chance to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saving my life, in Kyiv.”
“I only stopped you from bleeding to death.” Blazhevich shrugged a half smile on his face. “You’d do the same for me.”
“I hope I don’t have to.” He held out his hand.
“I hope so too.” Blazhevich shook Snow’s hand
*
Dawn had broken as they reached the tailback of vehicles waiting to cross the border. Closed earlier than normal and without notice, due to a security situation, the truck drivers had had no choice but to wait the night. Now eager to get on a group was protesting that the crossing be opened early to let them pass. Having driven past the waiting traffic Dudka stopped the SBU Volga in front of the customs building. A border guard appeared and walked towards the car with a perplexed look on his face.
“You must wait in line, you can’t park there.”
Dudka held up his SBU shield. “I don’t intend to park here, officer, I intend to go home. Now please raise the barrier and let me through.”
The guard peered at Dudka’s pass. “It will not be opening until later.”
Dudka looked up at the uniformed cretin. “I have telephoned ahead and the Ukrainian side has been opened. If I do not relay another order to close my side where will those people go? They will come here and then you will be forced to take action!”
“The border will not open until later today.”
“Just raise the barrier.”
The guard became flustered. “I will need to check your vehicle and your customs declaration.”
Dudka exited the car. “I am Director Dudka of the Ukrainian State Security Service. As such you will accustom my vehicle and I, diplomatic status. Now unless you would like me to telephone either Deputy Director Maltsev or Director Sverov of your KGB and lodge an official complaint, I suggest you raise the barrier.”
“Who is your passenger?”
“He is another SBU officer, officer.”
“I’m going to have to speak to my superior.”
“You already are. Now raise the barrier!” Dudka retrieved his mobile phone and held it purposefully in the air.
“Very well.”
Dudka got back into the Volga and drove out of Belarus.
Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv, Ukraine
The wind blew furiously down the steep incline of Volodymyrska Street, as the first blizzard of winter hit Kyiv. The usually busy city centre boulevard was all but empty except for the parked cars, which were gradually disappearing under white coats. The few passing pedestrians that were out, paid no attention to the shabby looking figure battling upwind against the elements. He crossed the road and shuffled into the entrance foyer of an apartment block. Inside the building’s ‘concierge’, an elderly woman paid to be the gatekeeper, looked up with a frown.
“Dobrey Dehn.” Good afternoon. Russian, with a deliberate British accent.
“Dobrey.”
“Alistair Vickers?”
The woman’s frown lessened as she realised that the intruder had come to visit the polite British diplomat.
The visitor used the stairs, arrived at the top floor and pressed the doorbell.
“Aidan?” The surprise on Alistair Vickers’ face was evident.
“Is this the ‘Tits Up Club’?”
“Come in.”
Vickers shut both inner and outer security doors before looking at his fellow SIS officer. As Snow removed his coat and boots, Vickers gave him a summary of events including the internet video. “You may not agree with me Aidan, but the op was a success. Sverov gave us everything we needed. We took the intelligence directly to the Russians.”
They entered the lounge. “So what went wrong?”
“I don’t know. Sverov raised an alert. Drink?”
“Several.”
They sat. Vickers placed a bottle of Tavria cognac and two shot glasses in front of them. He poured; they both downed the drink in silence.
“I’m sorry Aidan.” Vickers refilled their glasses; Snow noticed the SIS officer’s hand was shaking. “It’s the tablets, the ones they gave me for the pain.”
“Do you have any more?” Snow’s body had finally given up on him.
“Lots.” Vickers rose, crossed to a wall unit and removed a bottle. “Here.”
Snow took two of the large pills and washed them down with more cognac.
EPILOGUE
Royal Palace, Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Daniels waited patiently with the other world leaders, for the Crowned Prince of Saudi Arabia to lead them out of the Royal Palace. According to the press release, the summit had been called to discuss ‘new strategies’ against international terrorism in the Arab Peninsular.
The media, by various agreed channels, had been advised to interpret the summit as a show of strength against the so called ‘fabricated’ internet based allegations that Russia and Belarus had been responsible for the recent terror attacks in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Allegations, Daniels reminded himself, which could have potentially caused incalculable damage to international relations.
Daniels had watched nervously, as pundits of every major news network had given their views on the power of the ‘citizen journalist’ and how that power was unchecked. In addition to this he had made sure that disinformation had been ‘leaked’ to the BBC and CNN, to further erode the credibility of what was being laughingly referred to as the ‘Sandgate Tapes’. Whilst there were those who believed it all to be spin, to hide what in fact was genuine, these views were gradually being marginalised and their authors mostly ignored by the mainstream media.
The focus now had switched to the success of the Saudi intelligence service in preventing further attacks and be-heading, literally, Al-Qaeda. Indeed, only three days before, the Saudis had released footage of the questioning of the alleged leader of Al-Qaeda in the Gulf Peninsular.
Amidst extremely heavy security, the summit group exited the Royal palace and posed for the invited international media. The Saudi Prince took centre stage, flanked on either side by the President of the United States and the President of Russia. Daniels stood beside Melnikov, whilst the President of Belarus, stood next to the American. At either side were positioned the rulers of the UAE, Kuwait, Bahrain, Oman and Qatar.
Behind his white toothed smile and jet black moustache, the head of the house of Saud was still incensed
by the attacks on his Kingdom, but was not party to the truth, for if he had been so the Belarusian President would not be leaving the Kingdom.
This was a photo opportunity only, all attending journalists had been specifically warned, not to attempt to ask any questions at this time.
As they headed back into the Palace, Daniels glanced at the Belarusian President. The man’s smile was fixed. He had shown no sign of unease, if anything he had acted as though he were now being accepted as a member of the world’s most exclusive club. Which by default, he had. His price of admission however was still unknown.