by Alex Shaw
Lall Mohammad pushed himself away from the 4x4. ‘It is I, brother.’
Tariq kissed him on both cheeks. ‘How did you survive the attack?’
‘The White Eagle saved me.’
Tariq stiffened at the name. The Al-Qaeda operative known as the White Eagle was the stuff of legend, a foreigner who operated under the very noses of his own people to ensure the success of Al-Qaeda attacks. Most dismissed the agent as a myth, but Tariq knew of elders who had met the man and spoke highly of his actions when he had fought with them against the Soviets. ‘But the White Eagle is American.’
‘No, my brother, that is why the Americans could not catch him. The White Eagle is Russian!’
Tariq was still confused. ‘Where is the device?’
‘Reza has it. All is well, we are safe.’
‘Now do you believe me, brother?’
Tariq turned around on hearing the man speak Pashtun. ‘I meant no disrespect, Sheik.’
‘White Eagle will do.’ The White Eagle pointed his Glock at the Toyota. ‘Get in, we have to hustle.’
With Lall in the back and Tariq sitting next to him in the front, Harris guided the 4x4 out of the forest and onto a metalled road.
‘So what happened?’ Tariq’s brain was struggling to recollect the attack.
‘I knew to expect you, but the problem was that someone else was also waiting for you.’
‘Who?’ he asked the White Eagle.
‘The Russians; and I have no idea how they found out about your little group.’
‘Our men died as martyrs.’ Lall became solemn.
‘Peace be upon them, brother.’ Tariq looked out of the window at the dark trees and his brain found the few images his eyes had seen before he had been rendered unconscious. A light sleeper, he had awoken just as two masked men with silenced weapons entered the room. Sharib had been first to his feet but his fists were no match for lead. Two precise rounds had finished him and then, as Tariq had tried to get up, unseen, something had hit him and the world had gone black.
‘Do you not remember, brother? They cuffed us and put sacks over our heads.’
Harris inwardly congratulated himself on the false memory implanted in Lall. ‘And then my team took out the Russians; they never saw us coming. We stopped them once, but they’ll keep searching until they find you and that case.’
Tariq realised he had no idea where they were. ‘Are we in Turkey?’
‘Yes, and the mission is still a go. The Sheik will brief you fully.’
‘Sheik?’
‘The Sheik is a worthy warrior,’ Lall confided to his friend. ‘He is the only man ever to escape from the Russian Black Dolphin prison!’
‘Who?’ Tariq did not understand.
Lall explained, ‘Do you not remember? He is the brother who came to see us while we stayed at the Turk’s apartment. His companion was martyred by the Russians as they attempted to prevent the attack on us.’
‘His name is Aslan Kishiev and he is one of my men,’ Harris stated.
Chapter 10
Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine
Inside her jeans pocket, the Samsung Vanya had given her bleeped. Eliso finished serving her customer and then asked Tatyana Vladimirovna, the portly woman who ran the meat counter, if she could watch her position for a couple of minutes.
Even though it was mid-afternoon and custom was slow, Tatyana made a show of sighing and rolling her eyes before replying in her deep voice, ‘Yes, OK.’
Eliso thanked her, slipped out of the back door of the Gastronom, and retrieved her phone. Unlocking the screen, she read the message: See you tomorrow tonight. Will be with two friends. Make sure you are ready to party! She was shaky and took several deep breaths of frigid air to calm herself. It would finally be all over. God, she needed a drink. She closed the screen and quickly put the phone away. Stepping back inside the shop she saw that Tatyana was engrossed in selling sausages to a regular customer. Quickly, and checking again that she wasn’t being watched, she poured herself a shot of vodka from the one they sold by the plastic cup. She shuddered as it slipped down, but it made her feel better. By the time her next customer had appeared, her face again displayed its usual warmth.
*
Istanbul, Turkey
The room was dank, sparsely furnished, and hadn’t been redecorated since the time of Mustafa Kemal, but none of the Afghans noticed this; their attention was focused on Kishiev, whom they now called Sheik, as befitted the leader of the Islamic International Brigade.
‘The infidels will not know what has hit them! For they will not be able to comprehend how we have penetrated their weak defences. It will be a pair of killing blows that will destroy Western resolve. It will be a victory for almighty Allah!’
The three warriors spontaneously started to chant, ‘Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar!’
Kishiev let the chanting continue for a while before he raised his hands and signalled for silence. ‘We have suffered a defeat at the hands of the infidel Russians. Our numbers have been depleted, but you who are left have been spared for a purpose. The reason is to take our holy mission to the very heart of Europe!’ He pointed at Reza Khan and then Lall Mohammad. ‘You two warriors will be the vanguard of our attack. In Berlin the infidels dared to defile a scared site, the Ahmadiyya Mosque, so you shall go there and destroy what they hold holy! Your target is the Kaufhaus des Westens department store!’
‘What is a department store?’ Lall Mohammad frowned.
‘It is like a market, but the stalls are all under one roof,’ Reza Khan explained.
Lall was underwhelmed. ‘Sheik, we are to attack a market?’
Kishiev’s eyes flashed with anger but he kept it from his voice as he replied. ‘This market, brother, is the largest in continental Europe. Tens of thousands attend it each week; but, much more than that, it is a monument to the infidels’ false god, Mammon! They will live in fear for ever, wondering each time they leave their infidel homes and families if it will be their last. Germany will provide you with a lush hunting ground.’
‘How are we to attack?’ Reza asked in a voice that betrayed no emotion.
‘On arrival in Germany you will be met by a believer who will furnish you with automatic weapons, explosives, and hand grenades.’
Lall felt his chest swell with pride; he was one step nearer to striking the infidels and one step closer to becoming a shahid. ‘When can we go?’
‘Today, my brother. You both shall go today!’
‘And what of the Hand of Allah?’ Tariq asked. ‘When shall this be used?’
Kishiev placed his hand on Tariq’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. ‘Your sacred mission will commence at the same time. There are to be two targets.’
‘One in Germany and the other in Ukraine?’
‘No, brother, Ukraine was never the target destination: it was a transit point. You will be striking at the heart of Russia.’
‘Moscow?’
‘Not only Moscow, but the very heart of Moscow: the Kremlin itself! It shall be glorious. We shall destroy their senate building and, after the explosion, Russia will never be able to use it again! All of Europe shall live in fear of Allah’s wrath!’
The three warriors again started to chant. As it died down the door opened and Harris entered, a smoking cigarette in his hand. ‘Lall and Reza, it is all confirmed. You have an hour before you are to leave. You must bathe, shave, and dress in the new clothes we have purchased for you.’ He flicked the cigarette onto the threadbare carpet and ground it out with his foot. ‘You shall be travelling to Greece by luxury coach.’ Lall grinned and Khan jiggled his head. ‘From there to Italy by ferry, before striking at Germany. An executive room has been booked for you in Berlin. Tomorrow you shall meet your next contact and then Allah’s work will commence!’
*
Zankovetskaya Street, Kyiv, Ukraine
The flat was in the very centre of Kyiv on Zankovetskaya street, a place Snow knew well. The old
Soviet shops that had satisfied the needs of the original residents, including a bakery, a cobbler’s, and a dressmaker’s, had vanished, to be replaced by those pandering to the wants of the new inhabitants. Boutiques selling fur coats and diamonds for pampered wives, watches for oligarchs, and underwear for supermodels dotted the street. The Maidan movement and the subsequent overthrow of the old President had seen some swanky shops close, in many cases commandeered by the protesters. Now, however, it was back to business as usual.
‘Knightsbridge-ski,’ Snow muttered as he stepped between a parked Porsche Cayenne and a Bentley Flying Spur before climbing the steps to Dudka’s building. The lobby was unlocked. Snow rode the lift and pressed the bell for flat 28. The double-height door opened a moment later to reveal Director Dudka of the SBU’s Anti-Corruption and Organised Crime Directorate. Once Snow was across the threshold, Dudka extended his hand.
‘Does British Intelligence have only one agent?’
‘Seven, but they thought a friendly face would be appreciated.’
‘It is, Aidan.’ Dudka ushered Snow into the flat and pointed at a pair of slippers. Once suitably attired, Dudka directed him along the high-ceilinged hallway towards the kitchen. The room was warm and clean but smelled of cabbage, boiled meat, and fresh bread. Dudka motioned at a chair by the kitchen table and Snow sat. Dudka produced a bottle of Ukrainian vodka and two shot glasses from a cupboard and sat across the table from his guest. He filled both and gestured for Snow to take one. ‘Let us drink to friendly faces.’
Snow let the alcohol warm his throat before speaking. ‘Gennady Stepanovich, I’m glad you’ve come through recent events unscathed.’
‘So am I, Aidan. What has happened and continues to happen to my country is shocking; it is unthinkable and unforgivable. But we are trying to rebuild. The dead and rotten wood must be removed from the government, the judiciary, the militia, and my SBU. The Russians made a grave mistake in believing that Ukraine would ever accept being subjugated by them again.’
Snow agreed. It had been a tumultuous time for the nation, with the fall of a corrupt President and Russia’s aggressive actions forging in blood a new European path for Ukraine.
‘Thank you for agreeing to personally help HM Government with this issue. I understand that our request has put you in a difficult position.’
‘Not at all. It is my former President – that filthy goat from Donetsk – who has placed us all in an extremely difficult position!’ Dudka took a large breath to relax and then continued. ‘The night before he ran away to his masters in Moscow, our beloved President ordered the SBU headquarters to be looted. SBU officers, whom I can no longer bring myself to name, who were loyal to his Party of Regions, destroyed countless computer hard drives, and stole thousands of flash drives and data pertaining to over twenty-two thousand SBU officers and official informers! Men I had worked with for years vanished, only to turn up several days later in Russia. In total, two deputy directors, a further two of their deputies, and twelve of their subordinates defected to Russia.’ Dudka refilled the shot glasses, moved his hand to pick his up, but then instead raised his index finger. ‘As of today over two hundred SBU officers have been arrested, and twenty-five of these are being investigated for high treason! This resulted in all SBU regional directors and half of their deputies being replaced! However, Aidan, the most worrying aspect is that investigation reports on all the active cases up to February 2014 were given to Russia’s FSB!’
Snow hadn’t seen Dudka this animated before. He was speechless at the scale of the damage done to the SBU. It was far more serious than he had imagined.
Dudka shook his head and sighed before clasping his glass and holding it aloft. ‘Glory to Ukraine.’
Both men drank.
‘But life must go on.’ Dudka sighed wearily before smiling warmly at the Englishman he considered a friend. ‘So, you think someone wishes to sell our old secrets to terrorists?’
‘Yes.’ Snow could see the Ukrainian didn’t completely believe the story. He didn’t like deceiving Dudka. ‘Your directorate is the best chance we have of finding anyone who used to work at the Kryvyi Rih facility.’
‘One would think so,’ Dudka said as he folded his arms. ‘But that is not quite the case.’
Snow frowned. ‘Oh?’
‘I am sorry that I could not be more specific on the telephone, but even with a secure line nowadays, as you understand, there are great risks. You know what happened when the Soviet Union collapsed? Of course you do. State-owned plants and facilities were ceded to the directors, who stripped them clean of anything of value. But what you may not know is that there was a short gap between the announcement of Ukrainian independence in August and the Ukrainian Ministry of Defence starting to work in September. No one has admitted exactly what went missing, especially not from the secret facilities, which, of course, were controlled by the KGB in Moscow, not us. Weapons and equipment were stolen, removed, sold. But much of the paperwork was left untouched, destroyed, or simply thrown out like rubbish.’
‘So the SBU doesn’t have the Soviet-era files?’
‘Not for this facility; I’ve checked.’ Dudka refilled the two shot glasses. ‘However, there were those among us who believed that the paperwork, the classified paperwork in the case of Kryvyi Rih, was where the real value lay. And so these documents were spirited away from those who would see them fall into the wrong hands. Aidan Snow, I am trusting you with my little secret, one I dare not mention aloud.’ Dudka took a scrap of paper from his pocket and pushed it across the kitchen table to Snow. ‘Here is the address of my contact. Please memorise it.’
Snow read the Ukrainian text. ‘Got it.’
Dudka held out his hand. Snow returned the scrap of paper and Dudka stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘His name is Ratanov. He was a KGB records clerk. I have known him a long time; he trusts no one but me, and so you must take him a present.’ Dudka tapped the bottle.
‘Vodka?’
Dudka shook his head. ‘No, he has rather peculiar tastes. Also, you will need to pay him. Two thousand dollars should be enough – he is a pensioner, not a businessman.’
*
Snow asked the taxi to drop him a block away from Ratanov’s address, in case either was being watched. It had started to snow heavily and visibility was dreadful. He took refuge in a concrete bus shelter and got eyes on the target address. A bulky, middle-aged woman, in an enormous woollen coat with fur trim, was the only other person in sight. She stood next to Snow and kept looking at her watch and complaining loudly. In this part of Kyiv, the apartment blocks were boxy Eighties’ constructions and there were no metro stations or trolleybuses. Locals who didn’t own cars had to rely either upon ‘Marshrutka’ – minibuses – or less frequent, larger city buses. The unforeseen terrible weather conditions had severely delayed both. She continued to complain for several minutes more until a dirty yellow minibus lumbered towards them. The woman got on and mouthed off at the driver; the faces of the other passengers remained impassive. Snow made a show of looking at the number and then shaking his head.
As the Marshrutka pulled away Snow crossed the road and entered Ratanov’s apartment block. The address was on the first floor, which in Ukrainian terms made it the second floor. Snow took the steps and found the correct flat. There was a doorbell in the shape of a swallow and, when he pressed it, a peculiar electronic Chinese imitation of a songbird sounded inside. The glass darkened behind the spyhole. As he had been instructed by Dudka, Snow took two paces back and held his right hand aloft with his palm showing. He then slowly reached into the plastic carrier bag he had been holding in his left hand. Snow clasped the bottle by the neck and unhurriedly took it out to display the label. There was a moment’s silence before he heard a bolt being undone and a lock turning.
The door opened and a short, elderly man wearing thick glasses asked in a nasally voice, ‘Who sent you?’
‘Dudka.’
Ratanov accepted the bottle as proof
of that. ‘Come in.’
Snow stepped inside and the outer door was closed behind him. He noticed that, as had been the case at his own Kyiv flat, there was a second inner door which the owner now duly closed.
‘I’ll take that.’ Ratanov took the bottle before pointing to several pairs of slippers that stood in a row on a rack. ‘Choose a pair that fit.’
Snow unlaced his boots and placed them next to the hall telephone table. As he did so Ratanov moved away along the corridor and into the kitchen. Snow chose a dark-brown pair of faux-leather slippers and followed. He took the chance to look around. On his left he saw the lounge, which had a large Soviet rug hanging on the wall that was at odds with an equally large flatscreen television hanging on another, and then the bedroom, which had a second matching rug. Both rooms had balconies that were a mere twelve feet from the pavement below.
Ratanov was already opening the bottle as Snow entered the kitchen. ‘Get me a pair of glasses.’
Snow saw a pair of heavy crystal tumblers on the draining board and placed them on the table.
Ratanov picked up each glass in turn, gently blowing into them before filling them with a generous measure of red liquid. ‘It has been a while since I have had real Campari.’ He raised his glass. ‘To old wars and young soldiers.’
Both men drank, and then sat.
‘So what is it that Dudka thinks I can help you with, tovarich?’
Snow half-smiled at the use of the Russian word meaning ‘comrade’. ‘I need a list of the research personnel who were stationed at a secret facility.’
Ratanov nodded as though it was an everyday request. ‘Which one?’
‘Kryvyi Rih.’
‘Ah.’ Ratanov held out his right hand. Snow understood and handed him a brown envelope, which Ratanov pocketed without opening. ‘Wait here.’
The old man stood and left the kitchen. Snow sipped his Campari and pulled a face; he wasn’t a fan and doubted this was the sort of setting the drink’s manufacturer had envisaged it being enjoyed in. The sound of something heavy being moved, and then the scraping of metal from the room next door, brought Snow back to the present. A minute or so later Ratanov reappeared clutching a yellow-edged cardboard file.