Cold East

by Alex Shaw

  Today, the people in power were jumpy; an attack in one European capital city put all the others on high alert. Moscow, having once again attempted to resurrect the Soviet Empire by illegally annexing Crimea and invading Eastern Ukraine, had made itself target number one. It had no one else to blame, but it was the Russian people who were suffering and not the warmongering cocks in the Kremlin.

  The door to the room Snow was camped out in opened and Alistair Vickers entered. He sat heavily in an armchair. ‘You’ve seen the news, I take it?’

  ‘What next?’

  Vickers shrugged. ‘I have no earthly idea, but Jack’s just called for a video conference.’

  On cue, Snow’s secure iPhone vibrated to show an incoming email from Jack Patchem, his boss at SIS. It contained just one word: Moscow. ‘We’d better go to your office then.’

  Vickers reluctantly dragged himself out of the comfy chair.

  *

  Several minutes later Patchem spoke without preamble as the video-link started. ‘Terrible news from Russia. The last thing we need is the loony brigade annoying the Kremlin.’

  ‘Do we know who’s responsible?’ Snow asked as Vickers pushed a plate of custard cream biscuits towards him.

  ‘Only what the media is saying, but our man on the scene is confirming thirty dead now, some foreigners. The FCO doesn’t know yet if this includes any Brits.’

  ‘Was there any advance warning of the attack, any increased chatter seen by GCHQ?’ Vickers asked.

  ‘None, and that’s what’s so worrisome. The only chatter we have is after the event, the usual rhetoric praising the suicide bomber and thanking Allah. Allah the almighty, who invented Semtex!’ There was a pause and Patchem apologised. ‘I know, gentlemen, I know. Call me an Islamophobe, but you understand what I mean. These crazies want to blow us all up in the name of Islam.’

  ‘Their view of Islam.’

  ‘Yes, Aidan – you’re right, of course.’ In London, Patchem took a sip of water. ‘Actually, one phrase has come up a few times: “The Hand of Allah”. We don’t have anything on it yet; it could be a new group aligned to Al-Qaeda or IS, or, who knows, perhaps the name of an operation or just a turn of speech.’

  ‘If it’s the name of a new group, that would back up what the Russians say.’

  ‘That it’s not the Islamic International Brigade? Aidan, you know as well as I do that the FSB and GRU would never admit some key members of the group might have evaded capture.’

  ‘I’m surprised the Kremlin isn’t trying to pin it on “Ukrainian Banderite fascists”,’ Vickers said.

  ‘I had a beer with Bandera’s grandson once. He wasn’t a fascist, he was Canadian,’ Snow replied.

  Patchem agreed. The Kremlin had labelled the new Ukrainian government fascists and called the protesters who had ousted the old Moscow-backed President ‘Banderites’ after Stepan Bandera, the Ukrainian wartime nationalist leader who had chosen the Nazis over the Soviet Union. ‘We can’t rule out anyone at this stage.’ Onscreen, Patchem closed his eyes and pinched his nose. ‘Look…’

  ‘Everything OK, Jack?’

  ‘What, Alistair? Yes, just not sleeping as much as I should.’ Patchem drank some more water and then cleared his throat. ‘So, Aidan, welcome back and congratulations on “collecting” Mr Iqbal. How is he?’

  ‘He’s still catching up on his sleep. They kept him chained up in a garage for most of the time, and if he wasn’t chained up he was digging trenches.’

  ‘Trenches?’ Patchem frowned.

  ‘Apparently the leader of the DNR is a World War One buff; he loves the idea of trench warfare,’ Vickers added. ‘Which is very odd, when you consider he’s holed up in the middle of an industrial city!’

  ‘The whole thing is very odd. Alistair, how long until we can get Iqbal back to the UK?’

  ‘Midweek I’d say. He’s going to be talking to the SBU today; they want a debrief on everything he saw during his time in captivity. They’ll be chatting to Aidan too. It’s all going to be taken down as evidence against the DNR. Of course, I’ll be there to record the session.’

  ‘Good. Aidan, finish writing up your report, and then, once the SBU are happy, bring Mr Iqbal home. In the meantime, keep a low profile, but have your “grab-bag” and passport handy.’

  ‘I always do.’

  *

  New York, USA

  The driving rain cut down visibility, which was good for concealment. He lay on the damp concrete under the truck, his left side leaning against the cold steel of the skip. His dark-blue waterproofs kept most of the rain out save for a continuous trickle working its way down into his cuff where it mixed with the sweat on his clammy skin. Lights came on in the timber warehouse as the first workers began to arrive. The business park, however, remained silent. Seven o’clock came and the sky lightened, but the rain did not, continuing to pound on the steel of the skip and the hood of the truck. His view was limited to what he could see directly ahead between the truck and the skip and to his right under the vehicle. If anyone approached on foot he would be blind until they were directly on top of him. His position was far from perfect. He put all thoughts of comfort to one side and continued to await his prey.

  He felt rather than saw the first timber shipment arrive. Trucks could appear any time after the transporters had cleared customs at Newhaven port and been offloaded. For this reason the warehouse was always staffed. It was almost 8 a.m. now, and he stretched in an attempt to relieve cramped muscles. His mind started to repeat over and over the words he had been told… the target was the one who had carried out the orders; the target had burnt, torn, and tortured. Inside the overalls he sweated heavier as a white rage engulfed his body. The target would pay for his brother’s murder. A vehicle approached, the distinctive growl of the AMG Mercedes engine competing against the rain. His mind was suddenly clear, focused, his breathing controlled. He craned his neck and saw the driver’s door open. Positive ID. He moved with the speed and grace of a panther, springing up and away from its den. Uzi in his right hand, he narrowed the gap to his prey and hit him with a stiff arm. The target fell back against the hood of the Mercedes and, a split second later, he pulled the trigger. Intense flashes of light illuminated the stormy morning. The target convulsed, lightning bolts impacting his chest and upper body, forcing him into the car. The gunman stopped and looked into the eyes of the target with hatred. ‘Za mayevo Brata,’ he heard himself yell in Russian. ‘This is for my brother…’ He repeated the proclamation as he emptied the remainder of the magazine into a lifeless corpse… the last time he had used an Uzi was… He felt a pain in his temples and a light flashed, the pain increasing as the light got nearer and brighter. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to move, to run away, but his legs wouldn’t work. He tried to raise his hands to protect his eyes, but they wouldn’t work either. All the while, the light got brighter and the pain intensified. His world changed from the blackest of black to a deep red. James East began to hear a voice speaking in a language he did not officially speak. The red gradually lightened and then the voice spoke to him.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ The Russian was flawless. ‘You are safe; you are no longer in any danger.’

  The doctor noted a flickering beneath the patient’s closed eyelids. He spoke again. ‘If you can hear me, can you try to open your eyes?’ A note was thrust into the doctor’s hand. He read it quickly. ‘I need you to give me the name of your next of kin. We must contact your family to say that you are here and safe with us.’

  Family? From somewhere inside East’s mind, a light switched on. His mouth opened and several syllables of Russian rolled out.

  ‘I am sorry, I did not hear that. Can you say it again?’

  More Russian. ‘Y menia bull brat…’ ‘I had a brother…’ East began to say in Russian, then stopped. The pain sharpened and the light became white. Suddenly conscious behind closed eyes, East realised his mistake. He started to groan and make unrecognisable sounds.

  ‘I
am sorry, but I do not understand. Can you say that again?’ The doctor moved closer.

  East opened his eyes and spoke in English; his throat was dry and his voice raspy, but his Boston accent, the same one he had used for the past three years, was unmistakable. ‘Where am I?’

  The two men standing over the bed momentarily seemed surprised before regaining their composure. The doctor spoke first, sticking to Russian. ‘You are in hospital. You were involved in a shooting.’

  East blinked, feigning incomprehension. ‘I’m… s… sorry. What did y… you say?’

  The doctor began to speak, but the second man touched him on the shoulder and shook his head. He asked in English, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My… my name is James… James East.’

  ‘Well, Mr East, my name is Mr Casey. As Dr Litvin was attempting to say, you were caught up in a terrorist attack.’

  East tried to sit up, but a searing pain behind his eyes blurred his vision.

  Dr Litvin placed his hand on his patient’s arm and now also switched to English. ‘Try not to move too quickly; your body has suffered some trauma.’

  East closed his eyes; when he opened them again his vision had returned. He assessed the room. It was a standard hospital white. He noted the badge on the doctor’s coat but directed the question to Casey. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’re in a hospital in Manhattan, Mr East. You were brought here after the shootings. Do you remember that?’

  It was hazy, but he did. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Just over forty-eight hours. You have a concussion.’ The doctor touched his arm reassuringly. ‘You are lucky, Mr East, that it was not more serious.’

  ‘He must have a thick skull, eh, Doc?’ Casey was jovial.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Mr East, there are a few questions I would like answered.’

  The doctor frowned. ‘If I could have a moment, Mr Casey?’

  The doctor stepped outside and folded his arms. He waited for his visitor to join him. ‘While I am more than happy to assist with your investigations, I do not think the patient is medically fit enough to be interrogated.’

  Casey raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Doc, no one’s going to be interrogated. I just need to ask him a few questions.’

  ‘Not today, Mr Casey. He is not going anywhere. You may question Mr East when I deem him to be fit.’

  Casey’s expression hardened. ‘I need to question him in the interests of national security.’

  ‘You came to me because you thought the patient might be a Russian and, indeed, I heard a few words. However, when he regained consciousness, he spoke English, just like you and me.’ Litvin was an immigrant but didn’t let that cloud the issue. ‘I understand that Mr East is not a normal patient; however, he must be treated as one. Remember, it would be me in the firing line if he were to sue the hospital for any complications or malpractice.’

  ‘Thank you for your candour, Doc.’ Casey decided to push no further.

  *

  Scanning the room, East realised there was no TV in the corner, just an empty bracket. He tried to sit up again but felt as though a gigantic hand was squeezing his head.

  The door opened and Litvin appeared. He smiled as he neared. ‘Mr Casey is a government agent and wanted to interrogate you. I told him you were not well enough. You need to rest.’ Litvin sat in the chair next to East’s bed. ‘Can you remember what happened?’

  ‘I think so. How many did they kill?’

  ‘Nine dead, and seventeen others with gunshot injuries. It was a miracle more innocent shoppers didn’t die. Some people are calling you a hero. I, for one, agree with them.’

  ‘Thanks, I guess.’ Nine! Inwardly East cursed. Why hadn’t he been faster? Why couldn’t he have been by the entrance to stop them?

  Litvin seemed to read his mind. ‘I expect you are asking yourself why you couldn’t have saved more people, or shot the terrorists sooner?’ East nodded and Litvin continued. ‘You are suffering from survivor’s guilt, and everyone does. You wonder why you were chosen to live when others died, when others might have been more deserving of life. No one has answers to this, not down here at least. We are not party to the great plan. Tell me, are you a religious man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. I am from Moscow… and you, Mr East?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘Originally?’ Litvin raised his eyebrows. East didn’t reply, so the doctor continued. ‘Where did you learn your Russian?’

  ‘I did a course at college. It was either that or Spanish.’

  ‘You spoke Russian several times while you were sedated.’ In actual fact, it was when the sedation had begun to wear off, but Litvin wasn’t going to admit the anaesthesiologist might have got the dose wrong.

  East changed the subject. ‘When can I leave, Doctor?’

  ‘In about a week or so. There was some swelling to your cerebellum, which is at the base and back of your brain, and is responsible for coordination and balance. The good news is that the scans did not show any obvious damage. Until you regained consciousness, however, we could not be certain. Now you are conscious, you need to undergo further tests.’

  East frowned. ‘Why was Mr Casey here?’

  ‘Mr East, there was a shooting; these things have to be investigated. I think it is best that you rest now. My colleague from the neurological team will be along to check up on you later.’ Litvin rose and left the room. His patient needed rest and, regardless of who the men in suits were, they must let him be.

  East closed his eyes. What Litvin had said was true; he wasn’t worthy to live because of the innocent lives he had taken in the past. Any of the nine murdered shoppers had more to offer society than him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Were the painkillers altering his mood, making him morose, or did he really feel this way? He sat in silence. He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he had messed up, and now he had to work on his escape.

  Chapter 2

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  ‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.

  The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.

  Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,0
00 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.

  Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.

  ‘Are you going to the West?’

  Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’

  ‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’

  ‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’