by Tim Stevens
Medievsky said, his tone solid with authority: ‘Ryan, back off. Oleksandra, sit down.’
Montrose glared down at Purkiss, rubbing the hand he’d used to hit him. Medievsky shifted closer.
‘I said back off. Don’t make me tell you again.’
For the briefest instant Montrose’s glasses flashed at Medievsky. He moved a few paces away.
Medievsky squatted before Purkiss. Behind him, Haglund hefted his rifle as if to warn Purkiss: don’t even think about making a move on him.
Medievsky’s eyes searched Purkiss’s. ‘How would you come to have contact with the FSB? Are you working for them?’
‘No.’ Purkiss hadn’t had much time to decide on his approach, on what to tell them and what to leave out. ‘Frank Wyatt. He was an FSB agent, placed here to investigate some sort of threat. That’s why someone killed him. He -’
‘You killed him.’ This from Haglund.
Medievsky didn’t turn. ‘Gunnar,’ he said sharply. To Purkiss, ‘Can we use the satellite phone?’
‘To summon help? You can try, but I doubt you’ll have any luck. It’ll probably be network-specific, and the FSB will have its own network. The only connections you’ll be able to make will be with the Lubyanka.’ Purkiss coughed, tasting blood in his mouth, and wondered if one of his back teeth was loose.
‘Ah, for God’s sake.’ Avner sprang up from the armchair, his fists clenched in his hair, his cap knocked askew. He stalked over to Purkiss in the chair, ignoring Haglund’s warning growl, and crouched down beside Medievsky. ‘What does it mean, man? Imminent terrorist action, the fuckin’ FSB... what the hell is going on? I mean, are we all about to be killed?’ He leaned in close. Purkiss saw that his eyes were grey-rimmed and bloodshot, his beard unkempt. ‘Listen to this guy, man. He knows stuff. Let him talk.’ He stood erect, grabbed his hair again. ‘Damn. Shit.’
Behind him, Clement said quietly, ‘Efraim. Come.’
Avner whirled. ‘What?’
‘Come over here. Listen to me.’ Her voice was as low and as calm as a windless lake.
Avner muttered, ‘Shit,’ again, but walked over to her. She didn’t get up, didn’t make physical contact, but began talking to him in tones too quiet to be heard.
Montrose had advanced a few paces again so he was standing at Medievsky’s left shoulder. He said, ‘Let’s call, Oleg. Let’s make contact with whoever it is on the other end, FSB or whatever. They’ll send troops. Meantime, we sit tight right here, keeping this asshole covered.’
‘Yes, you could do that,’ said Purkiss. ‘But there’d be little point. Troops are already on their way. They’re headed here. But the place they should really be aiming for is the mammoth graveyard, the Nekropolis.’
That got the attention of everyone in the room. Even Avner, murmuring to Clement over at the couch, turned his head, snagged by the word.
Purkiss said: ‘In April 1988 a bomber jet went down over this region. It was eventually located near the site of the Nekropolis. The research work there was shut down in short order. Because although the cost of salvaging the aircraft was prohibitive, there was a problem. It was loaded with six nuclear-armed missiles. And there was a real danger of somebody from the research team stumbling across the wreckage, and the missiles. Anything might have happened. Ice-breaking equipment could have triggered a nuclear detonation, a new Chernobyl at precisely the time when the moribund Soviet Union could least afford the embarrassment, when its relations with the West were improving dramatically. So they pulled the plug on the Nekropolis project, and the site has lain abandoned ever since.’
He paused, not for effect so much as because his voice was faltering, his mouth as parched as dry wood. Nobody said anything, all of them staring at him, rapt.
‘Some terrorist cell has been looking for the plane, and the missiles. One of you in this room is working with this outfit, and was planted here to pinpoint the exact location. For the last few months, that person has been searching for it, under the guise of conducting scientific research. I believe whoever it is has confirmed the location, possibly in the last few days. And somehow, the missiles are about to be extracted. The person in question has got word out to the rest of the cell, and they’re moving in on the plane. Which explains the sabotaging of our communications with the outside. It’s a temporary measure, intended to buy time while the missiles are removed.’
Purkiss had been talking to the room in general, but now he focused on Medievsky who crouched before him. ‘You have to cut me loose,’ he said. ‘Keep your guns on me if you must, but give me the phone. I’ve spoken to the FSB man before, he knows my voice. It’ll save time if I do it. I need to let him know to send manpower to the Nekropolis.’
He’d spoken quietly, but Haglund and Montrose had clearly overheard him. Haglund said, ‘No chance. You stay where you are.’
Purkiss stared into Medievsky’s eyes. ‘Oleg. What have you got to lose? You keep a gun aimed at my head while I make the call. What could I possibly say that would make things worse?’
He saw no change in Medievsky’s face. No hint of wavering.
‘If we had the time, and the access to forensic equipment and expertise, you’d see how things really were. You’d discover that the bullets that killed Wyatt didn’t come from the gun you found me holding, and that they were fired through the window of the generator building. You might even find evidence that I fired the gun back through the window at the attacker. You’d learn whose DNA was on the most recently worn snowsuit, apart from yours and mine and Haglund’s, hanging there on the pegs next to the door. And speaking of DNA, there’ll be plenty of it under Keys’s fingernails, by the way. None of it mine.’
Was that the slightest flicker in Medievsky’s eyes, a twitch of the surrounding muscles? Purkiss pressed on.
‘The satellite phone was Wyatt’s. Call his FSB handler if you have to. Ask him. He’ll probably confirm it. But it all fits with what you told me. Don’t you see? You were tasked with protecting a secret, and were ordered to report suspicious activity here at the station. The secret is the crashed bomber with its nuclear arms. The suspicious activity is the operation of a terrorist cell under your nose.’
Yes. A definite shift, a sense of calculation behind Medievsky’s eyes.
‘And the snowmobile, Oleg. You know it was sabotaged. Do you really believe I’d go so far as to blow up my own vehicle in order to direct suspicion towards somebody else?’ Purkiss dropped his voice even further so that the words came out in a hiss. ‘There isn’t much time. You don’t have the luxury of mulling this over. Cut me loose now. Let me make the call.’
Medievsky straightened. He reached inside the pocket of his trousers, pulled out a Swiss Army knife.
He moved behind Purkiss. For an instant, Purkiss wondered if he’d misjudged the man, was about to feel the press of sharpened steel against his throat, the awful sense of violation as his carotid artery was sliced open.
A tugging at his hands behind the back of the chair gave way to release, and his arms were free. He rubbed at the grooves the plastic had imprinted on his wrists. Haglund and Montrose burned him with their stares.
Medievsky handed him the phone.
‘Do it.’
Purkiss hit the key, listened to the distant whirr and whisper as the connection was sought.
Then: a single, continuous, fluting note.
He cancelled, tried again.
The same.
And a third time.
Purkiss lowered the handset.
‘The link’s dead,’ he said. ‘It’s not the satellite connection. The phone at the other end has been switched off, or taken out of service.’
Through the silence, Purkiss made out the faint screaming of the wind beyond the walls.
Twenty-two
All Lenilko could do for the moment was wait, at a time when keeping busy was what he desperately needed. Waiting opened up even the most disciplined of minds to invasion by the demons of regret, of doubt, of fear.<
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He’d set Anna to work drafting the report he would be required to produce after this was over, in which he justified the course of action he had chosen. Now he wondered if he might have been better served writing it himself, to keep his thoughts and his hands occupied. Alone in his office, gazing out as he was so accustomed to doing over the square, he had no option but to face what he’d done.
It wasn’t so much the fact that he’d disobeyed the orders of his superior, Rokva, and had gone over the head of even the Director of the FSB, that tormented him. It was the understanding that he’d lied to the President of the Russian Federation. It had been a lie of omission rather than commission, but the distinction was of no relevance.
In his summary of the situation to the President, Lenilko hadn’t mentioned the presence of a British agent at Yarkovsky Station. More significantly, he hadn’t mentioned the name of John Purkiss.
Purkiss. The man who’d saved the President’s life. The untouchable.
Lenilko had no doubt that if he’d used Purkiss’s name, his request would have been refused. The President would have notified the FSB Director immediately, and Lenilko would have been suspended if not summarily dismissed. Thereafter, Eshman or whoever was assigned to take over the operation would have sent in the troops. But they’d have been under strict instruction not to harm Purkiss, and this would have caused them to pull their punches. To handle the situation with more delicacy than it required.
And the mission would be lost. The missiles would be extracted by the opposition, and the world would become an infinitely more dangerous place.
Lenilko clenched his fists at his sides so hard that the nails bit into the palms. No. He’d done the right thing, regardless of what the outcome for him personally would be. His way, the deceitful, lying, taboo-violating way, was the correct one.
The FSB had its own special forces centre, the CSN, comprising three divisions of around four thousand operatives in total. If the Counter-Terrorism Directorate were to get involved, it would be Spetsnaz troops from the CSN whom they’d send in. That was why Lenilko had approached General Tsarev. He was chief of a military Spetsnaz unit, distinct from the FSB’s divisions and coming instead under the control of the military.
Lenilko’s request to the General had been unambiguous. The personnel at Yarkovsky Station had to be neutralised. Every one of them. The stakes were too high for it to be otherwise. There was no time for niceties, no time to identify who the terrorist saboteur was, to separate out the innocent from the guilty.
Lenilko hadn’t mentioned the presence of a British agent to General Tsarev, either. As with the President, if Tsarev knew he would be sending his men to kill a foreign intelligence operative, he would have refused the request. The potential ramifications would have been too serious to ignore.
High above the square, its shape made indistinct by the white sky, a helicopter clattered past. Lenilko thought of the other helicopter, six thousand miles away, that had by now been airborne for a quarter of an hour. General Tsarev had given Lenilko the details. At such short notice, it wouldn’t be possible to deploy a fully functional team with the ideal hardware, for example gunships. However, there was a small company of special operations soldiers currently engaged in training manoeuvres at a base two hundred kilometres south of Yakutsk. They had at their disposal a Mil Mi-26 heavy cargo transporter, designed for carrying almost one hundred troops. Tsarev could spare twelve men.
‘It’ll be enough,’ he said.
The helicopter had a range of almost two thousand kilometres, and a cruising speed capability of 250 kilometres per hour. The distance to Yarkovsky Station was 480 kilometres. Assuming acceptable weather conditions, the troops would reach the station in just under two hours.
Lenilko turned from the window. He thought about the Englishman, Purkiss.
It was possible that Purkiss had told him the truth. That somebody else had killed Wyatt. Lenilko didn’t think Purkiss was part of the terrorist cell; he’d sounded genuinely unaware of the disappearance of the Tupolev aircraft with its missile load. Which meant Purkiss was at the station in a different capacity, perhaps even with the same goal in mind as Lenilko and Wyatt themselves: to detect and prevent a terrorist threat.
But Lenilko thought it highly likely that Purkiss had killed Wyatt in his pursuit of the investigation. And that made what was going to happen to him marginally easier for Lenilko to come to terms with.
Assuming of course that Purkiss himself was still alive. Lenilko had heard the barked orders in the background during his brief conversation with Purkiss, listened to the muffling of the sound as the phone handset was laid down. Shortly afterwards there’d been a click as the call was terminated. Had Purkiss been shot subsequently? Lenilko suspected he’d never know.
He’d turned his own satellite handset off immediately. There was no more use for it.
He thought of Purkiss’s final question: when and where did it crash? Lenilko had told him the date, but they’d been interrupted before he could finish the second part of the question. The truth was that Lenilko didn’t know the location of the wreck. He’d asked Rokva, during their meeting that morning at the restaurant, but the Director had said he himself was unaware of the precise coordinates of the Tupolev, that it was considered information too classified to be shared even with the heads of the FSB directorates. Lenilko supposed Rokva was telling the truth. On the other hand, it was perfectly feasible that he was withholding the information because he didn’t trust Lenilko with it.
Deceptions within uncertainties within suspicions... It was a life Lenilko had entered voluntarily and without illusions, one he’d come to accept as his home. But he felt weariness settle on him like a shroud. He longed suddenly for simplicity, for the straightforward innocence of the world his twins still knew.
For perhaps the tenth time, Lenilko caught himself glancing at the clock on the wall. It was now six thirty-five p.m. in Yakutsk and at Yarkovsky Station. By eight, the Mi-26 transporter would have arrived. The troops would do their work, and the Tupolev and its deadly cargo would remain in the tundra, undisturbed for now.
If, of course, eight o’clock wasn’t too late. If the terrorist cell hadn’t already broken out of the station and reached the aircraft.
Anna came in then, with a preliminary draft of the report he would furnish, and Lenilko set to work with his editing pen.
Twenty-three
Montrose tossed the handset back to Purkiss, who caught it one-handed.
‘Damn it.’
He’d snatched it from Purkiss and stared at it and hit the dial key, listened.
Avner began to pace, his hands thrust into his pockets. ‘So what now? What do we do?’
Purkiss said, mostly to Medievsky, ‘They’ve severed contact, which means they assume I’ve been compromised. Either killed or otherwise incapacitated. The time for subterfuge is past. They’ll be sending a force here.’
‘To rescue us,’ said Budian from the sofa. It was half a question, and her tone held little hope.
‘Maybe.’ Purkiss was thinking quickly. ‘Oleg, I need a word in private.’
‘Hey.’ Montrose stepped forward. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
Medievsky held up a hand. ‘Over there.’ He nodded at the far end of the room.
Montrose got between Medievsky and Purkiss. ‘You can’t do this. We’re all part of this now. He can’t be allowed to just –’
‘Back, Ryan.’ Medievsky laid a hand on the Ruger slung across his chest. Montrose clenched his teeth behind compressed lips.
In the corner, aware of the others staring across at them, Purkiss murmured close to Medievsky’s ear, ‘I can’t be sure, but there’s a strong chance Moscow will take extreme measures to deal with this.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The situation’s out of control. They have no idea who it is here at the station they’re looking for. All they know is there’s nuclear material in the area, under threat of being stolen, and a terro
rist cell of unknown numbers and unknown firepower operating here. They won’t be cautious. They’ll be looking to shoot first and salvage whatever’s left afterwards.’
Medievsky stared at him, his eyes at once haunted and disbelieving.
‘Don’t think they wouldn’t dare it, Oleg. Just because this is an internationally owned facility, with foreign nationals working here. It’ll be simple to cover up. They’ll concoct some story about a freak storm, a faulty exploding generator.’
Medievsky glanced away at the others, crowded on the either side of the mess. ‘What do you suggest?’ he muttered.
‘If they’ve scrambled jets, which would be the quickest way to reach us, they could bomb us at any second. There’s no point planning for something like that because we wouldn’t have a prayer. But I don’t think they’ll do that. The US monitors flight patterns over Russia with satellite technology. Any unusual activity would alert suspicions, and if Yarkovsky Station suddenly got obliterated the Americans would put two and two together. My guess is they’ll be sending in ground troops, probably Spetsnaz, by helicopter. It buys us time. Not much, but perhaps an hour, two at the most.’
‘Time... to do what?’ Medievsky said, not fatalistically but with genuine curiosity.
‘To pack up and move out of here.’
‘Move out?’
‘We can’t stay. We’d be no match for a detail of Spetsnaz troops, however good Haglund is with a rifle or whatever. We have to get away from here, find sanctuary.’
Medievsky appeared to consider it. ‘The nearest human habitation -’
‘Is Saburov-Kennedy Station to the north. Yes.’
Medievsky shook his head, once. ‘Impossible.’
‘It’s not impossible.’
‘One hundred and forty kilometres –’
‘Of hostile, impassable terrain. Yes, I know.’ Purkiss spoke more urgently, aware of the growing hum of mutters emanating from the other end of the mess. ‘But we don’t have a lot of choice, Oleg. Either we strike out, and pool our talents and our intellectual powers, and find a way to make it there. Or we sit here and wait to be butchered like livestock.’