by Alex Shaw
He looked around. Not a single light shone from his neighbours’ windows in pre-dawn Kryvyi Rih. He wouldn’t miss the place. Any good memories he had of his work had been tarnished by the manner in which he had been let go, the chaos which ensued after August 1991 when Ukraine declared itself independent. When the robber-barons took over that was it; only the Director and a few of his favourites remained to grow wealthy by selling off state assets, state secrets. Kozalov had the knowledge, he had the experience, he had designed one of the most deadly weapons mankind had not yet seen, and he had been given a measly pension! What was more, it hadn’t been paid until almost a year later when the new Ukrainian government finally caught up with its obligations! He chose to overlook the fact that the state had given him his dacha and apartment. In his mind these were his by right as compensation for twenty years of toil. At the time, paranoia and fear had prevented him from capitalising on his skills, unlike others across the former USSR who found themselves employed in Pakistan, North Korea, or Iran. He had been too conditioned; he had taken the news and gone home. Then the next day, after a night of drinking, he had returned to work with a bag to collect what was his, and what rightfully should be his, and then left. His wife left him soon after. Kozalov found himself unemployed, unloved, and unkempt. He retreated into his dacha and his drink, which luckily enough remained dirt cheap.
His spade hit something hard. He scraped away the earth and finally exhumed his treasure. It didn’t look like much, but that didn’t matter. It was what it would do that counted. He would take it inside, check the contents, and then rebury it once again for safety until the buyers arrived.
*
RAF Brize Norton, UK
The flight from Camp Bastion had left Mikhail drained, but any fatigue he had felt was instantly lifted upon stepping onto English soil. His welcoming party had consisted of one man who introduced himself in perfect, Moscow-accented Russian as Aidan Snow. The gates of the base grew smaller behind them; Mikhail rubbed his leather armrest with a coarse palm. ‘This is a very nice vehicle.’
‘It’s not bad,’ replied Snow, sticking to Russian as he concentrated on the road ahead, ‘for a company car.’
‘My father had a Volga. It, too, was comfortable, but of course the seat coverings were not made from dead cows.’
‘What did he do, your father?’
‘He was a lecturer of English literature, and also taught English language.’
‘In Moscow?’
‘Yes, but the family were originally from Tula. It is not far from Moscow and to the south. Of course, in Soviet times the majority of students he taught English to would never have had the opportunity to use it in front of a native speaker.’ Snow didn’t ask any more questions and Mikhail became silent, lost in thought as he took in the passing English landscape through the Audi’s front passenger window. When he had entered Afghanistan, travelling to the West had been a fanciful dream only diplomats, sportsmen, actors, and spies could aspire to, but here he was in the land of Shakespeare and Elton John. The countryside outside was verdant, compared to the barren wastes he had left. Grassy fields watched over by the occasional half-naked tree, leaves turned crimson in death, lined either side of the motorway. The countryside eventually fell away to be replaced by the urban landscape of the London suburbs. Mikhail realised he had been quiet for most of the journey; it was time to break the silence. ‘I have seen more cars and people in the last hour than I have in the last twenty-five years.’
‘London is a bit different to Kabul.’
‘It is a lot different, Aidan.’
They slowed as they came to a roundabout, the motorway petering out to become a London artery. Snow waited for a food delivery van to pass before he pulled out.
‘What is Tesco?’
‘It’s a supermarket, a grocery shop.’
‘Ah, like a Gastronom?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that truck was taking produce to the shop?’
‘No, that one was delivering food to the customers.’
‘They come to you?’
‘Yes. The customer can go to the shop or place an order via the internet.’
‘And the shopkeeper does not worry that he will not get paid?’
‘They are paid by credit cards.’
‘I see.’ Mikhail shook his head. ‘I have been living on another planet.’
‘Everyone should get a chance to.’
‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Your name is Irish, yet you are an Englishman and speak fluent Russian?’
Snow knew he shouldn’t be sharing his personal details, but they were so removed from the operation that it would do no harm, and building trust with Mikhail was essential. ‘It’s my father’s fault; he was in the diplomatic service and a bit of a comedian. I was conceived while he was serving at the British Embassy in Aden, South Yemen. Hence my name; and the Russian comes from following him to Moscow when I was a kid.’
‘Is your father James Bond?’
Snow laughed. ‘I’ll ask him next time I see him.’
‘Moscow is not that bad; I enjoyed it as a child. I especially liked the Ferris wheel at Gorky Park.’
‘There’s a big one in London called The Eye.’
‘That I would like to see, if I am allowed. Where does your father work now?’
‘On a farm.’
Mikhail frowned. ‘I do not understand.’
‘My parents own a place in the South of France. They keep a few chickens.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Mikhail was thoughtful for a moment. ‘What will happen to me now?’
‘I’ll hand you over to our team at the safe house and they’ll look after you.’
‘And then?’
‘And then they’ll question you about the missing bomb.’
Mikhail sighed. ‘That device must not be allowed to detonate, anywhere. It is a thing of pure evil.’
‘I agree.’
‘Do you know what the target is?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any idea where it is?’
‘None.’
‘I hope you find it.’
‘Me too.’
Snow brought the Audi to a halt in a smart London street. ‘Here we are.’
‘This is the safe house?’
‘Yes. I’m going to lock you in the car for a moment, while I let them know you’ve arrived. OK?’
‘OK.’
Snow turned off the ignition, climbed out of the A4, and clicked the remote locking button. He walked up the two steps to the front door of the SIS-owned townhouse and pressed the buzzer. A discreetly hidden camera verified his identity and the door clicked open.
‘Aidan Snow!’ The cheery-faced woman with immaculate hair and nails beamed at him.
‘Hello, Karen. Are you ready for him?’
‘Is he dishy? I had visions of him looking like Omar Sharif in Doctor Zhivago.’
‘Karen Campbell, you keep your mind on your work.’
‘Always, Aidan.’
Snow turned back to the car, unlocked it, and led Mikhail into the safe house.
Mikhail held out his hand and spoke in English. ‘Thank you, Aidan. I hope we can chat again sometime.’
Snow shook. ‘I’m sure we will.’
As Karen introduced herself, Snow started the Audi and drove away. Once clear of the street he pressed the phone button on his steering wheel and called Patchem. ‘Just confirming that our asset is in place.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘I spoke Russian the entire time and as far as I can tell he’s from Moscow – well, a town near enough to share the same accent. I let him tell me a bit about himself. It checks out with what he said before.’
‘Gut feeling?’
‘I trust him, I think he’s genuine.’
‘I sincerely hope so.’
*
British Consulate, Istanbul, Turkey
Inside the hot
, cramped, windowless room, James Brocklehurst yawned as he reviewed the take from the digital video and audio recorders. Officially based out of the British Embassy in Ankara, SIS had now tasked him with placing electronic recording devices in several locations around Turkey’s largest city, Istanbul. The cameras were to monitor targets intel had identified as being used to facilitate the transportation of radicalised British Muslims into neighbouring Syria to fight for Islamic State, or IS, as the British government called it. ‘Hegira’, as Vauxhall Cross had inappropriately named the covert operation, referred to the flight of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina to escape persecution. To Brocklehurst, however, the name sounded more like an Italian supercar.
As a proud Yorkshireman, Brocklehurst had strong ideas on what the UK government should have done about the deluded British jihadis, and letting them leave the country in the first place wasn’t one of them. But as an SIS officer his views remained unspoken. Brocklehurst continued reviewing the last tape, which had already been remotely beamed back to the UK to be run through facial recognition software. ‘Belt and braces’ was his mantra; he’d manually check the tapes in Istanbul while analysts with computers did their work in the UK. The problem with the software was that it didn’t read a face in the same way as the human eye-brain combination, but rather compared measurements and position of facial features. Brocklehurst had a file with images of ‘persons of interest’ and was primarily looking for those, as well as anything else out of the ordinary. That morning he had been alerted to the latest ‘persons of interest’: three teenage British Muslim girls who had taken direct flights from Gatwick to Turkey the day before. Although their families had heard nothing from them, it was presumed by both police and the British security services that they were attempting to join IS as ‘jihadi brides’. It was beyond his understanding why any person, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl, would want to join a terrorist organisation as a sexual plaything, yet that was exactly what they would become if they reached Syria. An old joke popped into his head: ‘What do you call a goat tethered to a post in an IS camp? – A leisure centre.’ These deluded girls were about to become the goat.
Brocklehurst was disgusted by IS and anyone who tried to join it. Even the name annoyed him. To refer to the terrorist group as a state of Islam was utter nonsense, an utter perversion of the Muslim religion and the concept of statehood. It was not an Islamic state; it was a ‘coterie of cretins’ hellbent on murdering anyone and everyone who was a non-believer. He and others in the global intelligence community had started to call IS by another name, one the group itself hated: ‘Daesh’. Daesh was an acronym formed from the Arabic spelling of IS’s full name – al-Dawla al-Islamiya fi Iraq wa al-Sham. Unfortunately for IS, Daesh in Arabic sounded like the word meaning ‘monstrous’. Yep, thought Brocklehurst, Daesh was something monstrous.
He stretched to relieve his aching back. This part of the operation hadn’t taxed his abilities. At the moment he was little more than a glorified security guard as he studied footage, but getting the cameras in place had proved harder. Although Turkey was a so-called friendly state, SIS hadn’t informed the Turkish authorities about Operation Hegira for fear of compromising operational security. With the spectral hands of Al-Qaeda and the newly empowered fists of Daesh banging on their borders, Turkey had become another frontline in the war on terror. In addition to the usual staff in Ankara, two SIS officers were now stationed in Istanbul: Brocklehurst and his new boss, Simon Scarborough, who, despite his name, was actually a southerner.
He took a gulp of tepid coffee and continued to inspect the newest tape. The camera that had taken it was positioned on the balcony of a flat directly across the road from a coach tour company. The taxi rank and two-storey building behind were owned by a local man. He had a steady stream of business, which included contracts to provide sightseeing tours and excursions to some of Istanbul’s tourist-class hotels. He had been flagged up by the Turkish National Intelligence Agency (NIA) and placed on a watch list for suspected links to Al-Qaeda and Daesh, although, thus far, no actionable intel had been gathered that would confirm the NIA’s suspicions. The digital device recording him had been in place for several weeks already, giving Brocklehurst the chance to understand his normal pattern of business. Four days a week, subcontracted coaches arrived to exchange paperwork before leaving to collect Western tourists. In addition to these, three or four minibuses each week took tourists further afield. And then there were the taxis that came and went at all hours of the day and night, and lastly the foot traffic. As Brocklehurst watched the newest tape he saw the target pull up in a coach. He was in the driver’s seat. He had passengers. They did not look like tourists, but they also did not look like jihadis. Six men, cleanshaven and dressed in business suits, stepped down from the coach. On tape the target looked around furtively while he ushered them inside his office building. Then, while he stood in the street, outside the front door, one of the passengers reappeared. Brocklehurst pressed pause and made a still from a frame of the men speaking. It was a departure from the established norm, and the new arrivals were interesting, but the whole event was unremarkable. Brocklehurst yawned again. He glanced at his wristwatch – once he’d finished this tape he’d switch off for the day.
*
Istanbul, Turkey
Officially it was the remit of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) to carry out intelligence and espionage activities outside the borders of the Russian Federation, but neither Strelkov nor his boss, Director Nevsky, were willing to share this operation. The acclaim for averting an act of nuclear terrorism and retrieving the rogue device would be theirs alone. From his observation point in the commandeered apartment Strelkov studied the target building. It was a flat-roofed, two-storey structure, with the dispatch office on the ground floor and an apartment above. Three beaten-up yellow Hyundai taxis were parked outside. A litter-strewn piece of scrubland, impersonating a square, lay between his observation point and the target and was home to a pack of homeless dogs that slept fitfully. During daylight hours a steady stream of customers came and went, many of them Western tourists carrying large packs. Strelkov turned from the window and addressed the Chechen. ‘Is that the man?’
Kishiev peered through the viewfinder at the squat Turk who was busy checking his front tyres. ‘Yes.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Yes, that is Orhan.’
‘Orhan Inci?’
Kishiev removed his eye from the viewfinder. ‘That is the man.’
‘Tell me about him,’ Strelkov ordered.
‘I have told you already all I know. What more is there to say?’
‘I am in no mood to play games. Tell me about Orhan Inci.’
Kishiev slowly moved away from the scope. ‘As I told you, he runs a taxi and excursion company, but his real business comes from believers wishing to transit Turkey. He has transported many to and from Iran and to and from Syria.’
‘A good Muslim,’ Strelkov mocked.
‘On the contrary, he is a non-believer but a good businessman.’
‘So what are you saying to me?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Strelkov paused a moment to check his rising anger. ‘Is Orhan Inci the terror cell’s contact in Turkey?’
‘He is responsible for facilitating their transportation, but has nothing to do with the plan.’
‘And will he believe your story?’
‘I doubt he will be much concerned by my unexpected appearance. The deciding factor for him will be how much I offer to pay for his services.’
Strelkov didn’t know how many terrorists were in the building or if indeed they actually had the device. His requested feed from the nearest Persona-class Russian reconnaissance satellite had proved inconclusive. The IR images had shown bodies on both the upper and lower floors of the building; the issue was that they were difficult to distinguish from each other. Added to this, the constant stream of customers and drivers confused matter
s further. Strelkov had decided that the only way to confirm the presence of the device and the terrorists was to send Kishiev in. He addressed a bearded commando. ‘Boroda, you will accompany Kishiev into the target building to confirm the Turk’s identity.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Artur Khalidov aka ‘Boroda’ (beard) replied, snapping to attention.
Strelkov continued. ‘You also need to confirm the number of terrorists in the building and if they have the device. Boroda, get a visual on the device.’ He pointed at Boroda but spoke to Kishiev. ‘This is what a real Chechen looks like, Kishiev. This is how a real Chechen acts.’
Kishiev shrugged. ‘He is a fine example of a Kadyrov dog.’
Boroda grunted and took a step towards his countryman. ‘Traitor scum!’
‘Enough!’ Strelkov barked. Both Chechens faced each other, the air thick between them. One paid to be on Moscow’s side and the other coerced. ‘Just so this is clear, Kishiev, if Boroda has any reason to believe that you are warning Inci he will kill you on the spot.’