by Mark Dawson
‘Hello,’ he said.
Imad didn’t respond, but Abdul and Hasan turned briefly from the TV and acknowledged him. Dzhokar looked over their shoulders and saw that the news reporter was standing in a hangar where pieces of the shot-down airliner were being collected and reassembled. Abdul and Hasan turned back just as the bulletin switched to a 3D reconstruction of the missile detonating against the fuselage of the jet. They laughed as the animation showed the plane breaking into pieces and falling to the ground.
There was a camera mounted on a tripod in the middle of the room. It was aimed at the wall, where the black and white flag of ISIS had been fixed into the plasterboard with four small tacks. One of the Kalashnikovs that they had been given was standing on the floor, its muzzle pointed up to the ceiling. The windows had been covered with a thick blackout blind. The room was lit by an arc light behind the camera and a lamp on the table. There was a small pistol on the table next to the lamp.
‘Are you ready, brother?’ Khasan asked him.
‘We’re doing it tonight?’
‘Yes. Have you memorised it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Very good. Sit in front of the camera. I just need a minute to get ready.’
Dzhokar did as he was told. He sat with his back to the wall, his legs crossed, and faced the camera. He ran through the script that Khasan had given him one more time. He had rehearsed it again and again since he had been given it, experimenting with putting emphasis on different words, closing his eyes and trying to tap into the passion that he had first found when he had listened to the imam at the mosque where he had met Khasan.
Khasan left the room. Imad looked up from his phone. ‘Make it good,’ he said. ‘This is what you’ll be remembered for.’
Khasan returned with a dun-coloured vest. It had been adapted to accommodate four large metallic tubes, two on either side of the opening at the front. The tubes were nestled in loops of fabric that had been stitched on to the vest, and each of them was connected to a battery that was slotted into a fifth loop that had been sewn to the back of the vest. Khasan carried the vest insouciantly; it might just as easily have been a bag of groceries.
He handed it to Dzhokar. ‘You know what this is?’
‘Of course.’
Khasan nodded and smiled.
‘I thought we were using suitcases?’
‘Vests and cases.’
Now the others paid attention. None of them had seen anything like this before. There had been YouTube videos, of course, and videos that had been posted on the Twitter accounts that the caliphate used to broadcast its message around the world, but the vests were incidental then. Fighters wore them in their martyrdom videos. They might sometimes be visible in grainy CCTV or phone footage shot just before the moment of detonation. The men knew what the vests meant, but it was still an abstract concept, difficult to consider. To have one here, to weigh it in the hand and feel how heavy it was, to touch the fingertips to the cylinders that had been filled with explosives and debris, it made it into something more realistic. Something tangible and real.
‘Put it on. We want the unbelievers to believe you when they hear your words.’
The others gathered around. Dzhokar put his arms through the vest and then fastened the hooks to close it around himself.
‘Fat fucker,’ Imad said.
The garment was tight, but it had to be that way; they would wear lightweight jackets over the top so as to hide their purpose as they made their way to their objective.
‘Comfortable?’
‘It’ll do.’
‘Here.’ Khasan took the pistol from the table and handed it to Dzhokar. ‘Use this. Wave it around when you speak. It will make an impression.’
Dzhokar took the weapon. It was compact and fitted snugly into his big hand. He squeezed, feeling it pressed tight into his palm.
The others moved behind the camera. Abdul switched off the television and Imad killed his phone. Khasan busied himself with the settings, then went to the light and arranged it so that its illumination fell squarely across Dzhokar and the flag behind him.
‘You ready?’
‘Yes.’
Dzhokar took a breath. He found that he had started to sweat; the pistol was squirming in his grip.
Khasan pointed a finger at him and mouthed, ‘Go.’
He breathed in and out and started to recite the speech.
‘I have undertaken my operation because of the rewards that Allah has promised those who follow on his path and, Inshallah, become martyred in his name. I am doing this for the guarantee of paradise for myself and my family. And I am doing this to punish and to humiliate the Kuffar, to teach them a lesson that they will never forget.’
Khasan nodded his encouragement. The others watched on. They were intent. None of them were laughing now.
‘We Muslim people have pride and we are brave. We are not cowards. We have looked at what you have done to us and we say that enough is enough. You have been warned many times to get out of our lands and to leave us alone, but you have persisted in trying to humiliate us, to kill us and to destroy us. Now the time has come for you to be destroyed. You have nothing now but to expect floods of martyr operations. We will destroy your capital and kill your people so that you can taste what you have made us taste for a long time.’
‘What about the innocent people?’ Khasan asked him from behind the camera. ‘Surely just because the Kuffar kill our innocent, this does not mean that we should kill theirs?’
‘We are doing this in order to gain the pleasure of our Lord. Anyone who tries to deny this, then read the Koran and you will not be able to deny this. It is the words in the Koran and the words of the messenger of Allah, prayers and peace upon him, and we will not leave this path until you leave our lands, until you feel what we are feeling. This is revenge for the actions of the United States in the Muslim lands. Their British accomplices have already been punished. Now it is your turn.’
Khasan gave a final nod, pressed a button on the side of the camera and ended the recording.
‘Well done, brother.’
‘Who’s next?’ Imad said.
‘You, Dzhokar – take off the vest and give it to Imad.’
Dzhokar unfastened the hooks and handed the vest to Imad.
‘Heavier than it looks,’ Imad said as he slipped his arms through the openings and started to do it up.
Khasan was reviewing the footage on the camera’s screen. Dzhokar went to him and watched over his shoulder. He saw himself and, for a moment, allowed himself the luxury of imagining what the people who knew him would say when they watched the message that he had just recorded, when it was playing on their TVs and on their devices.
What would they think of him? Would they be surprised?
He thought that they would.
The thought of that pleased him.
‘Do we know when it will happen?’ he asked Khasan.
‘Soon. We must be patient. When I am told, I will tell you. But it won’t be long.’
‘Let’s do it,’ Imad said. ‘Hit “Record”.’ He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his feet clad in white socks that had ridden down to reveal his bony ankles. Dzhokar thought that he looked foolish.
Khasan adjusted the camera. The TV had been switched back on again, a replay of the president shaking hands with the British prime minister in the Oval Office.
‘Turn that off,’ Khasan said. ‘Let’s be professional. The quicker we all record our messages, the quicker we can go and get something to eat.’
The room fell silent. Khasan counted Imad in and, on cue, he started to speak.
PART NINE:
Skopje
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Vivian Bloom was collected from his hotel and driven through the city towards the airport. It was raining again, the dreary drizzle providing a useful summation of how he felt about the city and the backward country within which it resided. He stared out of the smeared windo
ws at the dour rows of housing, the men and women slouching into the wind as the rain lashed them.
He sat back in the comfort of the bulletproof SUV and closed his eyes.
The jet was waiting on the taxiway. Bloom waited for the driver to open the door and then sheltered under the man’s umbrella as he made his way across the asphalt to the steps. He climbed them as quickly as his legs would allow, but, without the umbrella above his head, he was sopping wet by the time he stepped over the sill and made his way into the cabin of the Airbus A319.
He glanced around the interior. The jet had been extensively remodelled for executive use. He had flown on the plane before. The front of the aircraft had been given over to two large executive suites, with offices and sleeping quarters. The rest of the plane was equipped for passengers, with several rows of seats. The seats were of the highest standard, with extensive legroom and the ability to be moved into fully flat positions.
A female member of staff saw him enter and, beaming a bright smile, came over to him.
‘Mr King would like to see you,’ she said. ‘He’s in his office.’
Bloom didn’t know that Jamie King was going to be returning with him. He followed the woman along the corridor that extended along the port side of the jet, past two leather armchairs in which burly Manage Risk bodyguards were sitting, to a closed door.
She knocked on the door.
‘Come!’
The woman gave Bloom a polite smile and opened the door for him.
The suite beyond was impressive. The office was on the starboard side of the jet, nearer to the front. There was an imposing desk and a conferencing breakout area with a fifty-inch television, which could be used for teleconferencing. King and Professor Ivanosky were sat around the table. The two men were locked in conversation: King was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, gesticulating with his fingers; Ivanosky was leaning away from him.
‘Good evening,’ Bloom said as he put his bag down next to the door.
King finished whatever it was that he was saying to Ivanosky and stood. ‘Vivian,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’
‘Glad to be getting out of here,’ he said.
‘I bet you are. It has its uses, though. Government doesn’t ask too many questions. Pretty easy to hide a secret out here, even a great big one like ours. What did you think?’
‘I think it’s very impressive,’ he said. He was about to add that he wasn’t impressed with the quality of the security, but he held his tongue. It was apparent that King had just finished tearing a strip out of Ivanosky and he had no interest in being the next in line.
‘What do you think of the jet?’
‘Very plush.’
‘Fifty million if you want one fresh off the line, like I did.’ He laughed and clapped Bloom on the shoulder.
‘I thought you were staying here.’
‘Change of plan. I’m going back to Washington, too. Senator Coogan is making noises about bringing the hearing forward. We’re going to deal with it before it gets any more messy.’
‘And the professor?’
‘I have meetings,’ Ivanosky said disdainfully.
King crossed the room, lowered the blinds over the row of porthole windows and then led the way out of the office towards the back of the plane. There was a clutch of Manage Risk agents in dark suits, the men gathered together at the rear of the cabin. Apart from those men, however, the plane was empty.
King put his hand on Bloom’s elbow. Bloom managed to suppress a sigh that almost escaped. He was tired, and the prospect of spending more than a few minutes in King’s company was more than he could stand. But it would never do to admit that. King was a powerful man and Bloom had tethered his future and his vision of his country’s future security to him and the things that they had planned together. The bonds were inextricable now.
That didn’t mean that Bloom liked King. He did not. He had a low opinion of him. He knew that the forced bonhomie – the slaps on the back and the hail-fellow-well-met – was all an act. He knew that it was mutual: King had the same low opinion of him, too. Bloom had seen King raise his eyebrows when he had addressed their meetings, and British intelligence had intercepted a cell phone conversation in which King had described Bloom as old and ‘as slow as molasses in January’.
Bloom didn’t mind; they were fair criticisms. He was old, and he was deliberate when making decisions. He didn’t like to make mistakes, especially not when the stakes were as high as this.
So no, Bloom didn’t care about what King thought of him. That would be a personal grievance, and what they were doing was too important to be coloured by something as trivial as that. Bloom’s problem was more serious. He knew that his own motives and the motives of his associates in London were pure. But that was not true for King.
Bloom was concerned about doing something to stop the world backsliding into a chaos where it could no longer fight off the advance of radical Islam.
Jamie King was concerned about Manage Risk’s share price and feathering his own nest.
King directed Bloom to a seat and sat down next to him. Bloom realised that he was being evicted from the executive suite. The rule on the jet was that you could go aft from your assigned seat but you could not go forward.
‘I reckon we ought to get ourselves a drink before we get into the air,’ King said. ‘What’re you having?’
King raised his hand to attract the attention of the female member of staff. Bloom was about to decline when he noticed another passenger boarding the jet.
He swivelled in his seat. It was another woman. She went to one of the empty seats at the back of the cabin and sat down.
He stared at her.
Maia.
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Relax, partner. She’s coming with us.’
‘For what?’
‘She’s well enough to go back out into the field. And like I said: things are getting hot for us in DC. That’s one of the reasons I’m going back. We’ve got someone in Coogan’s office. He’s gonna try to jump us with a surprise. We can’t find out what it is, and I don’t much like being surprised. So Maia is going to make sure that doesn’t happen. Look at her: she’s young and pretty. Coogan’s a womaniser. Maia’s particularly well qualified for what we have in mind.’
Not for the first time, Bloom felt as if he were being dragged deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. He reminded himself of the greater good.
‘I will have that drink,’ he said.
‘Good man.’ King stood and beckoned the attendant to come over. ‘I’m going to grab a couple of hours’ sleep,’ he said, nodding to indicate the suite at the front of the jet. ‘You want to get some, too. You look tired. Have a word with Becky. She’ll make up your bed for you. I’ll see you when we land.’
Bloom watched King make his way down the aisle to the door. The attendant arrived at his seat and asked what he would like. He asked her to bring him a gin. He folded down his tray table so she could deposit it there.
Maia was on the other side of the cabin, and the angle of his seat meant that he was able to stare at her. She didn’t seem to notice. She had a tablet laid out on the table in front of her, the glow of the screen washing her sternly attractive face in its artificial whiteness. She was concentrating on whatever it was she was looking at, her brow furrowed as her finger swiped up and down across the screen.
Prometheus was just one of the tools that they had at their disposal. It was subservient to the grander plan, but, at the same time, Bloom wondered if it wasn’t just as significant. He caught himself considering the ethics of what the men and women who worked for Daedalus were doing. The woman sitting across the aisle from him was the expression of hundreds of thousands of hours of research and billions of dollars of expense. What was she? She was different from him, even if the changes were small. And genetic manipulation of the germ line was fundamental. It was heritable and permanent and had the capacity to change what it meant to be human.
He was pondering that question when Maia stopped what she was doing and stared at him. He couldn’t hold her gaze and was grateful for the delivery of his drink. He took a sip and, when he risked another glance back at her over the rim of the glass, she was looking down at the tablet again.
The engines rumbled as the jet rolled towards the runway. Bloom turned back and concentrated on the ice cubes slowly turning in his gin.
He felt the need for a second drink.
PART TEN:
Vladivostok
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The 0600 Aeroflot flight from Beijing to Vladivostok was scheduled to take two and a half hours. They had three seats next to each other: Isabella was next to the window, Pope was next to her and Atari was next to the aisle.
She pushed up the blind and looked out. The interactive map said that they were at thirty thousand feet and flying over Shenyang. The solid bank of cloud below them covered the city like a shroud. There were occasional breaks that allowed her to glimpse the lattices of roads and railway lines, the never-ending construction that meant that the towns and cities bloated and spread year on year.
The railway line that linked Harbin to Beijing was also below them, and Litivenko would have travelled this way not so long before. The doctor would have diverted to the north before transferring to the bus that would then take at least another thirty hours to reach the Russian port. They would be there at least half a day in advance of her.
Isabella glanced around the cabin. The flight was empty.
Pope turned to Atari. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
The man was reading a copy of the Chicago Tribune that he had found before they boarded. The front page was full of the news of British and American naval assets moving into the Eastern Mediterranean. ‘Sure.’