Hard Cover

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Are you sure you have nothing else to tell us?’ Kushka again, his voice almost teasing.

  ‘Not quite.’ Simoyan took a deep breath. Bloody man – he did know more than he should. He wondered if there was any way he could deal with this idiot when all this was over. Maybe a car accident or a random mugging – something painful but not fatal, to teach him a lesson. ‘The biggest asset we’ve always had in this country, gentlemen, is information – or, should I say, sources of information. Go back as far as you like and you will find that society operated on data, on knowing about people. We’re a nation of informants, did you ever consider that? Huh?’ Nobody said anything, so he continued. ‘You know it and I know it, a chicken doesn’t fart in Vladivostok without it being heard here in Moscow.’

  ‘All very poetic,’ said Maltsev, the oil man. ‘But it doesn’t answer the question.’

  ‘Actually, Andrei, it does.’ Simoyan gave a tight smile. ‘Because it serves as a warning to us all. I have just been advised of an incident involving a British diplomat working out of the consulate in Saint Petersburg. He made an unscheduled trip by plane to Lake Avego early this morning.’

  ‘What’s at Lake Avego?’ Maltsev sounded bored, and Simoyan decided that he simply lacked the imagination to be troubled by unexplained events that were just a little too close to be a coincidence. He was probably dreaming of his latest mistress and counting down the minutes before he could be with her again.

  ‘Nothing. It’s where some people go to fish and get drunk – which is why I was concerned. This particular man has been described as a little unusual in the way he conducts his day-to-day activities but I’m reliably informed that fishing and alcohol are not among them. As soon as I heard he was flying out there I arranged for two men to follow him. Any member of the British diplomatic corps who suddenly takes off for an unscheduled trip to the very region where there is the other lake we all know about is worth a close look, in my view.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. The men have not responded to calls.’

  There was a lengthy silence while they all took in the implications, eventually filled by Oblovsky. ‘Gurov again? If so, how? I thought he was old KGB. He is not Superman, is he?’

  ‘No. He’s not. I believe there must be others in play; somebody we don’t know about. The last the two men were heard of was while they were following the diplomat to what they concluded was a pre-arranged meeting place. But nobody turned up – at least, not that the men could see on their last phone contact. In view of that they were given instructions to deal with the diplomat. Since then there has been no contact.’

  ‘But the diplomat,’ Kushka said sharply, ‘you ordered his death?’

  ‘I had no choice. If he was involved and his contact failed to show up, allowing him to go back to Saint Petersburg and raise questions would have brought the attention of the FSB. We could not risk that. It was better that he simply met with an accident.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I have no information on that. I have sent a man out to the lake to find out.’ Simoyan took a deep breath. He could feel the situation beginning to slide away from him. He stepped forward, bringing himself closer to the camera and projecting his face onto each of their screens in close-up. It was a move that had worked before with others, when he had a deal to sell. ‘But that is not the issue, my friends. The diplomat is not the problem. I can say categorically that he would not have been capable of dealing with the two men.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I have my sources. Somebody else must have intervened; somebody more … adept.’

  ‘Then it’s obvious.’ Oblovsky threw a hand in the air. ‘The diplomat must have got himself a bodyguard. Was this man Gurov anywhere nearby, perhaps?’

  ‘No. It would appear not.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘We wait. The renewed team are flying in tonight and will hard-target Tzorekov and Gurov … and anybody else who stands in their way. Gentlemen,’ he added, ‘this is not finished. We will prevail. But you must be patient. I promise this will be brought to a satisfactory conclusion very soon.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Maxim Datsyuk couldn’t believe his eyes. Damn – it was that beacon code again; the one he’d seen leaving Moscow airspace and heading north. The same one Gretsky the Fat had given him such a hard time over. This time it was way to the north-west near Saint Petersburg. Man, whoever this guy was, he likes to get about.

  He was about to play safe and ignore it but temptation took over. He ran another check to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, then cocked an ear for the sound of footsteps in the central corridor. He’d been placed on an earlier shift tonight by Gretsky, on condition that he stay away from the live monitors with comms connections and use the robot screen only, and to confine himself to studying traffic movements and nothing else. And then only until 22:00, at which point he was to leave the building.

  He checked his watch. It was already 22:30 and he was already overstaying his welcome. But try as he might he couldn’t bring himself to leave this thing alone. He was convinced something was going on in the air up north, and that Gretsky must be deliberately turning a blind eye. It had to be, because even Gretsky as an experienced supervisor couldn’t be so lazy as to be bordering on the negligent. Maybe he knew about the movement and was being paid not to make waves; it happened and he wasn’t so naïve as to think it didn’t. Bribes and kickbacks were a feature of the black economy, especially if, like Gretsky, you had information to sell.

  Whatever the reason, he was being drawn to keep on watching by a force more powerful than his fear of being kicked back to his home base. Just as long as Gretsky didn’t take the unusual step of dragging his fat arse downstairs to check on him, he should be all right.

  And here was the proof that it hadn’t ended.

  The signal was now just north of Saint Petersburg, moving due north, altitude 250 metres at 190 km/h. Whoever this guy was, he liked night flying.

  He watched its progress, holding his breath, a silent blip on the screen, wondering where it had been hiding during the day. He’d made a quick search the moment he’d come on shift, but nothing had shown up; just the normal traffic, nothing out of the ordinary and no weird codes or idents. He’d checked out a few military flights up and around the large blobs that were Lakes Ladoga and Onega, the twin waters to the north of Saint Petersburg, but they were routine and easily verified. He’d added them to his study anyway, just to show Gretsky he’d been doing what he was here to do.

  He started back-tracking on the recorded data to see where the beacon code had gone after leaving Moscow airspace. There it was, heading towards Vologda, some 400 km to the north. OK, that was nice and normal. Sort of. But after touching the Vologda area, that was it. No landing data available – at least, not where it would have been noted officially.

  He tracked it further, rattling the keyboard with an increasing sense of urgency and excitement as it routed wide around the city to the west, then turned north again. Damn, this really was looking like spooks all over. He’d assisted in a couple of training exercises involving Spetsnaz units and those guys just loved pretending to hide for the sheer hell of it. He figured they did it to build their mystique, like wearing balaclavas, jeans and tough-guy Kevlar vests with lots of pouches and waving crazy-looking weapons like something out of Mad Max.

  Right, so where did this flight go after reaching the Vologda traffic zone?

  It didn’t. The darned thing had disappeared. But how?

  He went back to the current screen. There was no point searching any further on the other one; the pilot must have landed somewhere, rendering his signature silent. With no transponder signal either, he’d gone dark. Maybe he’d had to refuel and have some repairs done. Ah … there it was, now heading towards the north-east, approaching Lake Onega. It still didn’t explain how the signal had gone silent past Vologda then reactivated leaving Saint Pe
tersburg. Unless it was a simple malfunction. Hell, they happened all the time, he’d seen that in the military.

  He checked the current logs again, to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, looking for Trapdoor Z5993 or anything remotely similar. Nothing came even close. So who the hell was this guy – and what was he doing?

  Maybe it wasn’t military at all. A dope run? Could be. Dope or arms … maybe it was a mafiya deal using a military aircraft. He’d heard stories from colleagues in the MOD who’d been used to track those kind of people and provide a location so the anti-narcotics units could be waiting to greet them when they touched down, usually finding a couple of military guys or cops involved in the gang. The bigger gangs were increasing their reach and becoming more and more open in the way they operated, as if they didn’t give a crap about the authorities, like they were untouchable.

  Thinking of his colleagues brought a face to mind. A face who had been around a long time and might recognize this thing for what it was. It was risky, though, especially if Gretsky the asshole ever got wind of it. Still, what was risk if it wasn’t fun? And if it came to anything good, he might get a commendation for being so vigilant. Now that wouldn’t do his career any harm at all.

  He bobbed up out of his chair long enough to make sure he was still clear. Nobody close; a few voices in the distance and somebody shouting at a pilot who seemed not to understand basic instructions about staying well away from Moscow airspace unless he wanted to get shot down. He sat back down and picked up the phone, dialling a number from memory.

  FORTY-FOUR

  In the communications centre at Langley, Lindsay Citera was using a satellite feed to watch a display similar to the one Maxim Datsyuk had been studying, showing the movement of aircraft close to the area where Watchman was waiting. Untangling the traffic during the day was a real headache due to the volume of flights represented by a spiderweb over the city and surrounding region. But as the flight schedules diminished and night crept in, a different pattern emerged and the tangle became much more simplified and easier to follow.

  ‘Uh-oh.’ She was perusing an expanded screen of an area to the north-east of Saint Petersburg when she saw a blip moving to the north-east. The beacon code was Trapdoor Z5993 and was the same Ansat-U military chopper she’d tracked right over Watchman’s position twenty-four hours ago. She hadn’t picked up a beacon code immediately before. But there it was now, plain as day. It was following a flight path away from the normal routes and had so far changed direction twice, heading out now over a large lake identified as Ladoga. Some lake, she thought; it must be over a hundred miles long.

  The blip wasn’t moving fast, which meant it was probably encountering heavy weather, confirmed by a quick glance at the weather map. She watched its progress and remembered clearly hearing the noise of the rotors while talking to Watchman the first time, and feeling a shiver go through her at the idea that it was almost on top of him and how vulnerable it must have made him feel.

  She shook her head in annoyance. Focus, Citera; that’s crazy thinking. This is real and happening right now. She hit a series of buttons to capture a coloured screen grab of the helicopter’s course, a graph of blue dots over green. It seemed to be jinking more than was necessary through weather, and she wondered if it was doing so to avoid overflying sensitive areas. The idea was reinforced when she noted that after each change of course, it eventually resumed the same heading.

  And that was straight for the area where Watchman was waiting.

  She keyed the contact button. ‘Watchman, come in.’

  A few seconds went by. Silence. ‘Come in, Watchman.’ She couldn’t help herself, she felt her stomach flip. Had something happened? Maybe he was away from his radio.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Lindsay breathed a sigh of relief. His voice sounded heavy, as if he had just woken up. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Watchman, but there’s an Ansat-U heading your way out of Saint Petersburg. It’s the same one I saw near you before. It’s moving slow and changing course periodically, which reads as if they’re flying low and careful, but always returning to the same heading. It’s guesswork but their ETA on you at their current speed is anything between forty-five minutes to one hour. That’s four-five to one hour.’

  ‘Copy that. Sounds like he’s coming back for another try. I’ll get on it. Any news from the Pathfinders on that signal?’

  ‘I have. They’ve got their bird in the air and are currently sitting on the second signal roughly forty miles north-west of your location and static. Sending you those coordinates now.’ She keyed in the details and sent them off.

  ‘Got that. What’s in the area at Counselor’s current location?’

  Lindsay turned to a second screen. ‘Another lake … lots of trees … and some kind of track off the main road. I don’t have a name but it looks small, maybe a half-mile long.’ She heard Watchman moving around and the sound of a car engine starting.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, his voice firmer and louder. ‘On my way. Keep the information coming.’

  Lindsay watched the helicopter creeping across the screen in a relentless course to the north-west. If it continued on that heading it would pass right over Watchman’s current position, a predator looking for its target. She shivered, unable to help feeling a tinge of apprehension.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Maxim was nervous. He’d used the number he was calling a couple of times before, when he’d needed to check a matter of procedure while on shift at the Shaykovka air base. Perhaps because of that the number had stuck in his mind. But that was army work; this wasn’t.

  ‘Yeah, what?’ The familiar growly voice answered. It was Denis Romanov, his Air Force supervisor. He sounded sleepy and bad-tempered, like a bear woken too early from hibernation and looking for somebody to bite.

  ‘Hey, Denis,’ Maxim said cheerfully, fingers crossed. ‘How are you, my friend, sir?’

  ‘What? Who the hell is– Datsyuk, is that you?’

  ‘In person, boss. I’m great, thank you for asking.’

  ‘As if I care. What the holy hell are you doing calling me at this time, you young dick! I was asleep, in case you hadn’t noticed the time. What do you want? Don’t tell me you got bored already working for those wussy civilians in Moscow ATC.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a little problem, Denis, and I need your sound advice. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: you met a girl who told you she’s a model and she’s the love of your life and you want to settle down and have twenty kids. Wow. Great news. Fucking ace. Good luck and goodnight. Ring me when she dumps you, you moron. Better yet – don’t bother.’

  ‘Wait! This is serious. At least … I think it is.’

  A long sigh. ‘Go on, then. Hit me.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a beacon code anything like Trapdoor Z5993?’

  He heard a scrambling noise which told him Denis was sitting up in bed. ‘Trap-what? Say again.’

  He repeated it.

  ‘Where the hell did you get that from?’ Denis sounded surprised … and suddenly wideawake.

  ‘I saw it last night and tonight, in two different places.’ He described the route the aircraft had taken from Moscow to Vologda, and now heading north from Saint Petersburg. ‘I tried calling them up last night to ask for confirmation of a flight plan, but they didn’t respond.’

  ‘What? I thought you were on observer attachment only. Did they give you the authority to do that?’

  ‘I am. And no, they didn’t. But I figured, what’s the harm? I mean, it’s a safety issue, right, having unidentified flights roaming around the skies at night? What if it was terrorist related or a flight in trouble … with the pilot fallen ill or something?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Keep telling yourself that, Einstein.’ Denis’s sarcasm had a harsh tone of reproof. ‘If it was either of those, it would have landed by now and stayed down – or crashed somewhere, in which case, same thing. You just got
bored, didn’t you, and decided to stick your nose where you shouldn’t. Admit it.’

  ‘No, I … well, I guess.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Denis went silent for a moment, then said seriously, ‘Now listen to me, young man, and listen good. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, because you’ve got a few more grey cells than the average no-hoper we get down here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt when I’m shouting. However, bright as you are, there are some things you need to know, like not assuming you’re bulletproof. Incidentally, I hope you didn’t log this flight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Christ. You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  There was a brief silence, then Denis said, ‘You’d better hope not. Listen, the code you picked up is not a standard signal. It’s a special. If I’m right it’s from a batch of beacons used a few years ago, fitted to a number of light military helicopters to track movements. If I remember correctly it was part of some scheme devised by a pencil-head in the Defence Ministry to chart military movements using or crossing commercial flight paths. It was supposed to be a safety thing but got abandoned when it became too complicated; in other words when the data began to show up too many utility helicopters being used by senior officers and ministers out on non-official business.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘What kind of–? Are you that really that naïve? Lady-friend business, you dope. Private parties with benefits. Secret meetings. Stuff they weren’t supposed to be doing and probably involving money and drugs. Anyway, the beacons were all ordered to be stripped out and destroyed, which was obviously a decision made at ministerial level to cover a few asses and avoid prosecutions.’

  ‘So why is this one still showing up?’

  ‘Wha – how would I know? Maybe they missed one, maybe the machine you tracked was decommissioned and sold off before they got round to it. They auctioned a whole flight of utility helicopters about two years ago, knocked down to a bunch of third-world heads of government who wanted a flying bucket to show the starving masses how important they were. Maybe,’ he added with heavy emphasis, ‘this particular machine was kept on to be used by departments who don’t exist. Do you get what I’m saying, Maxim?’