by Chris Ryan
Or so we thought.
For this next run we adopted the same tactics as before: using both cars and keeping well apart, in radio contact. We left Balashika at 8:00 p.m." and reached the Embassy at 8:55. Taking our normal precautions, Whinger put in a drive-past with the grey Volga; he had Johnny riding passenger with him, and when they reported all clear, Pavarotti, Toad and I went in with the black vehicle to load the components. We'd done what we could to make the Volgas more road worthy getting them both a service and replacing three of the worst tyres.
As we drove along the embankment an dover the line of the tunnel, I got a peculiar fizzing sensation in my stomach.
I'd already sent word to the Charge that we were coming in. My spiel had been that, because of the international tension, we wanted to recover the last of our bits and pieces so that we'd have everything in one place if the Regiment decided on a quick evacuation. Aliway had said that was OK by him: there'd be no one to meet us, but he'd leave word with security, and we could hand them the keys of the garage on our way out.
That suited us fine. We loaded up at leisure, locked the door and handed in the keys. In the car, before I drove off, I got Toad to hand me Orange's Rat, and clipped the device to my belt.
We were rolling again less than ten minutes after we'd arrived. Pay was beside me in front, Toad in the back.
"Clearing now," I called to Whinger.
"Roger," he answered.
"I'll fall in behind."
On our way out through the city centre I couldn't distinguish his lights from all the others behind us; but I knew he was there, because we kept exchanging messages. The traffic began to thin out, and on the highway the vehicles were well spaced. Fine rain had set in, reducing visibility. The black Volga wallowed on the wet road like a boat under its heavy load, and I kept our speed down to sixty-five ks to give myself time to avoid potholes. That meant we were one of the slowest cars on the road, and we kept getting overtaken, but I felt in no particular hurry.
So we cruised on until we were within about five ks of base.
Out in the country the rain was heavier, the air murkier. We'd just gone under the outer ring-road when everything went ballistic.
"Look out," said Pay.
"There's a flashing blue light up ahead."
At the same moment Whinger came on the radio with, "I think we've got a tail."
I glanced in my mirror and exclaimed, Jesus! I think we have one too. There's a police block up ahead as well. Listen, Whinge.
We're being pulled in by the GAl. Get off the road and wait out."
In the road ahead, beside the vehicle with the flashing blue lamp, a man was waving us down with one of those white-ended batons. As I braked, I saw in the mirror that the car behind us had swung in close on our tail.
"Shit, Pay," I said.
"Looks like the GAl are having a purge.
What do we do?"
"Bluff our way. Stop if he tells us to for Christ's sake. Don't piss him off- otherwise we'll be in the nick for resisting arrest.
A man in grey GAl uniform, with the red stripe down the side of his pants, was guiding us in towards the verge. As I pulled up, another man appeared beside the window and said, "Dokumenti."
I reached down under my seat for the package Anna had made up for each car and handed it to him. He took it, but motioned for me to go with him to a hut at the edge of the highway. Then he started saying, "Kijoucha, kijoucha," and making twisting movements with his hand.
"Keys," said Toad.
"He's after the keys."
"Suspicious bastard," I said.
"He thinks we're going to try and drive off."
"Ah, fuck it!" exclaimed Pavarotti.
"Shall I deal with him?"
"It's all right," I said.
"I'll go. You two sit tight."
I took out the ignition key and handed it through the window. I was on the point of getting out when I remembered the Rat. Better leave it in the car, I thought. Then, measuring the distance to the hut by eye, I thought, No that isn't a hundred feet. It'll be OK.
As I stepped out of the car I glanced into the back, and was reassured to see that the component beside Toad was covered by an old blanket.
I started to follow the GAl officer. He pointed towards the hut, gesturing to me to carry on. Then he turned back to the Volga.
The hut was set just off the tarmac, down a bit of a bank and on the edge of the wood. At first my main concern was that I wouldn't understand what the cops were asking, and I wished to hell my Russian was better. Then, second by second, step by step, I began to get the feeling that something was wrong. The hut didn't look like one of the regular GAl stations, which were lit up like little guard rooms This thing was only a roads men cabin, and dark. Besides, the other cars parked by it weren't GAl vehicles, but ordinary saloons. Worst of all, there were at least five men standing in the shadows, not in GAl uniform, but wearing leather jackets that gleamed when the headlights of a vehicle went by on the road. There was something odd about their body language; their postures unnaturally rigid and alert.
At that instant I suddenly heard, through my earpiece, Pavarotti call, "CONTACT!" Before I could react, the guys in 2 front of me started to move in my direction. I glanced over my shoulder at the Volga and saw two men with sub-machine guns closing in from either side.
I jabbed my press el switch and said sharply, "Contact! Contact!
Whinger, in here! Get in! Get in!"
"Negative," came his answer.
"We can't. We're in a contact too."
Over the radio I heard a rattle of shots. An instant later the shots came live, through the air.
The five men on the edge of the forest were in a ragged group only ten feet from me. They started moving towards me.
Instinctively I pulled out my pistol and dropped the nearest one with a single shot to the forehead, which jerked his head violently backwards.
I looked back at the Volga. Rounds cracked past my head. As I went down on one knee. I could see that the pseudo-policeman was at the driver's door. A second guy was trying to force his way into the back seat. Another burst ripped past me. I felt a sharp tug and a stab of pain in my left shoulder. The impact spun me round, only to find one of the others almost on top of me.
Automatically I fired a double tap into his chest, and he went down, but he was so close that his impetus carried him past me, and he narrowly missed me as he fell. I then emptied my magazine into the area where his three remaining mates had suddenly taken cover, and sprinted the last few yards for the safety of the woods.
The trees were pines, fairly well spaced. By luck I went between the first few, then ran smack into spiky dead branches, ripping my face. I backed off, skirted left and kept going.
Behind me, pandemonium erupted. Men began yelling like lunatics. Engines started up and revved furiously. Tyres scrabbled and squealed as cars pulled away. Somebody cracked off a few more bursts from a sub-machine gun, and rounds came snapping through the trees, but by then I was a hundred metres into the woods, and relatively safe.
For a few seconds I lay prone, head-on to the road in line with a thick trunk, gasping for breath, more from shock than from exertion.
"Jesus!" I went.
"What the fuck happened?"
Out on the highway everything had gone quiet. I jabbed the press el of my radio and called, "Black to Grey. Can you hear me?"
"Grey," went Whinger.
"We've broken the contact. We're mobile."
"Where are you?" I gasped.
"Heading on in your direction. Where are you?"
"In the forest behind the hut. Give me one minute. I'll come back to the roadside a hundred metres past the hut."
"Roger."
I tore through the trees, parallel with the road, with my left arm raised in front of my face to ward off branches. I had a stinging sensation on the outside of my left shoulder, and I could feel blood running down my side. But the arm was working, and th
e wound didn't feel bad. Already my night-vision was establishing itself, and I could see enough to make rapid progress.
I counted a hundred and fifty steps, then turned left, running back towards the road. I burst out of the trees and looked back, to the left. I was about the right distance from the hut. Through the rain I saw one car coming fast towards me. In my earpiece Whinger said, "OK, we have eyes on you." I stepped farther out into the road, and the car swung in towards me. As it pulled up, I saw that windscreen and rear window had been shot out.
"Get in! Get in!" shouted Whinger.
"Where's the other Volga?"
"They've got it."
"Jesus! The bastards went that way. Back into town."
"After them!"
I dived into the back and slammed the door.
"Watch your hands on the glass," yelled Johnny
"It's all over.
With a howl of tyres Whinger spun the car and screamed up to high revs in each gear. Wind came whistling through the cabin, fore to aft.
Johnny was trying to tell me something, but with the internal slipstream roaring it was hard to hear. Also, after the gunshots, I was slightly deaf.
In a few seconds we passed a car burning on the other side of the road.
"Who's that?" I shouted.
"That was the lot that came for us," went Whinger.
"What happened to you?"
"Ran straight into an illegal VCP. They had a man out in GAL
uniform, waving us down. He demanded documents and keys.
Made me go with him towards the hut. Then I saw all these other guys on the lurk. That was the moment you called "Contact".
What about you?"
"This car came up behind. Somebody put a burst through the rear window. The rounds must have gone right between me and Johnny, on out the front… "Slow down!" I shouted.
We'd come round a bend. Through the murky dark we could see nearly half a mile up a long straight ahead. There wasn't a car in sight.
"Either they've got right away or they've pulled off into the forest. Look for side-roads. There! Just ahead. Stop!"
Whinger slid to a halt across the mouth of a dirt track that ran into the trees at a right angle to the highway. Johnny and I leapt out, flashing torches over the surface in search of fresh tyre marks.
"Nothing doing," I called.
We jumped back in and set off again.
"OH this fucking car!" Whinger groaned, exasperated by the lack of acceleration.
"Keep talking," I told them.
"The car that was harassing us," went Johnny.
"I dropped the driver with my Sig. That fucked them. They were struggling to get him out of the driving seat, so I cracked a couple more rounds off into the front of the car. Bit of luck the thing blew up. Bullet must have severed a fuel pipe. The whole thing went woof-' "THERE!" I yelled.
Another small road had loomed up. Whinger hauled on the wheel and we squealed round. This track was surfaced and quite smooth no point in looking for tyre marks. We followed it for a minute, scanning frantically for any spur or lay by among the trees where the villains could have pulled in. Then I shouted, "This is fucking useless. We've lost them. You're sure they turned back?"
"Yeah, yeah!" Whinger was emphatic.
"Just after you'd called for the pick-up, a whole shower of cars went flying back towards Moscow. A dozen at least, going like the clappers."
"Was the Volga in among them?"
"Couldn't tell. There was a Mere at the front. The rest were in a bunch. Really motoring."
My mind was churning. Blood had reached my waist and was sogging round my belt.
"Back to base?" Even Whinger sounded temporarily defeated.
"I guess so."
"What happened to Pay and Toad?"
"I couldn't tell. The last I saw of them they were both still in the vehicle, with an armed guy on either side of them. I tried to get back to them but I was taking fire from the car behind ours. I got a nick in the shoulder, as it was."
"Not serious?"
"I don't think so. More of a burn, really. It's bleeding, though." As we drove the short distance back to camp, the scene ran through my mind again and again like a closed loop of film.
Already I was blaming myself for making mistakes. Maybe I should never have got out of the car. Maybe I should have just driven off But then, if I had, our lumbering vehicle would certainly have been cut out by one or more of the faster cars I'd seen lined up. But again, once I had got out once I realised things weren't right maybe I should have made a greater effort to get back to the Volga. But if I'd done that, I'd almost certainly have ended up getting shot dead. The guy in the backup car couldn't have gone on missing for ever.
"Where's the Rat?" Whinger asked suddenly.
"Christ!" I felt for it, on my belt.
"I've still got it. It must have activated the bomb's alarm signal. The thing will be transmitting by now. I hope to hell the Yanks can track it."
Before the lift my moral confusion had been bad enough: now it was acute. What the hell was I to tell Anna and Sasha?
Obviously we couldn't conceal the fact that we'd lost two guys, or that they were probably in Mafia hands. Apart from anything else, we needed the Russians to launch a search.
* * *
The lads we'd left in camp were appalled by the news. As we compiled a coded message for Hereford, they got a brew on and we brought them up to speed on what had happened.
My shoulder wound turned out to be little more than a groove cut through the skin. Dusty got out his medical pack, swabbed it thoroughly, bombed it with disinfectant and smacked a wound dressing over the top.
"You'll live," he pronounced.
"But you were lucky. A couple of inches lower and your shoulder would have been a mess.
"If it was Rick's whoring about that put them on to us," I said, 'he wants to be well away from Hereford before we get back. If I see him I'll bloody murder him."
"Maybe the Mafia have been doing better surveillance than we thought," Mal suggested.
"Maybe they'd got us marked down anyway. D'you think somebody slipped a hundred dollars to one of the guys on the gate, to shop us?"
"It was that fucking hit on the flat that did it," said Whinger savagely.
"Somehow the bastards got wind of the fact that we were involved."
"What if we got followed to the church?" said Dusty.
"Maybe there was a dicker out, somebody who saw us going in and out of the Embassy."
"Possible," I agreed.
"Jesus now I suppose we'd better get our ames back there and check the padlocks on the shaft."
I thought for a moment and changed my mind.
"Cancel that," I said.
"There's no way the Mafia could have known about Apple or Orange. Our security on that front's been one hundred percent. Even if they got eyes on the cars going to and from the Embassy they couldn't have known what we were doing."
"Extortion," said Pete.
"That's what we were up against.
They're after money. They've scented a chance of making a quick fortune. And now, in handing them Orange, we've given them the biggest fucking lever in the world. God alone knows what ransom demand they'll make: ten million? A hundred million?"
I said, "The question is, will they go public, or will they do it under cover?"
"If they go public we're buggered," said Dusty.
"If they start honking about how they're holding two SAS guys, the whole operation's blown."
"Will they realise what the components are?" asked Mal.
"After all, they're not nuclear specialists."
"No," said Dusty, 'but I bet they'll have access to someone who is. It won't be long before they find out. And anyway, they've got Pay and Toad to tell them."
There was a moment's silence. Although nobody spoke, I know we were all thinking the same thing: that our guys were going to get badly knocked about. They were in for a hard time, whatever happen
ed. And if they refused to talk, there was a high risk they'd be topped. We needed to find them fast.
We had local maps out on the table, but they were precious little use.
"Let's think where they're likely to put the thing," said Johnny.
"Lock-up garage, probably," Whinger suggested.
"Leave it in the car, drive in. Easy."
"What about its alarm signal?" Mal asked.
"Will that still reach the satellite if the device is inside a building?"
"I don't know. Toad could tell us. Listen, I'm going to call Anna. She can get a search going."
"What are we going to tell her?" Mal, ever careful, had been making notes with pencil and pad.
"That two guys have been lifted."
"What about the bomb?"
"Not a whisper."
I had to use the local line, which I knew was insecure. But that now seemed the least of our worries. I tried the emergency number she'd given us, and got some Russian-speaking female.
"Anna," I said several times.
"Anna Gerasimova."
A torrent of Russian came back.
"Ya Anglichani," I went.
"Ni pone mayo
Another incomprehensible rush of words. For a moment I half-wished Rick was with us. At last the woman stopped and said, "Moment." A second later a man came on, speaking slow,
heavily accented English.
"Anna no here."
"Can you give her a message, please?"
"A message? Yes. It is what?"
"Telephone Zheordie immediately."
"Zheordie?"
It was beyond me to spell the name in Russian letters, so I repeated it several times, gave the number slowly, and rang off "Jesus!" I gasped. In the state I was, any small delay seemed a massive aggravation.
"What about Sasha?" asked Pete.
"Good idea."
As the number rang, I thought of old Lyudmila and her bloody great cat, tucked up there on the eighth floor.
"Sasha, it's Geordie. Sorry to bother you, but we're in big trouble."
I told him what had happened. As soon as he got the gist of it, he said, "No, it is impossible. Not real."
"It's real enough," I told him.
"They've gone.
"I come in."