Cold East

by Alex Shaw

  ‘You and I are going to leave together.’ Nedilko stared directly into the watery eyes of the inebriated KGB veteran. ‘An SBU team will arrive and take you into custody. Tomorrow, when you sober up, we shall officially charge you with treason.’

  ‘Treason!’ Kozalov flushed pink. ‘My country is dead. Treason to which country?’

  ‘Our country: Ukraine.’

  Kozalov reached for the cognac bottle, noticed it was empty, so threw it onto the floor where it smashed, its glass joining that of the window. ‘My parents were from Volgograd, I was born in Volgograd, and then in 1991, because the Supreme Soviet could no longer be bothered to work, I suddenly became Ukrainian.’

  ‘What does it say in your internal passport, the one that guarantees your state pension?’

  Kozalov stood, on unsteady legs. ‘Listen here, Bandera…’

  ‘Officer Nedilko.’

  ‘Where are you from? Lviv?’

  ‘Ivano-Frankivsk.’

  Kozalov waved his hand. ‘Same difference – Western Ukraine. You may be proud to be Ukrainian, but I am not. I am Russian.’

  ‘Are you selling secrets?’ Snow asked.

  ‘Not secrets, no…’ Kozalov froze for a second before he realised his mistake. ‘What secrets?’

  ‘Sit down, old man, before I knock you down,’ Nedilko said.

  ‘I’d like to see you try!’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  Snow turned to Nedilko. ‘Call Blazhevich. Tell him to park along the road and await my instructions.’

  ‘What about Kozalov?’

  ‘Leave him to me for the moment.’

  Nedilko nodded and left the kitchen.

  The room became silent as Snow thought back to the CIA report Patchem had shared with him and the reason why the Americans’ bomb wouldn’t work. ‘Where is the firing unit decoder?’

  Kozalov said nothing but his jaw tightened and he reeled backwards.

  ‘So that’s what you have for them? Where have you hidden it?’

  Kozalov remained tight-lipped.

  Snow shook his head with frustration. He took a step forward and crouched down in front of the older man. ‘Yuriy, I’m speaking to you man to man. Do you honestly want your weapon to end up with terrorists who will kill thousands? Do you want their blood on your hands?’

  Kozalov didn’t reply.

  ‘The target is Moscow. Do you understand?’

  The old man seemed dazed. He opened and then closed his mouth as though he had lost the ability to speak before he replied. ‘We built safeguards into the RA-115A. Without the correct decoder for the firing unit an RA-115A will not detonate. How can I be responsible for the deaths of thousands from a device that will not detonate?’

  ‘If you don’t give me the decoder, someone less polite than me will come and get it.’

  Kozalov shrugged theatrically. ‘I do not have any parts for any weapons. Search me, search my house.’

  ‘OK.’ It was at times like this that Snow wished he had some of Casey’s truth drug, or more time. He reached forward and jerked the front legs of the chair into the air. Taken by surprise, Kozalov fell backwards, arms flailing. His head hit the tiled floor with a crack and he yelped in pain. Snow reached down and picked him up by the lapels of his jacket. ‘I’m going to ask you again. Where have you hidden the firing unit decoder?’

  ‘I don’t have one!’

  Snow dropped Kozalov; he fell like a rag doll.

  ‘Is this about a suitcase nuke?’ Gorodetski asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Snow now had no reason to lie. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Old Spetsnaz stories,’ Gorodetski said. ‘They could still use it as a dirty bomb.’

  ‘True, but if these people had wanted a dirty bomb, they would have used it already.’

  ‘Moscow is really the target?’

  ‘Yes, confirmed by your CIA boss to mine at SIS.’

  ‘We need to search the house. I don’t know what the decoder looks like, do you?’

  ‘No, and I’ve read a bloody classified file on the thing.’ Snow had an idea. He looked around the room before stepping through the living-room door. A moment later he returned with the remote for the Soviet-era television. ‘Where do you keep your knives?’

  Kozalov was sitting painfully and massaging his head. ‘I won’t tell you!’

  Gorodetski pointed. ‘Try there.’

  Snow opened the draw under the worktop, found a knife, and used it to undo the flathead screws on the remote.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? Kozalov demanded.

  ‘Getting a firing unit decoder,’ Snow replied, as he opened up the casing and scooped out the innards. ‘What do you think?’

  Gorodetski examined the electronics. ‘It looks old and Soviet, but it won’t fool anyone for more than a minute.’

  ‘Langley didn’t brief you on what it was you were sent to get?’

  Gorodetski shook his head. ‘Not at all, but Beck and the others must have known.’

  ‘OK, silly idea.’ Snow shook his head. ‘Langley or someone at Langley wants what Kozalov is selling and doesn’t want anyone to know they’ve got it. You and I aren’t meant to be breathing right now. Plan B it is.’

  ‘What’s plan B?’ Gorodetski asked.

  Snow explained, but switched to English to do so.

  Kozalov watched the American pull an odd-looking mobile phone from his coat and make a call. He was now using English, a language Kozalov had never learnt apart from the words to the song ‘Happy Birthday’, which, inexplicably, everyone in Ukraine seemed to know. Although, he thought bleakly, he was about to lose his biggest birthday present ever – the money. He tried desperately to think of a way out of his predicament.

  Gorodetski ended his call. ‘He sounded more concerned about the package than Beck.’

  ‘He believed you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘They’re in town, that’s all I know, but Needham’s on his way.’

  ‘He could be here any time starting from now.’ Snow thought for a second. ‘Why did the Agency use you for this mission?’

  ‘I’m the new boy and I’m not American.’

  *

  Druzhba Hotel, Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine

  A pair of hundred-dollar bills inserted into a passport had bypassed the usual ID checks as Harris booked them into the hotel. With its yellow walls and black-tiled floor, the building resembled a private hospital more than a business-class hotel, but it was clean and functional. On the wall behind the reception desk a flatscreen TV was playing a Ukrainian news channel and Harris fought to suppress a smile as Kishiev’s face was seen on split-screen alongside footage reporting the Chechen attack on Grozny. The receptionist seemed unfazed by it all, and after months of similar footage emanating from Donetsk and Lugansk, he couldn’t blame her. Harris sent the group to the dining room while he went back outside with his Blackberry. He’d eat later.

  Tariq sat nervously in the restaurant. He felt more out of place than ever. Needham had his head in the menu and Kishiev sat tall – almost, it seemed, daring anyone to recognise him.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Kishiev asked the Afghan.

  ‘Yes. Are you not worried, Sheik?’

  Kishiev’s chest swelled with pride. ‘No. This is a glorious day; today is the start! What will happen now is beyond my control, it is beyond the control of the Russians, of all men – it is Allah’s will.’

  Tariq looked around, even though there was no one else within earshot, the only other occupied table being at the end of the room. He was jumpy. ‘But what if you are recognised?’

  Kishiev was relaxed. ‘There is an American phrase, “to hide in plain sight”, and that is what I am doing. The Russians are not seeking a well-dressed businessman.’ Kishiev shot the cuffs of his shirt with a smile. ‘And who in this age does not want to encourage business?’ Harris had provided the group with passports, which had enabled them to clear Ukrainian immi
gration and travel in a hired car directly to Kryvyi Rih. They would appropriate another vehicle for the next part of their mission. ‘And what if I am recognised? I shall not be taken without bloodshed. It is the duty of every true Holy Warrior to defend the faith and, if necessary, die a shahid in doing so.’

  ‘I could eat a horse,’ Needham stated, looking up from the menu.

  Tariq frowned. ‘Is that a local delicacy?’

  Needham laughed. ‘Only in Paris.’

  The laughter attracted the waitress, who appeared at the table. Needham eyed her up appreciatively, Tariq looked away in disgust, and Kishiev ordered in Russian. When the food arrived some minutes later, Tariq was confused that the meat was neither lamb nor goat. Instead, their celebratory feast started with a red-coloured soup served in a bowl made from a hollowed-out loaf – Kishiev informed him it was called Borscht – a large plate of cut meats and cheeses, followed by a huge piece of beef with vegetables. As Tariq ate, he saw diners at the other occupied table eating what seemed to be pork and drinking alcohol. His hands balled into fists but he managed to let it pass. The infidels with their sinful ways would soon feel the wrath of Allah. They were a small team, but what they would achieve would be colossal.

  ‘You want more?’ Needham asked.

  ‘I have had my fill,’ Kishiev stated as he cleaned his plate with a piece of flatbread.

  Needham signalled for the bill. Kishiev wondered how, unlike Tariq, Needham could be so relaxed while sitting in a foreign country, in public with wanted men, and on the verge of committing an act of nuclear terrorism. Initially he’d thought it was because the American lacked intellect, but he had been wrong about this, as Needham had demonstrated with his rudimentary Russian and fluency in Arabic. Needham spoke with the tongue of the prophet, yet was not a believer. As a man of religious ideals, Kishiev couldn’t understand those who fought under the false flag of Mammon. To be without religion was to be without purpose, to be as empty as the Black Dolphin cell he had escaped from. How could a man of intellect exist in a religious void?

  Harris, he understood. Harris was a man he had come to know and trust as a fellow warrior of jihad. Harris had a just cause for his actions. It had taken weeks working together in the harsh, inhospitable mountains of the Afghan borderlands for Harris to finally let his mask slip and reveal the true reason for his hatred of the Russians. It was a reason that was so far hidden beneath the tough exterior of the fast-talking American that the CIA’s background checks hadn’t discovered it. Kishiev had sat amazed as his fellow Al-Qaeda operative had spoken of his origins. Harris had not been born in the United States, and neither had his parents. They were from Yalta, in the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. His parents were Tatars and victims of the Sürgünlik, the forced deportation of the Tatars from Crimea ordered by Stalin as collective punishment for collaboration with the Nazis. Harris had been born in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, modern-day Uzbekistan. Harris had no recollection of how his parents had managed, but several years after his birth the family had escaped from the USSR and illegally entered the US. Perhaps they had lied and been granted refugee status? Perhaps… he didn’t know the answer to this and probably never would, for shortly afterwards he’d lost both his mother and father to a drunk driver. Sent to a state orphanage, he was adopted by a middle-aged childless couple, and the toddler born Ivan Nabiev became Jon Harris. What had happened next, Kishiev hadn’t asked and Harris hadn’t talked about, but Harris outlived his foster parents and, after graduating college, joined the CIA. Harris was the most ruthless operator Kishiev had met, but his devotion was to the fight against the Russians and not the protection of the US. As the White Eagle, he’d been responsible for some very high-profile missions. Kishiev felt honoured to be part of his homecoming.

  ‘Beck is dead,’ Harris stated quietly in English as he appeared at the table. ‘We underestimated the Brit; he put a round in Beck before East took him out.’

  ‘I’d have torn him to pieces.’ The venom in Needham’s words seeped out slowly.

  ‘Dead is dead, Steve, we can’t change that.’ Harris sat.

  The group went quiet as the waitress placed the bill on the table. Harris handed her a pile of Ukrainian hryvnia and she retreated with a large smile.

  ‘So what does this change?’ Kishiev asked.

  Ignoring the Chechen’s question, Harris reached across the table and took a piece of bread. ‘East says he can’t get the package from Kozalov. He put a round in the old goat’s leg but, can you believe this, Kozalov is hanging out for his cash!’

  ‘Stubborn bastard.’

  ‘Stubborn, but frail too, Steve. I’ve told East to hold off until we get there. I’ll ask him myself.’

  ‘You are going?’ Kishiev frowned. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Hey, it’s as wise as any move. We’ve been sitting around too long. Tariq, you and I will collect the woman – Eliso; Steve, recce the dacha, make sure it’s secure. Then we go in, recover the package, fix the device, and carry on as per the plan.’

  ‘And East suspects nothing?’ Kishiev was doubtful.

  ‘He wouldn’t be calling me if he did. He would just have run back to Mother Russia,’ Harris conceded. ‘But just to be safe, Steve will take East, or whatever his name is, out as planned. And then I’ll tip off the SBU so they can close the Choudhry murder case; after all, East is a wanted man.’

  Kishiev appreciated how Harris played both sides. ‘And then we shall ready the device for our attack.’

  ‘Correct. We head to Crimea and hit the Russians like they’ve never been hit before.’

  ‘It will be truly glorious.’ Tariq felt his chest swell.

  *

  Vauxhall Cross, London, UK

  ‘Vince, where are you?’ Patchem asked pointedly.

  ‘I’m at the US Embassy in Kyiv. The friggin’ airspace over Moscow was closed! Looks like Kishiev meant business, eh?’

  ‘Vince, we need to talk.’

  ‘What d’ya call this, Jack?’

  Even without the aid of a video screen Patchem knew the American was smiling. ‘Look, this is no time for levity. I’m just going to tell you what we’ve discovered and I need you to explain why we have it.’

  ‘Uh, OK, just let me shut the door.’

  The line went dead but before Patchem could redial his laptop showed an incoming call. ‘Vince.’

  ‘That’s better, Jack, I can see you. What is it?’

  ‘We have positively identified the two men who took out the cell in Turkey. Their names are Karl Beck and Stephen Needham.’

  Casey’s shock was visible, even though he attempted to keep his poker face. He repeated their names. ‘Karl Beck and Stephen Needham?’

  ‘We know they’re yours.’

  ‘They are.’ Casey shifted in his seat.

  ‘We want to know where the bomb is.’

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘We, as in HM Government, Vince.’

  ‘You think my guys have it? Who knows about this?’

  ‘You and me, the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, my analyst, and our PM. We’ve kept it in house, for the moment.’

  ‘You call that “in house”, telling the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Vince, he was about to discuss with your President their strategy for informing the Russians about an imminent nuclear threat!’

  ‘And you couldn’t have asked me first?’ Casey was offended; Patchem was a friend.

  ‘Not for a nuclear threat.’ He could have passed the buck by saying it wasn’t his decision, but he didn’t.

  ‘I take it your PM hasn’t told my President?’

  ‘Not yet. He requested that I speak to you first,’ said Patchem, pausing to make his point. ‘Because of our “special relationship”. I need you to explain the situation to me.’

  ‘Beck and Needham are part of my team. They were in Romania and nowhere near Turkey.’

  ‘Vince, I’m going to ask you again: where is the bomb?’

/>   ‘Jack, this must be a mistake. This is my team we – you and I – are talking about. I don’t know anything about any of this.’

  Patchem became angry. ‘For God’s sake, Vince! Tell me the truth. Did you or did you not know that Beck and Needham attacked the cell in Istanbul and took the nuke?’

  ‘No,’ Casey replied in a measured manner. ‘I did not and I’d like to see the evidence that they were involved.’

  ‘I take it you have access to your email?’ Patchem asked rhetorically. He clicked his mouse and sent a document. ‘Look at the photographs and the comments.’ He folded his arms and studied his friend’s face as the American opened the attachment and examined its contents. He sensed Casey was as shocked as he was, but then Casey had been trained to beat polygraphs. ‘So what’s happening?’ Patchem asked.

  ‘Pinged by the very software the CIA developed?’ Casey shook his head. ‘I had one extra man in Turkey; he was at the land border with Greece.’

  ‘Michael Parnell.’

  ‘Exactly. He was working with the staff from our consulate to liaise with the Turkish border service. The rest of my team were meant to be at an airbase in Romania.’

  ‘And you didn’t check in on them?’

  ‘I don’t spy 24/7 on my own men.’

  ‘Maybe you should?’ Patchem took a sip of water as he let the criticism sink in. ‘So where are they now?’

  ‘Ukraine. At their last check-in they were in country heading for Kryvyi Rih.’ Casey started tapping on his computer terminal. ‘And according to the GPS locators in their cell phones they’re five miles outside Kryvyi Rih and heading north.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fact that their phones are still on.’ Patchem’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Casey.

  ‘It is.’ Casey shook his head. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Quite. How many are there on the team?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Who’s running it?’

  ‘Harris.’

  ‘Harris?’ Patchem raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Exactly. I trust him one hundred per cent.’

  ‘I see.’ Patchem had met Harris a few times. Casey referred to him as ‘hardcore CIA’. ‘So Beck and Needham have gone rogue with the bomb?’