by Chris Ryan
The prospect was spectacular, I had to admit. Behind us, the monstrous skyscraper of the main university building towered into the sky, topped by a slender spire that gleamed golden in its spotlights. On either side of it the lower towers sprouted pinnacles, and hundreds of lighted windows made the campus look like a city on its own.
In front of us, immediately over the wall was a steep drop, with a couple of rickety-looking ski-jumps not yet in use poised over it. Below them, the centre of Moscow was laid out in a million more lights. It reminded me of the view from the top of Block B except that here the illumination was far more varied and concentrated. Close in the foreground was a large stadium; farther out, the floodlit buildings of the Kremlin glowed magnificently. We could also see the White House. I remembered Sasha telling us of how it had been rebuilt after the coup: apparently the workers had stayed in the nearby Kiev Hotel, and their demand for whores was so phenomenal that busloads of extra women had had to be imported from out of town.
I glanced around. There were a few other people up here, but nobody close to us. Away to our right I could see Whinger and Rick, also looking over the wall, but correctly keeping their distance.
"I feel that hepped up, I reckon if Ijumped off here I'd fly," I told Pavarotti quietly.
"Don't try it, mate. You might just keep going, never come down."
We admired the view for a few more minutes, then returned to the car and hung around some more. As usual at such moments, our watches seemed to have gone on strike.
But at last it was 9:45, time to head down.
"Moving off now," I told Whinger over the radio.
"Roger. I'll let you get clear."
Mal turned the car and started to back-track our route but we were hardly under way before Whinger came through again with, "Watch yourselves. I think you've got a tail."
Mal said, "Shit," studied his mirror and said, "Is it that buff Lada?"
"Roger. It pulled out when you did."
"I'll watch it for a minute."
"Roger."
Turning in the passenger seat to face Mal, I saw the car they were talking about. Now what? Our options were severely limited by our lack of speed and the great weight we were carrying. Shooting red lights was no good: hundreds of drivers did that anyway; the Lada would simply follow us through any crossing. And in any case we didn't want to risk a brush with the GAl. We certainly couldn't outrun a pursuer. Nor could we afford to tangle with one. We all had Sigsauer 9mm pistols, and if things turned nasty we could use them but only as a very last resort. A collision might shunt the nuclear components clean out of the car, taking the boot lid or rear door with them, and damage the devices beyond repair… "How many on board?" I asked.
"Three," came Whinger's voice.
Mal said, "I'm going to head away from our target area.
"Roger."
Before we started down through the bends of the hillside, he took a left, heading south. Then another left. The Lada followed.
When a light turned red way ahead, he changed down to decelerate without using the brakes. The Lada slowed as well, keeping its distance.
"Definite tail," I told Whinger.
"Can you sort them for us?"
"I'll try.
"Do they realise we're a pair?"
"Don't think so. I'm driving on sidelights and keeping well back."
Whinger was and is a hell of a guy behind the wheel. He'd done a stint as instructor in special driving techniques at Llangwern, the training area in Wales, and what he didn't know about J-turns, ramming and breaking up illegal VCPs wasn't worth knowing. The trouble was that in England or Northern Ireland he'd probably have been driving one of the Regiment's souped-up intercept cars, which have extra power, armour, strengthened suspension and belly plates, and can whack anything else off the road with one flick of the rear end. Whereas here he had a lumbering, lightweight Volga with little power and no protection. I knew what he was thinking: that although it would be no trouble to knock our tail into the gutter, the last thing he wanted was to end up immobilising his own vehicle.
Somehow we'd got on to a big boulevard which my wrist compass told me was heading south-west, out of town. At a crossroads I got a glimpse of a sign and deciphered it as Leninskii Prospekt.
The Lada was still behind us.
Shit! I was thinking. We should never have come up into this area. I've dropped a bollock here. We should just have made a loop and risked going into the churchyard early.
Then I remembered a friend of mine Andy, a Tornado pilot saying that a key element in training to fly fast jets was that pilots must have the ability to dump bad decisions behind them.
In the air, especially at low level, events happen so fast that the pilot has to take dozens of decisions every minute, and the essential skill is to dump whatever's just happened, so that your mind's free to look ahead.
OK, I told myself. Forget that one. Now what?
"Take that right," I told Mal suddenly.
He hauled the wheel round. Our tyres squealed under the load. Sixty yards behind us the Lada copied our every move, turning through the crossing just as the lights changed.
"Whinger's got through as well," Mal said tersely.
"Must have shot the red."
"I've a mind to stop suddenly and sort the bastards ourselves," I said, reaching down to draw my Sig. At the back of my mind I knew that the very idea of opening up on unidentified strangers in the middle of the city was outrageous. In London I'd never have dreamt of it. But here in Moscow the level of lawlessness was so high that any form of self-defence seemed in order.
We appeared to be driving in orbit round the university; the colossal tower was still quite close on our right. If we stayed near it, at least we'd know where we were.
"Right again," I said.
Now we were on another wide boulevard, heading back towards the esplanade. The big road stretched ahead, empty of traffic. Suddenly I heard Whinger say, "Slow down, Mal. Come down to fifty ks."
"Roger," went Mal, and eased off the accelerator. He'd been doing about sixty-five, and let the needle fall back. With one eye on the mirror he said, "Stand by. The Lada's closing. No — cancel that. They've eased off again."
The next thing we heard was Whinger calling, "Stand by for contact. I'm going in."
I knew what he'd done: on the long straight he'd built up speed and was coming in at the opposition on one fast run. I twisted round in my seat just in time to see a wild flare of headlights sweeping sideways, then the black silhouette of a vehicle momentarily on end, standing on its nose for an instant before hurtling off the near side of the road. Seconds later there was a brilliant flash, and flames leapt from the wreck.
I braked and pulled in to the kerb.
"Nice one, Whinge," I called.
"You OK?"
"More or less." He sounded well hyped up.
"Sustained a bit of damage, but we're still mobile. Davai, da vair We carried on for a couple of blocks. Then Mal said, "No he's dropping back."
"Whinge," I called.
"You got a problem?"
"Yeah front tyre's going down."
"Next right, then. Get off this fucking great road."
We turned into a tree-lined side-street and came to a halt a hundred yards from the junction. Behind us the grey Volga crawled round the corner and crept under a tree.
"Turn and park on the other side," I told Mal.
"Face this way, so you can cover us.
I jumped out and ran across to Whinger's car. The air was full of the stink of burning rubber. Smoke was rising from the offside front wheel. Rick and Pavarotti were already grappling with spare and jack, with Whinger standing back on the alert against the trunk of a tree.
"Tyre's knackered," said Rick.
"The bumper got pushed into it by the impact. The bastard's almost on fire. It's worn right through."
"Steering OK?"
"Should be when we get this wheel on."
I went over
to Whinger.
"What was all that about?"
"Ask me another. There were three young guys in it. At least one of them had a pistol, too."
"You up-ended them, anyway."
"Yeah. I got up to eighty ks and came at them without lights.
Took their back end away."
"Zdorovo! That party won't be doing any more driving tonight."
We could have done without that little episode. It broke our concentration and meant that, as we finally approached the churchyard, we had to go through our mental preparation all over again.
This time Whinger made the drive-past, dropping Rick and Pay off on the embankment to walk in and recce the stable on foot. Only when they reported all clear did we prepare to move in.
Never in my life had I felt more nervous. I kept thinking, Once we get underground I'll be OK. What I do not want is any confrontation with all this hardware on our hands. We had no plausible explanation to offer if we were caught. We were prepared to shoot our way out of trouble if we had to, above or below ground, and we hoped that if the police found bodies, they would chalk them up as victims of some Mafia feud. But as for being grabbed in possession of the bomb to that we had no answer. If we were forced to run for it, we might not even get back to the barracks at Balashika. I had visions of a gigantic escape and evasion scenario
Mal remained perfectly cool, and that helped steady me. He hadn't seen the yard before but I'd briefed him on the layout, and now I talked him in, yard by yard.
"Here's the gateway, coming up. There's the church ahead. Keep round to the right.
Stop opposite the doorway. Here we are GO!"
Rick materialised from the stable, opened the rear door of the Volga and dragged section one of Apple half-way out.
"Pay's done the locks," he whispered.
"Great."
Mal remained in the driving seat with his engine ticking over in case he needed to take off suddenly. Toad grabbed the handles on the other end of section one. Together with Rick he carried it into the stable. I seized the SCR canister from the boot and staggered in with that. A moment later Toad and Rick brought in section two. Last out of the car was my bergen, containing lightweight hoist, ladder, nets, rubber bags, dry-suits, digging tools, head-torches, spare batteries, overalls and other essential paraphernalia. The pack alone was one hell of a weight.
"That's it," I hissed at Mal through his open window.
"See you later."
He eased the Volga gently forward, through the bend into the rear yard, swung round and came back past us. We saw his brake lights glow for an instant before he nosed out on to the main road. Then he was gone.
In the ink-black stable we stood and listened. I found I was hyperventilating, but I knew that now the most immediate danger of having the hardware discovered in the car was over.
Now, in an emergency, we could do a runner or shoot our way out, leaving the stuff behind, and, if challenged, deny all knowledge of it.
The yard was very still, the church dark. We waited a couple of minutes. Nobody moved or spoke. Then I whispered, "OK."
Our individual tasks were carefully pre-planned. Toad kept watch on the doorway. Pay, the tallest, slung a loop over the main roof beam to take the top hook of the hoist. I broke out the nets, which were made of thick green nylon with a three-inch mesh, and manoeuvred the steel cases into them.
We'd just got the first one trussed when Toad let out a hiss.
Torches snapped off Everyone kept still. But it was only the usual problem women crossing the yard from the church — and in a moment we moved again.
With all three cases netted, I pulled on my dry-suit, got Rick to zip up the back, and took over from Toad at the door while he got his suit on.
Pavarotti had the hoist well secured, the pulleys running smoothly.
"Looks good," I whispered, running my torch beam over his ropes.
"Rick?"
"Hello."
"I'm going down. We'll aim to be back at the base of the shaft at midnight. Lift the lid and have a listen then, anyway. If we're not back, try again every half-hour."
"Roger. Happy landings."
Feet into the top of the shaft. Ease down the ladder. Once my feet touched, I took a careful look round the floor in my immediate area. No signs of disturbance other than our own. The same damp, muddy smell of decay.
I switched off my head-torch to save the battery, jerked the ladder and felt it rise past me as somebody lifted it clear. Then I heard scuffling noises as the first of the loaded nets the SCR started down. I was tempted to peer up the shaft and watch it coming, but didn't fancy being under it if a rope should break or anything went wrong with the hoist; so I stood to one side and waited until the heavy bundle sank gently to the floor, then released the shacide.
Before the second net came down there was quite a pause. I imagined the guys struggling to manoeuvre the heavy case into position, on end above the mouth of the shaft, without letting it bump or scrape. Then more scuffling, scratching noises started, and I switched my torch on again in time to see the bulging net appear. Once more I released the shackle and twitched the rope, then walked the case out of the way on its corners and laid it gently on its back. Its weight was formidable, and I knew that the third component, section two, was ten kilos heavier still.
The pause was longer this time. The guys were obviously having more problems. Then came a thump, and some strangled curses. At last the scraping noise began again, and I stood clear in anticipation.
Suddenly a loud, sharp crack ripped down the shaft. A patter of particles landed by my feet, as if there'd been rapid movement above. Jesus, I thought. Somebody's fired a shot.
I stood frozen. All movement in the shaft had ceased. Some bastard's stumbled on them, I thought. They've dropped him.
But they can't close the cover with the pulley ropes in the way.
Why the hell don't they get on and lower away? Maybe there are more guys in the yard.
In the silence of the tunnel I could hear my heart beating. Not a sound came from above. Irrationally, I felt that if I moved or spoke I might precipitate disaster. All I could do was keep still.
For many long seconds I waited motionless in the dark. My heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder. Then at last I heard more noises above. They sounded different from the earlier scrapings, but at least something was happening. More bumps and thuds. I shone my torch quickly up the shaft and saw that the whole of its section was filled by the third and last net. Yet, in spite of the noises, the thing wasn't moving. Had it jammed?
I tried my radio and got no response. My instinct was to yell up the shaft and find out what in hell was going on. But I realised that they couldn't shout back for fear of being heard, so I steeled myself to wait.
In the end movement resumed and the big case came on down, Toad and Pay close behind it.
"What the flick were you doing?"
"Didn't you hear that?" Pay asked.
"I sure did. Did somebody fire a shot?"
"No, no. That was the main beam in the stable going."
"Jesus!"
"Yeah. The whole roof dropped several inches. Shit rained down all round. We thought the place was falling in on us.
"Nobody else heard it?"
"Don't think so."
"What did you do?"
"Found an old timber lying at the back and managed to get it under as a prop so the beam couldn't drop any lower. Then we carried on.
We'd lost quite a bit of time already, so we made haste to catch up.
First we had the laborious task of getting the cases out of the nets, loading them into the rubber bags, then bundling them into the nets again.
Experiments with nets full of sandbags, filled to the equivalent weight, had shown us that the best way of shifting our loads in the confined space of the tunnel would be by fitting slings of wide webbing to the nets, fore and aft, and advancing as a pair in line-ahead, one leaning forward and the other back, to levitate t
he burden between us. It wasn't easy or comfortable because the laden net tended to crash into the heels of the person leading and drag the back marker off his feet but it was better than hauling a huge weight along the floor.
It was obvious that three journeys would be needed, so we set out on the first with me leading, Pavarotti behind, Apple's section one between us, and Toad carrying his own bergen full of tricks. My plan was that, once we reached the site, we'd leave him there with the first half of the device so that he could start preparing it while we went back for the second.
All went well until we were on the downward slope, leading to the river. Then, as the beam of light from my head-torch danced around in front of me, I sensed that something had changed.
"Stopping," I said.
I slackened off my end of the net and stood still.
"The water," said Pay.
"It's gone."
"Exactly. I'm sure my marker was just here somewhere. Look there it is." I pointed to the horizontal scratch-mark on the wall.
"Some bastard's been in here draining it," said Pay incredulously.
"Can't have been."
"Where's it gone, then?"
"You tell me."
In fact only some of the water had gone. A lot remained. Soon after we'd moved forward again we saw its surface lying still and black ahead of us. As we advanced to the edge of it I realised that even at its deepest point it no longer reached the roof: there was a gap of about a foot under the arched yellow bricks, and I could see right through to the other side.
"Well, damn!" Pavarotti sounded very Welsh in his indignation.
"The tide's gone out."
"Tide be buggered!" I snapped.
"We're a thousand bloody miles from the sea."
"Only joking. We don't need our masks now, that's for sure. Hardly need the suits, even. We can walk straight through with our heads above water."
"All the better," I told him.
"But… hey, what's this?"
On the right-hand wall ahead of us, just above the water line, the top of an arched recess was showing clearly the opening to a side-tunnel. It was bricked in, but some of the cement had washed out and I could see water welling in and out through the gaps.