December

by James Steel

  Sergey was retelling a scene from Peculiarities of the National Hunt—a cult Russian comedy film—in which the pilot of a nuclear bomber is trying to explain to his squadron leader why he has a smuggled cow strapped into the bomb bay of his aircraft.

  ‘We’ve been infiltrated!’ shouted Sergey with just the right note of defensive indignation in his voice.

  Krymov screamed with laughter and fell off the bench that he was sitting on. Sergey lay back on his bench, snorting weakly with laughter. Both were exhausted by their humour-making and silence settled on the banya for a minute.

  Eventually Krymov clambered off the floor, poured himself another shot of vodka and stretched his sweaty, white, flabby body out, face down on his front on his bench, with a joyful sigh.

  The two lay still for a while before Krymov muttered, his chin tucked down by his shoulder, ‘Come and whip me.’

  Sergey heaved himself to his feet, pulled a bunch of birch twigs from a holder on the wall and began expertly to flutter them rapidly over Krymov’s back, starting at his shoulders, drawing the blood to the surface and cooling it at the same time with the airflow. Krymov groaned at the sensation.

  ‘Shaposhnikov, you are good to me,’ the President muttered, incapacitated with pleasure.

  There was a pause as Sergey continued his work; brow furrowed with concentration.

  Krymov continued, ‘Everyone needs someone close to them.’

  Krymov’s industrially proportioned wife was known as ‘Mrs Stale Bread’. They slept in separate beds and hardly said a word to each other. He didn’t seem to need intimacy and no one expected it from him, so Sergey’s eyes flicked up in surprise from his work when the President returned to the subject in a slurred voice.

  ‘It does get to me, you know, reviving Russia…there’s so much to do…she needs such a great big kick up the arse…get her going, up there again as a superpower.’

  Sergey moved this gentle flagellation down past Krymov’s shoulders, wondering where his train of thought was going. He was so absorbed in the challenge of misleading Krymov that it came as a distasteful shock when he really did open up, as if he was breaking the rules of the game.

  ‘Hmm, they do say that everyone needs someone to trust…but you see, you have to be careful who you trust.’ Krymov pulled his chin away from his shoulder and rested his head on his hands so he could speak freely. Sergey continued his work.

  ‘You see, I always think about Ivan the Terrible…’ Sergey knew Krymov admired him, ‘…how he was betrayed by Prince Kurbsky.’

  Sergey tensed at the mention of his name. Kurbsky was the most famous traitor in Russian history, who had abandoned the Tsar and run away abroad to join the hated Polish enemies of the Motherland.

  ‘His most trusted adviser!’ continued Krymov, twisting round and resting on an elbow so he could look Sergey in the eye.

  Sergey stopped flapping his twigs and stood looking down on Krymov, who became more animated as the idea gripped him.

  ‘His closest adviser! A man as close as this!’ He gestured to Sergey standing next to him. ‘A traitor!’ He sat up and swung his legs round onto the floor, staring accusingly at Sergey.

  The sudden mood swing caught Sergey off guard. Was Krymov being serious? Was this an elaborate setup?

  What he was saying was just too close to reality to be coincidence. Was this why Krymov had hauled him all the way back to Moscow: to spring this trap on him?

  Sergey’s normal bubble of bravado was punctured by the lance-like look of suspicion that Krymov now shot at him. He looked helplessly back like a boy caught with his hand in the sweet jar.

  ‘Imagine! What a motherfucker!’ Krymov stood up, outraged by Kurbsky’s betrayal of trust.

  Sergey felt suddenly washed out by the irony of what was happening and longed to get away.

  Krymov looked at his defenceless stare and took it as helpless agreement with his sentiment. He was overcome with emotion.

  ‘I could not wish for a better friend than you, Shaposhnikov! You are the embodiment of Russkaya dusha! Of real trustworthiness!’ He opened his arms and, despite their nakedness, embraced Sergey with a bear hug.

  Sergey returned it, not quite believing what was happening.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Look, after this job you’ll never have to work again!’

  Alex opened both hands in a gesture inviting Colin Thwaites to think about the two million pounds that he stood to gain from the operation.

  ‘Yeah, you’re dead right, you’ll never work again—because you’ll be fooking dead, that’s why!’ said Colin emphatically in his harsh Lancashire accent.

  Alex was struggling to make headway against a torrent of Northern scorn being poured on his bold new idea.

  He was beginning to get exasperated; it was later the same day that he had met Sergey in the pub. He needed Col for the op; there wasn’t anyone else he trusted as much to make the raid work as this tough former Para. He began to regret his confidence in front of Sergey about how quickly he could get his team together. It was true that they were assembling in London but he had not yet explained to them the details of the job—his emails had been very brief for security reasons—so as yet they had not fully signed up to it.

  The two men were in Alex’s living room in Fulham. Colin had made it down from Blackburn on one of the few trains that were still running and was now sitting on a sofa facing Alex.

  He looked the epitome of a Northern hard man: short but with a strong, wiry build, tattoos of Blackburn Rovers on his right forearm and the Parachute Regiment on his left. He was in his mid-forties, balding on top, with grey hair shaved down to bristles, a coarse-boned face with gimlet eyes, small moustache stained brown from nicotine, and lean lines stretched down his cheeks from a fanatical exercise habit. He was an experienced marathon runner: ‘Keeps yer fit, like—it’s the only time I’m not fagging, yer know.’

  He had worked with Alex through all his operations in Africa. Sharp, tough and a stickler for military professionalism, he was the mainstay of the team that Alex headed. He had been born on a council estate in Blackburn with a restless natural intellect that failed to achieve anything at school. Aged sixteen he was drifting into a life of glue sniffing and petty crime, but had signed up for 2 Para with a mate one day. They had been watching The Professionals the night before and knew that the lead hard man, whom they worshipped, was a TA Para.

  As with many wastrels before him, the strictures of army discipline had provided the channel to focus his energies. He had seen action in Northern Ireland and Bosnia, had risen to sergeant major in the Pathfinders, the Para’s élite reconnaissance unit, and had done stints all over the world training and advising Special Forces.

  What he lacked in size he made up for with aggressive energy. Pithy comments and an endless stream of poor-taste jokes were delivered in his unattractive nasal accent.

  His blunt nature meant he couldn’t help but express his doubts now about the outline of the task facing them.

  ‘OK, right, so let me get this straight. We rock up at this prison camp in Siberia or whatever and they say: “Yer, that’s your bloke over there.”’ He mimicked casually pointing someone out. ‘I mean, they don’t shoot ’im or nowt. So we just get ’im and then booger off. Then we get on a plane to Moscow—and they don’t shoot us down on the way, like—we land up in the middle of a fooking great revolution, and then just walk off, you know, come home, put our feet up and watch the telly, like?’ He held his hands up and cocked his head on one side, looking at Alex in disbelief. ‘I mean, it’s bollocks, int’e?’

  It was a testament to the trusting relationship between the two men that Colin could be so scathing to a superior officer.

  The two were certainly an unlikely pairing. Public school officers from posh cavalry regiments were not usually respected by hardened former Paras; ‘Ruperts’ was the standard dismissive name they used for them.

  Alex looked at him. Despite the huge social gulf between t
hem, they shared a great deal of common ground that had allowed them to get through many differences of opinion.

  They were both exiles from their social groups, who felt trapped by the conventions that they were supposed to observe and loved the adventure of escaping from them and discovering new things.

  Colin hated the parochialism of people on his home council estate and had gone to great lengths to get away from it and broaden his worldview. He had learned to speak good French (with a heavy Lancashire accent) in order to explore West Africa and had become a huge fan of its music, travelling around to see bands play when he was on leave.

  Similarly, Alex was supposed to be a county gentleman, but found the mental straitjacket that came with the class stereotype unbearable; he actually preferred the outspoken honesty of the Northern ex-Para.

  He knew that Col’s reaction to what he had proposed was a fair one and that such plain speaking had saved him from some bad decisions in the past. He couldn’t deny that the mission was risky and realised that it was pointless trying to reassure Colin that it would all be all right and everyone would come home safely, because it probably wouldn’t be and some of them would almost certainly die.

  Alex knew that a change of tack was needed.

  ‘OK, you’re right.’ He held his hands up in acknowledgement. ‘It’s not your average job. Your average job would be the sort of thing we’ve being doing for years now in Africa. So, no, it’s not another training mission; it’s not another mine-clearance job, another close-protection job.’

  He knew how much Col hated the latter task, nursemaiding arrogant African businessmen as they went around fleecing people. He sensed that goading Colin into the mission was the way forward because they both felt their lives were entering the long, slow glide path to mediocrity. Neither had really made it, and Alex knew that Col still shared his desire to get out there and face the challenges that made him feel alive, that stopped him feeling like he was living in the body of someone who had fallen asleep.

  He was, therefore, able to turn the tables on Colin and continue with mounting fury: ‘So, no, it’s not just another job, it will be fucking risky and, yes, we probably will all get killed, but actually I don’t give a fuck! This is the big one.’ He jabbed an index finger at Col. ‘This is where we do get to save the fucking country! And if that’s too much of a problem for you then I’ll just have to fucking well do it on my own!’ He stared at Col, challenging him to meet his gaze.

  Col now had the uphill task of justifying his scepticism. With the boot on the other foot, he sat looking at the floor, rubbing his chin as Alex continued to glower at him.

  Alex sensed he had won and changed tack again to give Col a face-saving way to climb down from his position.

  He continued, the beginnings of laughter now softening his tone, ‘I mean, if you don’t want to then that’s fine. I’ll come and visit you in the care home and change your colostomy bag for you if you want.’ He broke out into a sardonic guffaw, knowing that this was Colin’s secret horror: of not being self-reliant, of dying a slow and pitiful death, and that he would prefer any sort of active, violent end to that.

  Col accepted he had lost. ‘Ah, fook off!’ He tossed his head in disgust and then grinned at Alex knowingly. ‘I tell you what, mate. I’m not a fooking granddad yet. How old’s my new bird then, eh?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Twenty-seven, mate! Fooking tits like this.’ He held both hands out in front of him. Alex roared with laughter.

  Col grinned and then shrugged. ‘Don’t know what the fook she sees in me, though. I’m old enough to be her dad.’ He looked baffled. Despite two divorces and numerous girlfriends, he never did understand why women liked his ferocious energy, and had always run away from them when they began to wrap their soft tentacles around him.

  ‘She took me to Ikea the other day, and I were sitting on this sofa thinking to meself, what the bollocks am I doing here?’

  Alex shrugged; he had never understood women either and was the last to feel he could offer another man advice on the subject. There had been enough of them over the years and they generally fell into two categories. When he was a young man there had been the good-looking county girls where the sheer physical urgency had shut out the fact that he couldn’t stand their company. They had been raised scrupulously to avoid discussing any controversial subject—politics, religion, even artistic preference in films, books—everything that his frustrated mind wanted to spend time exploring.

  After he had realised that he could live without the sex, he had put a lot of effort into tracking down girls that he found interesting. With those few that he had then got close to, he was disturbed to find that something held him back. Although he could not articulate it, his greatest fear was that he might turn into his father. They both had the same good looks that seemed fatal to women but his philandering father had used them to crush and humiliate anyone who showed affection for him. The first time he beat his wife up was on their wedding night.

  Alex had grown up with this intermittent domestic violence and somehow the image of his mother’s bruised and tearful face had always overlaid that of his girlfriends in his thoughts. The fear that he might do the same had driven him to break off relationships before they even got started.

  However, that was the past. Right now, all he cared about was that Col was onboard so he just laughed and said ruefully, ‘Well, at least you’re getting some fucking action.’

  Chapter Eleven

  SUNDAY 7 DECEMBER

  Late on the following morning, Krymov and Sergey limped out onto the grand steps at the front of the residence, badly hung over. Both winced as the grey mid-morning light reflected off the snow on the drive and the lawns in front of them. Major Batyuk stood behind them as ever, looking tense. His ear stump tended to flame up when he was angry and it was vivid red now.

  Krymov’s face looked even more like grey, mottled salami than usual. Sergey had slept in his suit and his hair stuck out at all angles. Both of them could hardly speak but Krymov was able to embrace him and then tightened his grip as hard as he could. Sergey groaned and snarled in pain and tried to push him off but lost his grip and got his midriff crushed.

  Krymov let go, laughed painfully and sagged against a pillar of the classical portico. Sergey stumbled over to the edge of it and retched down onto the lawn. He collapsed onto his knees, his head swimming with nausea, vomit and spittle dribbling out of his mouth.

  Eventually, he lurched to his feet, muttered, ‘Cunt,’ scraped the filth off his face and wiped it onto a pillar. Krymov heaved himself onto his feet, staggered over to him and slapped him on the shoulder. Sergey grunted, acknowledging that there were no hard feelings, stumbled down the steps towards the waiting black Zil limo and fell into the door, held open by the uniformed chauffeur.

  Krymov watched him drive away with an affectionate look in his eyes. He had meant what he said the night before about Sergey embodying Russkaya dusha—being so trustworthy—and because intellect is the plaything of emotion, this love blinded him to inconvenient facts, such as Gorsky’s report from London that Sergey was arranging for British mercenaries to travel to Krasnokamensk.

  However, although his love could protect Sergey from harm, it could not stop Krymov’s peasant cunning from working. This told him that the mercenary could have only one target—there was just one thing of political value in that region—even though he couldn’t think what Sergey wanted with him. Nevertheless, it had to be eliminated.

  After he had watched Sergey’s limo disappear around the bend in the drive, Krymov turned to Batyuk behind him.

  ‘Get a message to Commandant Bolkonsky in Krasnokamensk. I want Raskolnikov dead—soon. Tell him to get on with it. We can’t afford to fuck about anymore.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was Sunday 7 December.

  ‘Passport, please.’

  The dumpy Asian woman sitting behind the immigration desk at Heathrow held out her hand to Yamba Douala a
cross the counter. He had just flown in from Johannesburg. He handed over his South African passport and stared at her quietly.

  She found the look intimidating.

  He was dressed much like the other middle-aged African businessmen standing behind him in the queue—in a loose-cut, dark green suit worn without a tie—but his gaze was altogether different from theirs.

  Yamba had an aquiline face that radiated suppressed anger. Tall and lean, he was in his early forties, with a finely shaped, shaved head. His face had prominent cheekbones and could have had an aristocratic look if it were not for his severe expression. His black eyes had an acute, cruel gaze, like a bird of prey.

  The look came from the hard and disappointing life he had led. The drawn lines on his face and his muscled physique were the marks of ascetic, teetotal life.

  Along with Colin, he was a mainstay of Alex’s small team and had worked with them extensively on operations in Africa. He had recruited and whipped into shape hundreds of soldiers in different countries and then led them into battle with brutal efficiency. They hated him during training but followed him like children when the bullets started flying.

  He had been born in Angola and, as the brightest boy in his village, had been sent to a strict Jesuit mission school run by Portuguese colonialists. Despite the beatings, he had done well and became head boy. Academically gifted, he had been dead set on becoming a surgeon and using his talents to save the lives of his countrymen.

  It didn’t work out like that.

  The country fell to the communists and his family were massacred. He was forced to flee into exile in the South African dependency of Namibia. Aged sixteen, he followed many other black Angolan refugees into the South African army to fight for his homeland.

  His early manhood was thus spent in one of the most terrible wars in Africa. As a young soldier he had fought in the famous 32 Battalion, ‘The Buffaloes’, at the Battle of Cuito Cuanavale—the largest land battle in Africa since the Second World War, involving a hundred thousand men in total, over several months’ of intense fighting, against a combined force of East German, Cuban and Angolan troops.