Hard Cover

by Adrian Magson

  It was Gurov.

  He stood there motionless. He didn’t try to duck under cover, or even put out a hand to stop me firing. He still looked pale and thin but now seemed more determined and focussed. He jerked his chin away towards the area behind me, and I held up one finger.

  He nodded and scrambled down to check on the man he’d shot, then straightened up and shook his head.

  Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the trees towards the parking lot without looking back.

  The message was abundantly clear; he’d come back to even the odds, maybe pay me back a little for helping out on their way here. But now he was off to complete what he’d set out to do for his former boss.

  I turned and checked out the trees where I’d heard the other man moving after I’d shot at him.

  There was an area of unrestricted light some hundred yards away, which I figured must be a large clearing. I could see some felled logs lying around, the trunks trimmed of branches ready for pulling out and loading on trucks. Then I saw a flicker as a figure moved against the light and out of sight.

  The helicopter was coming closer. The sound had been growing steadily, and I knew what he was doing: the man on the ground was calling him in, using him like a giant metal sheepdog to push me towards his gun.

  I couldn’t stay where I was; they would see me too easily and I’d be an easy target. The only way to avoid that was to move towards the man on the ground, making it difficult for those in the air to open fire without hitting him.

  If I took him out that might dissuade them from taking it any further.

  SIXTY-THREE

  ‘Putin’s back in Moscow.’

  Victor Simoyan had received the news earlier with relief, tinged with an instinctive degree of scepticism. Never be certain of anything until carefully checked out.

  ‘You know this for sure? It’s not a feint? He could have changed planes on the way.’

  ‘It’s not a feint. I can vouch for it because I saw him myself.’ The caller was a former presidential aide and probably knew the president better than most people. If he said it was Putin and he was firmly in Moscow, that was it.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Heading into a meeting with the cabinet to discuss sanctions imposed by the Americans and the European Union. He boarded a plane in Kurtz with his party and flew direct to Domodedovo. He was met there by an international press group and two ministers, where he held a photo shoot before being taken to the city. There is no way it was a staged presentation and he cannot now go anywhere else – his schedule is locked down tight.’

  Simoyan breathed a little easier and thanked the caller. That laid to bed the use of a double, a ruse which had been rumoured for some time when Putin needed to be in two places at once. The accredited foreign press corps knew Putin’s face like their own mothers, and their cameras would have picked out even a slight variation in his appearance.

  But staged it almost certainly was, even if very few people were aware of why. If ever Putin had wanted to send a clear message, this was a classic. It announced to those who were watching, in Russia and abroad, that there would be no chats in remote lakeside dachas, no meeting with outsiders, whatever their shared history. No retrenching, no cutbacks, no caving in to foreign threats and sanctions.

  Instead it was going to be business as usual.

  But first it was time to call off the dogs. Permanently. He picked up his cell phone and dialled one of the special numbers. When it was answered he said, ‘That final solution you said you could deliver for me. Is it still available?’

  ‘I think we can manage that. When do you want it?’

  ‘Set it in motion. You have the beacon code?’

  ‘I’m watching it right now. It’s currently active and moving over a remote area of lakes and forest. It’s as if they don’t even know they’re giving out their location.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t. How long?’

  ‘Thirty minutes after I give the “go”, no more. Then it’s over.’

  ‘The extra payment will be made into your account within a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s nice doing business with you.’

  ‘What of Chesnokoy’s two men wounded earlier?’

  ‘Wounded men?’ The voice held a hint of raw humour. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

  Simoyan cut the connection and sat back with a sense of relief. There was a man after his own heart; venal by nature and not afraid to make hard decisions. There should be more like him. He was about to make another call when the cell phone rang. He checked the screen.

  Gretsky. What the hell did he want?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been getting calls about Datsyuk,’ the air traffic supervisor began quickly, his voice low. He sounded frightened. ‘Some guy named Romanov at Shaykovka air base wants to speak to him. What do I tell him?’

  ‘Why ask me?’ said Simoyan. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Because he never reported in for duty after we last—’

  ‘After we what?’ Simoyan’s voice was soft, the three words uttered slowly and heavy with threat.

  ‘Nothing. I mean … he hasn’t been back and I thought something bad … had happened.’

  ‘Maybe something did. He’s young, did you not say that? Young men get into trouble all the time.’

  ‘Of course, yes. But—’

  ‘In any case, how would his movements concern me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to tell Romanov.’

  ‘Tell him nothing. He’s probably on a drunk somewhere. Then go home.’

  ‘Home? Why?’

  ‘To see your wife and family. And perhaps to remind yourself how precious they are to you.’

  He cut the connection before Gretsky could speak again. Silencing Datsyuk had been simple; a bottle of vodka in his pocket and a body in the river … it happened every day. The city was so lawless and people from out of town simply didn’t realize the dangers. Maybe another accident was called for. But that was for later. Right now he had a more important event to arrange. He began the round of calls to bring the other Wise Men together. This was a video conference they were definitely not going to be reluctant to attend.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Chesnokoy waited for a signal from Gorin. But there was nothing. He’d heard the three shots and identified them as a semi-automatic. Nine millimetre almost certainly and not from the man they had been pursuing – the shots had come from a different section of trees.

  He didn’t waste time worrying who that second shooter might be; whoever it was he’d taken out Gorin, and now it was two against one the other way. The wrong way.

  So be it. He took out the radio. ‘This is Chesnokoy. Come in and get me. Look for a clearing to your south, close to the water. But be careful – there are now two of them down here.’

  ‘Got that.’ It was the voice of the navigator. ‘ETA on that clearing two minutes.’

  Keeping an eye out for signs of movement among the trees, he watched as the helicopter came into view out over the water, heading in a wide curve to make its approach over the clearing where he was standing on the edge of the trees. The clatter of the rotors changed in tone, echoing back across the water and making it sound as if there were two helicopters out there, one louder than the other.

  He shook his head. He needed to get out of this business. He’d lost too many good friends and spent too much time facing the prospect of joining them if he carried on much longer. It was time to find something else to do.

  But first he had to finish the job. The green Touareg he’d seen while coming into land was Tzorekov’s, and the old man couldn’t be far away. He couldn’t understand why he would have got himself trapped in this back-of-beyond place but it was going to be the old man’s biggest mistake – and his downfall.

  The Ansat came in fast and began to turn ready to land. Kasbek – or was it one of the others? – was standing in the open doorway, h
is assault rifle across his chest, the wind tugging at his combat jacket. He raised a hand in greeting, and turned to say something to somebody inside.

  Then his head jerked back round and he looked up towards the peak above the lake, and froze, his mouth dropping open.

  What the hell was he—?

  Chesnokoy spun round to follow his look, an awful premonition coming to him as a separate sound travelled across the water towards him.

  It hadn’t been an echo after all. There were two helicopters.

  For a couple of seconds he saw nothing. Just endless grey clouds hanging low over the peaks and the ever-present curtain of rain, now thinner but forming a film of silver-grey against the sombre carpet of trees.

  Then he saw movement: a dark shape against the grey, too solid to be cloud, too big to be a bird, wheeling out of the murk and settling on a level flight facing the Ansat. He felt his gut go cold and turned to stare at the man in the door of the Ansat, who had his head turned away and looked as if he was shouting instructions at the pilot.

  He looked back. The newcomer was a good kilometre away and closing. It looked big, and even through the rain Chesnokoy recognized the outline and stubby wings of a Mi-24 gunship. And beneath the wings he was sure he detected the slim shape of rocket pods.

  The machine settled to level flight, and Chesnokoy felt sick. He’d seen that stance before too many times to be mistaken.

  They were going to open fire.

  Before he could take it all in, he saw a flash from beneath the right-hand wing. A split second later a slim smoke trail arched away and a dark shape began to climb, increasing speed at a bewildering rate.

  ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No!’ all the time realizing it was no use. Nothing was going to stop this happening. Shturms, he thought automatically, the professional side of his brain clicking in despite the horror of what he was witnessing. Radio-guided missiles with laser range-finders. Tank busters also effective against helicopters, like the one now firmly in its sights.

  The air seemed to crackle with energy as the missile surged in on its target through the rain. Chesnokoy could only watch as the Ansat tried to climb out of the way, engines screaming as the pilot reacted to the warning and tried to haul it clear as if by muscle-power alone. But it was too little too late; the Ansat simply didn’t have the raw power or speed for such a desperate manoeuvre.

  Chesnokoy covered his face in horror, unable to watch the final moments of his men. This hadn’t been suspected, and none of them would have been watching for it. His last glimpse was of the missile arcing down a split second before it impacted on its struggling target.

  He didn’t need to see the effect, knowing that if he looked he would see the Ansat broken into pieces and falling from the sky, leaking flames and smoke, men tumbling from the inside, already dead and smashed beyond recognition.

  When he finally looked up, the Ansat was gone, a heavy pall of black smoke rising from the edge of the forest showing where the remains had struck the shore. A number of trees nearby had burst into flames, crackling with an angry spitting sound as spilled fuel ignited, their tops burning fiercely like grisly black candles on a funeral cake.

  Beyond it, the Mi-24 was already turning away and heading towards the distant peaks.

  Mission accomplished.

  Chesnokoy heard the snap of a twig behind him. He turned and saw a man standing at the edge of the clearing. He was holding a rifle. At first Chesnokoy thought he was a forestry worker or a hunter, come to see what had happened. Dressed in a heavy coat and pants, with the bottoms tucked into boots, he seemed to blend in with the background.

  But there was something about the way the newcomer was standing, relaxed yet ready to move, that made him look again. And the rifle was no hunting weapon. It was a Saiga assault rifle fitted with a night-vision scope.

  He thought about bringing up his own weapon, but he knew he’d be dead before he got his finger near the trigger.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Victor Simoyan looked at the men assembled once more on the screens at the end of the room. They had been waiting for news following his call – and now he had it, the final confirmation they had all been waiting for.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced almost breezily, ‘we have played our best cards and I am pleased to report that there will be no meeting between the traitor Tzorekov and … anybody else. He will no doubt go back to London with his tail between his legs.’

  The faces on the screens smiled in satisfaction, some applauding, some rapping the desks or tables before them with their knuckles in appreciation. If there had been a line open to Moscow Exchange right now, they would undoubtedly have been fantasizing about a marked jump in figures against their various company interests. Not that that would happen for a while just yet – but it would, he was certain of it.

  ‘Fantastic!’ said Maltsev. ‘Now I can go to Monaco as planned and deal with some important business.’ He grinned widely, the light flashing off his spectacles.

  ‘You be careful you don’t burst a blood vessel filling in all those forms,’ warned one of the others with a wry look.

  ‘Gentlemen, please.’ Simoyan hated to ruin their pleasure, but he had a duty to remind these men about some practical facts. ‘I am sorry to burden you with messy details, but there are one or two items we need to be clear on before we go any further.’

  ‘What kind of items?’ Solov, the deputy defence minister was looking at his cell phone. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. A meeting …’

  ‘I won’t take long, Lev, I promise. First of all, we have to ensure that nothing of what we arranged, or what we discussed here, will ever leak out. If it does, you can be assured that we will feel the full force of the state. And like each one of you,’ he added softly, looking at each man in turn, ‘I have enemies who would be happy to contribute to my downfall.’

  There was a short silence, then Maltsev said, ‘What could they do to us? We have clean hands; we haven’t raised a single finger against the state. Tzorekov was an outsider.’

  One or two of the others nodded in agreement and Simoyan looked at them, barely managing to hide his contempt. Typical of so many businessmen, he reflected. They were painfully naïve when it came to matters of political and legal interpretation, and seemed unaware of how easily the house could come tumbling down around their ears.

  ‘You think that argument will save us?’ he retorted. ‘Have you not heard of the charge of conspiracy? We used armed mercenaries, we “borrowed” a military helicopter and equipment, we paid off certain people to assist us by looking the other way, we paid others to openly conspire with us in a plan that some would interpret as raising a hand against the highest office in the land. You think if the president had agreed to finally attend this meeting in person he would have been quite so understanding of us conspiring to eliminate his old friend, Tzorekov? Somehow, I don’t think so.’

  ‘What are you saying, then?’ Kushka was wearing his usual schoolmasterly expression. ‘What else do we have to do?’

  The others murmured in agreement, the mood in the room changing dramatically as they sensed some unwelcome developments ahead.

  ‘I’m saying we have to clean up behind us. Dispose of any liabilities.’

  ‘You mean the two men who were wounded earlier?’ said Oblovsky.

  ‘Already dealt with.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Solov tapped the table softly. ‘They’re still out there, are they not? What do you intend doing about them?’

  ‘I’ve already taken steps to ensure that none of them returns. All links back to us will be severed. This matter, gentlemen, simply never took place.’

  ‘How will you do that?’ asked Oblovsky. ‘We don’t even know where they are until they report back, do we?’

  ‘Actually, I do.’ After calling Gretsky and confirming that the Ansat was sending out an ADSB beacon code showing its altitude and location, he’d had an idea for wrapping up this business in one fell swoop. The beacon was l
ike writing the Ansat’s position in the sky for all to see. Especially those with the ability to arrange for an attack helicopter to follow the signal and make a pass, blowing it out of the sky.

  End of problem.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it is my sad duty to report that an Ansat-U helicopter with a number of criminals on board today strayed into a live firing range with tragic consequences for all concerned.’ He waited for reactions or protests but they were all too stunned to speak. He searched their faces for dissent, for weakness, for even a hint that one of them might buckle and lead to disaster for them all.

  ‘God almighty,’ whispered Maltsev. ‘All of them?’

  ‘You don’t fool around, do you?’ said Solov.

  ‘Me? I don’t know what you mean. It was an unfortunate accident, that’s all.’ Simoyan sounded innocent, but his next words belied that completely. ‘Just bear in mind, gentlemen, that such accidents happen every day … and in all walks of life.’

  The silence from the men on the screens was total.

  SIXTY-SIX

  I watched as the man in front of me made his decision. A host of conflicting emotions were chasing across his face before his shoulders finally dropped. He wasn’t giving in, though; I could tell that by looking at his eyes. He was simply recognizing the futility of attempting a move he knew wasn’t going to come off – for now.

  He dropped the rifle he was carrying and lifted his arms away from his sides. I could see the effort of will it took him to do that; how he was hating every split second, knowing that if I was going to open fire, he wouldn’t have a cat’s chance in hell of stopping me.