The Concordat

by Sean Heary

  ***

  To the west of the city, Rossi and Cathy, dressed in thirty-kilogram EOD suits, climbed into the back of a KAMAZ Typhoon-K 4x4 armoured vehicle. Freshly painted on the side were the words ‘Ministry of Internal Affairs, Department of Sapper Engineers.’

  “The van is in place,” Agent Lawrence said, firing up the engine.

  Cathy laid her hand on Rossi’s knee. “Now it’s all up to us.”

  “I’ll be following your every move. I’ve done nothing like this before.”

  “And I have?”

  Lawrence glanced back over his shoulder at Cathy. “The chief identified the source of the leak.”

  “Who?” Cathy said, playing dumb.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “That’s because it was his saggy-arse prostitute girlfriend.”

  “Prostitute maybe. But from what I’ve seen, no saggy-arse.”

  Rossi blew out a breath of Catholic disgust. “A honey trap? I thought that sort of thing only happened in old Greta Garbo films.”

  “After what happened to Rudoi, the chief got suspicious. So he fed the tart a random fictitious address – and she took the bait,” Cathy explained.

  “Wasn’t it obvious?” Rossi asked. “Old man, pretty girl.”

  “In Russia, more often than not they’re harmless,” Cathy said. “As a rule they’re after a rich husband or a passport. Rarely are they working for the FSB.”

  “But they’re after something?”

  “Oh yeah,” Lawrence teased. “They’re always after something. After all, they are women. It’s in their DNA.”

  Cathy yawned. “Agent Lawrence ate too much testosterone for lunch.”

  “True. But I’m cutting back.”

  So you can fit into your dress, Rossi thought, laughing along.

  ***

  7.15 pm. Inside the Presidential Box, all but one of Volkov’s guests had arrived. Down below on the stage, a troupe of artists from the Moscow Circus entertained the capacity crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the athletes from the 138 participating nations,” came the announcement over the public address system.

  “Thirty minutes, sir,” Anastasia whispered in Volkov’s ear.

  The crowd stood. A mighty roar went up as the first team marched in. Pavel Greshnechov was also on his feet. But his gaze was fixed on the Presidential Box.

  It was the first time he and Oleg had been back to Olympisky since planting the IED. Everything looked different.

  “They’ve done a good job,” Pavel said, removing a pair of binoculars from his pocket. He trained them on the events area at first and then casually panned up to the real event of the night.

  The Patriarch, wearing his koukoulion, was easy to spot. The vertically challenged President was more difficult. Pavel counted them off one by one.

  “It’s already seven-thirty,” Oleg said.

  “The Prime Minister’s missing.”

  ***

  “112 Emergency Services. Your name please,” the operator said in a dull monotone voice.

  “Hello, I have a dog,” a woman blurted out.

  “Name?”

  “Druzhok.”

  “Your name,” the operator said calmly, immune to the stupidity of her callers.

  “Tishkova, Gulnara.”

  “What’s the emergency?”

  “As I was saying, I have a dog…”

  “Then you need the city pound.”

  “My dog’s sitting next to me – why would I need the pound?”

  “Lady, this line is for emergencies only…”

  “He’s a retired Army bomb-sniffing dog,” the caller interrupted, sensing she was about to get cut off.

  “And,” the operator said.

  “I took him for toilettes – along Chisty Pereulok, as I do every night.

  “Lady.”

  “He sat on the pavement in front of this van, barking. Wouldn’t move. He’s never done that before.”

  “What’s the point?” the operator asked.

  “I sneaked a look inside.”

  “Well done.”

  “It was a bomb.”

  “Chisty Pereulok. There are a lot of police in that area. Did you inform them?” the operator asked, her tone sceptical.

  “No,” the caller answered bluntly. “I don’t like to get involved with the police. They can’t be trusted.”

  ***

  Back inside the Presidential Box, a boisterous good-natured argument had broken out about caviar and champagne. It was quickly and unanimously agreed that the light grey Beluga caviar from the Caspian Sea was the crème de la crème. But consensus could not be reached with regard to champagne.

  “Fantastic, our local expert has arrived. He can settle this,” the President said, as Kalinin entered the room. “My dear Prime Minister, the best champagne in the world – what is it?”

  “That’s easy, Mr President. Louis Roederer Cristal.”

  “Of course,” the Patriarch said. “He’s absolutely right.”

  “Did you know Louis Roederer was once the official wine supplier to the Imperial Court of Russia?” Kalinin added, playing to the crowd. “The first cuvée de prestige was created in 1876 for Tsar Alexander II.”

  On the opposite side of the arena, Pavel’s heart raced. “Full house.”

  Oleg fished a mobile phone from his pocket and speed-dialled the IED’s remote detonation trigger. “Something’s wrong.”

  “They’re getting ready to move off,” Pavel said, his face darkening. “Check the number.”

  “The number’s correct.”

  Pavel snatched the phone from Oleg and dialled. Same result.

  Across the arena, Father Arkady lowered his opera glasses in disbelief. He checked his watch. They were out of time. Live pictures of Volkov and Patriarch Pyotr preparing to leave the Presidential Box flashed up on the four-sided HD video board suspended above the stage.

  There were only two possibilities in his mind. Either the security services had discovered the IED, and removed it, or there was a problem with the signal amplifier device inside the box. He took a few deep, calming breaths as he worked through the options.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, grabbing his mobile phone. Frantically he dialled Anastasia Lebedova, whom he had just seen on the big screen standing behind Volkov. Her phone is never off.

  No connection.

  58

  Heads turned as the KAMAZ Typhoon rumbled past the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour with blue lights flashing. Lawrence sounded the air horn as he sped through the intersection onto Prechistenka Ulitsa. “This doesn’t look good,” he said, as the road straightened. The traffic was backed up in both directions.

  Cathy leant forward. “Someone’s called it in early.”

  “You can’t account for bad luck,” Lawrence said, zigzagging the KAMAZ through the long line of red tail lights.

  “What happens if the real EOD technicians are already there?” Rossi asked.

  Cathy blew out a dismissive breath. “They’ll be too busy defusing the truck bomb to notice us.”

  Rossi suddenly felt hot and claustrophobic.

  “Make way – bomb disposal,” Lawrence repeated over the KAMAZ’s PA system as they approached the police barriers.

  “Absolute chaos,” Rossi said, tugging at the sleeves of his bomb suit.

  Cathy put a reassuring hand on Rossi’s thigh. “That’s exactly what we need. We could say we’re from Mars and there would be no one with the balls to bet against it.”

  “Evacuate the area… imminent danger,” could scarcely be deciphered from the warning being broadcast from one of the fire engines already on the scene.

  Nosy residents drifted out onto the street, then hurried back to collect their valuables a
s the gravity of the situation became apparent. In the back of the KAMAZ, Rossi and Cathy shifted about trying to catch a glimpse of the truck bomb.

  “Damn! They’re here,” Cathy said, pointing between emergency vehicles. In the distance they could see two men dressed in khaki blast suits peering into the front of the van.

  “Now what? Abort?” Lawrence asked, glancing over his shoulder at Cathy.

  Cathy shook her head. “No. We stay on plan.”

  “Two actors playing the same role on the one stage. Bound to be a disaster.”

  “Two stages,” Cathy smirked.

  “I’m not following,” Rossi said, sweat collecting on his brow.

  “If anybody asks, we’re here to defuse a second bomb.”

  “I can see that working,” Lawrence quipped.

  “Why not?”

  Lawrence wasn’t buying it. “I say we abort.”

  “As long as we’re here…” Rossi said. There would be no second chance.

  The stream of residents quickly turned into a torrent as word spread. They hurried to the police cordons at either end of the street but refused to go any further for fear of looting.

  A busload of fresh-faced recruits pulled up behind the KAMAZ. Orders were given to conduct a door-to-door search and to assist the elderly. “Move it,” yelled the police captain, as the rookies pushed their way through the congestion.

  “This is as good a time as any,” Cathy said.

  After helping them down from the vehicle, Lawrence continued to protest as he fitted them with blast suit collars and helmets.

  “This is nuts,” Rossi said.

  Cathy chuckled. “Welcome to the CIA.”

  “You’re good to go,” Lawrence said, handing Cathy a rucksack containing clothes. “And try to walk like a man.”

  “I think he means you, Enzo.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Let’s go do this,” Cathy said, lowering her visor.

  Rossi picked up a brown duffel bag full of tools and followed Cathy through the crowd.

  “Look Mama, a cosmonaut,” a small child called out, as Cathy pushed aside the interlocking steel barriers.

  “Where the hell are you going?” came the call from the police captain standing off to the left.

  Rossi and Cathy didn’t hear through their helmets and kept walking.

  “Stop,” he insisted.

  “What’s your problem, Captain?” Lawrence, standing on the KAMAZ’s running board, called out. His father had taught him a thing or two about the Russian psyche. He knew position was everything. And from where the captain stood, Lawrence outranked him.

  “Lieutenant Colonel. I didn’t notice you drive up,” the captain said, half apologising.

  “Stick to crowd control,” Lawrence barked, enjoying his new-found authority.

  The police captain saluted then rejoined the conversation with his colleagues.

  59

  The steel door to Box 7 was cloaked in the shadow of two massive bodyguards from the Presidential Security Services. The taller, Agent Velikano, had a disfigured face from a stint as a professional no-rules fighter. The broader, Agent Ustinov, had weird beady eyes and scaloppini squash ears. No one could enter the Presidential Box without their express consent – not even the Patriarch’s private secretary.

  Only the best of the best were ever assigned to protect the President. Still, their numbers were too great for Father Arkady to know them all personally. Tonight, he didn’t recognise either of them.

  “Good evening,” he said as he approached, handing Ustinov his identification. “Patriarch Pyotr has called for me.”

  “Wait here,” Ustinov mumbled, as if he was sucking on two large gobstoppers. “I’ll need to phone.”

  Velikano approached the priest casually; a Kalashnikov AK-400 slung over his shoulder and a security wand by his side. “Arms out, legs apart,” he said, without a hint of diplomacy.

  Father Arkady complied. He knew enough not to argue.

  “What’s this?” Velikano asked, as the security wand went crazy against the priest’s right ankle.

  Father Arkady wanted to scream. Game over, he thought, lifting his inner cassock. A compact small calibre handgun in an ankle holster.

  The bodyguard dropped the wand and trained his rifle on the priest. “Hands in the air.”

  Ustinov aborted his call. “What are you doing with a pistol inside the stadium?”

  “You guys haven’t done your homework, have you?” Father Arkady shook his head, disappointment on his face. “In addition to being the Patriarch’s assistant, I double as his personal bodyguard. I suggest you phone General Dengov before you make fools of yourselves in front of the President.”

  Dengov was the head of the Presidential Security Services – not a guy to mess with. His subordinates did their best to avoid him for fear of being noticed and put under scrutiny. Father Arkady knew phoning the general was something agents didn’t do.

  Whether through inexperience or stupidity, Agent Ustinov called. “Patch me through to General Dengov – we have a situation at Olympisky,” Ustinov said, his voice lacking conviction.

  From the look on his face, it was clear to Father Arkady that the conversation started poorly and deteriorated from there.

  “Yes, sir… that’s clear, sir… right away, sir,” the guard answered in a loud soldier’s voice, standing to attention as if the general was right there in front of him.

  “Three bags full, sir,” Father Arkady murmured to himself.

  The look on Ustinov’s furrowed face said it all. “He checks out.”

  “Now can I see the Patriarch?”

  “Wait there,” Ustinov said, pointing to a spot on the ground. He redialled. A short silence. “Strange. No signal.”

  I could’ve told you that, you doltish thug, the priest thought. “Can’t you just open the door?”

  “Follow procedures or you’ll get yourself shot.”

  Father Arkady coloured. “Then what do you suggest? Patriarch Pyotr was expecting me ten minutes ago.”

  “It’s probably the connection to the mobile phone signal booster,” Ustinov grinned. “Someone nicked it last night.”

  “That’s the temporary fix.” Velikano tapped the toe of his size 50 shoe on the cable running from the Presidential Box to a wall plate on the other side of the corridor.

  “Was it working earlier today?”

  The two agents looked at each other and shrugged.

  Father Arkady bent over and lifted up the grey cord cover. The coax cable underneath showed no sign of damage. He then checked the wall plate. It fell to the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “That should be attached to something,” Ustinov said, looking stupidly at his partner.

  Down on all fours, Father Arkady closed one eye and gazed into the drill hole where the wall plate had been. “I can see it,” he said, sticking his little finger into the hole.

  “Just leave it, for God’s sake,” Ustinov said, as politely as he knew how. “They’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Quick, I need a piece of pliable wire,” Father Arkady said, glancing up at Ustinov and then Velikano.

  Both grunted in agreement, but didn’t move.

  Think, Father Arkady told himself, looking around for something remotely useful. “Your pen,” he demanded. “Give me your pen.”

  Ustinov, who was taught to follow orders, did what he was told.

  Father Arkady furiously unscrewed the Parker and removed the front spring.

  “What the hell…?” Ustinov protested, but it was too late.

  Father Arkady had already stretched the spring out of shape and inserted it into the end of the connection. “Got it,” he cried, snagging the cable on the first attempt.

  “Congratulations. But you o
we me a pen.”

  Father Arkady glanced at his watch. Three minutes to the top of the hour. From below he could hear boos and jeers as the stadium announcer introduced Team USA. They’re running late.

  Behind Father Arkady, the steel door opened a few centimetres and Velikano spoke briefly to the guard inside. The door then quickly closed.

  “You’ll have to move away from there,” Ustinov said, marching menacingly towards the priest.

  “One second,” Father Arkady said, without looking up.

  “Now.”

  “Done,” Father Arkady declared, jumping to his feet.

  “Your pistol, until the President leaves.”

  “I’m responsible for the Patriarch’s safety,” the priest argued, playing for time. “I need my weapon.”

  “Not around the President you don’t,” Ustinov said, in no mood to argue.

  Father Arkady took his time unclipping his pistol; furious with himself for not knowing the mobile number for triggering the IED. An unforgivable oversight.

  “Now move aside,” Ustinov ordered, pointing down the corridor.

  Father Arkady’s heart sank as the door opened for a second time and Anastasia Lebedova appeared in the doorway; whereupon, for want of a better idea, he dropped to his knees and chanted like a madman.

  Ustinov swung around and trained his weapon on the priest. “What are you doing?” he barked, rushing over to tackle him.

  Then, as if through divine intervention, three mobsters stepped into the corridor from an adjoining VIP box.

  “He’s got a gun,” Father Arkady called out.

  From the mobsters’ vantage point, set back along the curved corridor, the only thing they could see was a priest being body-slammed by a crazed gorilla. Instinctively they drew their weapons.

  “Back inside,” Velikano yelled, pulling the blast proof door closed.

  The moment the mobsters spotted Velikano they instantly recognised their mistake. “We’re with the Governor of Magadan,” one of them said apologetically, raising his hands high in the air.

  “Now we’ve got the fishing mafia – what’s going on tonight?” said Velikano, collecting their weapons.

  “How the hell were we to know,” the dumbest of the three goons said. “All we could see from here was that mad monk saying mass…”