by Chris Ryan
The engine roared into life, shaking the Land Rover as it turned away from the kerb, and started speeding through the light mid-morning traffic in downtown Kiev. Matt had glanced at the map earlier, and had a rough idea of the route they would be taking. From Kiev, they would take the M20, cutting north, and crossing the border just before the steel-and-cement town of Gomel. Then they would turn west, on to the A250, keeping straight on to the road through Bobrujsk until they hit Minsk.
Motorway, thought Matt, some time later as he looked at the cracked surface of the single-tracked road. Even the Cromwell Road on a Friday afternoon was quicker than this. And I thought that was about as bad as any road could get.
'How long do you reckon?' he shouted through the glass that separated the back of the Land-Rover from the cabin.
'Ten hours, maybe fifteen,' shouted Malenkov over the roar of the engine.
'Let's stop for lunch,' shouted Ivan.
Orlena turned back to them and smiled. 'I'll see if I can find you some cabbage soup.'
Matt lay back on the mattress, and tried to shut his eyes. As the Land-Rover bounced along the pitted surface of the road, he could feel every vibration and bump knocking right through his spine. Horrible food, funny smells, brutal transport and constant danger. Welcome back to soldiering, mate.
The forest was dark and edgy, thick with the smell of pine needles. Matt lay down on the ground, feeling the damp moss close to his skin. Behind him he could hear the low whistling of the breeze rustling through the trees. Up ahead, he could hear the low, sneezy rumble of plant and machinery humming through the night.
'What can you see?' he whispered to Ivan.
'Bugger all.'
It had been a long and tiring drive. Matt had slept fitfully, woken up first for lunch, then for supper: both meals were taken at simple roadside cafés serving cabbage soup and sausages to the truckers who worked the highways between the two cities. Neither Matt nor Ivan spoke while they were eating. They were dressed in some cheap jeans and sweatshirts Orlena had picked up for them at a market in Kiev: Levi's or even Gap jeans would mark you out as a foreigner here. There was no point in alerting anyone that they were neither Ukrainian nor Belorussian. Along these back roads a foreigner was a rare sight, and would immediately provoke suspicion.
They had stopped briefly at the border. Neither of them had visas for Belarus, but that didn't seem to be an issue. Malenkov had dropped twenty dollars into the palm of the guard, and that whisked them through. By nightfall, they had bypassed Minsk, and made their way north towards Khatyn. The forest was just to the north of the city. A dense thicket of woodland, mostly pine, it covered about fifty square miles, dotted with just a few factories and some logging stations and tiny villages. By the time they arrived, it was already after ten at night.
We'll go and check out the target, Malenkov had suggested. Then get some rest.
'Let's get closer,' whispered Matt.
They had parked the Land-Rover half a mile back, snaking through the forest on foot. Right now, they were five hundred yards from the factory.
Matt started wriggling along the dirt track that ran between the trees. They hadn't seen anyone along the track for the past three hours. The factory was about three hundred yards ahead of them, and the main tarmac road leading up to it eighty yards to their left. The compound covered some four hundred square yards in total, protected with a high fence of barbed wire, reinforced with a strong steel mesh. There was just one set of gates, firmly locked, and protected with what looked like just one sentry. Matt moved slowly around the perimeter to get a better look. At two of the corners of the compound, there was a searchlight built on to a twelve-foot high wooden platform. The light swivelled around, in a slow semicircular arc, flashing its beam along the perimeter of the fence: Ivan timed the motion, calculating it took forty-five seconds to complete an arc, leaving at least fifteen seconds when it was safe to move underneath it. So far as Matt could see, there was one guard operating each light.
He pulled out the pair of binoculars Malenkov had given him and, through the magnified circle of vision, he could see that the two guards were carrying what looked like semi-automatic machine guns. At these distances, he couldn't tell the make or calibre. Kalashnikovs probably. No reason why they wouldn't use the local kit. It's not as if they don't make good guns in this part of the world.
Matt put down the binoculars. The place is heavily guarded.
'That's a ditch, isn't it?' said Ivan, pointing to the perimeter of the fence.
Matt nodded. 'Standard defensive procedure. A deep ditch and a high fence is the hardest combination of obstacles to get past. You get trapped in the ditch, then you have to scale the fence. Gives the guy inside a lot of time to pick off the attackers one by one. People have been building military encampments like that since time began.'
Ivan looked ahead. There was just a quarter of a moon struggling to break through the low-hanging clouds, and he was struggling to adjust his eyes to the murky light. 'I thought it was a factory. Not a military base. . . Maybe they've got something to hide.'
'We'll worry about that when we get inside,' said Matt. He looked towards Malenkov. 'Is it possible to get a better look at the back?'
The Ukrainian led the way. There was a clearing of about forty yards at the front of the compound – enough space, Matt noticed, for the guards to get a good clean shot at anybody who came rushing out of the forest. At the perimeter, there was a short stretch of scrub and bush, then the trees started to grow thickly. Within another twenty yards, you were into thick forest, the trees growing close together in a thick mass of vegetation. The four of them started crawling through the undergrowth, Malenkov leading the way.
That's the weakness, decided Matt. They are surrounded by covered, not open, ground.
He paused. They'd crawled towards the back of the compound now. The searchlights were brushing against the edge of the forest, the occasional stray shaft of light breaking through the leaves. In the distance, he could hear some animals moving through the woods: deer, perhaps, or some kind of wild boar. Nothing dangerous. He looked up ahead. At this point, the distance between the wood and the fence narrowed to no more than ten yards. It looked as if they hadn't cut the grass for a few weeks, and the weeds and bushes were starting to grow tall and strong. There was additional cover here if you wanted to rush the compound from behind.
'How many men do you think are inside?' Matt whispered to Malenkov.
'Can't say from here. Could be a dozen, could be more,' he replied. 'We'll stay here a while and see when they change the shift.'
Matt turned round to look at the others. 'Right,' he said. 'After that, get some rest. We can draw up our plan once we know.'
It was no more than a shack. A one-storey building with a flat roof, it was another fifteen-mile drive from the factory, this time to the east of Khatyn. They turned down a side road from the main highway, then turned right on to a dirt track that led through some cornfields. Probably a farmhouse, thought Matt as he glanced across at the building: there was enough space for one family, and a few animals, but it had long since been abandoned.
Malenkov had arranged the accommodation, and, as Matt had expected, he was a man who travelled budget class. The door creaked as he pushed it aside. The scent of dried-out rotting wood hit Matt's nostrils, and as he took his first breath he could feel the dust filtering into his lungs.
There was no electricity. Malenkov strode across the floor using his torch, lighting a kerosene lamp, hanging it from a hook in the centre of the ceiling.
'Home, sweet home,' said Ivan, glancing around the main room.
'It'll do,' said Matt gruffly.
Malenkov walked across to the cooking area: an empty fire, with a pot hanging above it, and a single gas ring attached to a canister by a short plastic tube. From the cupboard, he took out four stained china mugs, and from his pocket a bottle of Ukrainian Zhitomirska vodka. He pulled the top off the distinctive red-and-black bottle, decora
ted with a picture of a Cossack horseman. 'A drink,' he said, handing a cup first to Orlena, then to Matt and Ivan. 'This will get the damp out of our bones.'
Matt took the cup, closed his eyes briefly, then slung the pale, clean liquid into the back of his throat. It tasted hot and sticky and, as the alcohol hit his bloodstream, he could feel his muscles starting to unwind. It was as hot here in Belarus as it had been back in London and Spain: it was in the thirties all through the day, and even at night the temperature didn't seem to drop below twenty-two or twenty-three degrees. The air was thick with humidity, and Matt could feel the sweat seeping through on to his clothes after a night of crawling through open woodland.
'To the mission,' said Malenkov, raising his cracked cup. 'Whatever the hell it is.'
Matt, held his own cup up. 'And to getting home again.'
Malenkov poured a fresh hit of vodka into Matt's cup. 'Now we rest,' he said. 'There are some bedrooms down the corridor. Not luxurious, but they will do. In the morning we start planning our assault.'
'Fine,' said Ivan. 'The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.'
Malenkov grinned, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. 'Soldiers,' he said. 'It makes no difference which country we are from or whether we are fighting for a government or a corporation. We put our lives on the line, and we are never happy about it. We moan and complain, but we finish the job, or die trying. Isn't that right?'
'I can drink to that,' said Matt.
He threw the rest of the vodka down his throat, then followed Orlena as she stepped down the corridor. It was already past two a.m., and they needed to sleep: tomorrow could be a long and dangerous day. They needed all the rest they could get.
'Four rooms to sleep in,' said Orlena, pointing to the two different sides of the building. 'Ivan, Sergei, you take those two. Matt, you're on the other side.'
He walked towards the room. There was no lamp, but enough moonlight was seeping through the open window for him to make out the contours of the room. The bed was no more than a mattress on the floor, supported by what looked like wooden planks. He sniffed. The room had a dusty feel to it, and in the winter it was probably damp, but right now it seemed dry and clean.
He unfolded the sleeping bag that was perched on the bottom of the bed, pulled off his clothes, and shuffled inside the bag. There was no pillow, so he took his towel from his kitbag and put that under his head. As he started to rest, he could feel a wave of exhaustion starting to roll through him.
Suddenly he sat up. Something was moving. He opened his eyes, his forearm reaching forward. Orlena pressed a finger against his lips. 'Don't speak,' she whispered. 'You'll wake the others.'
She was still wearing the tight, low-slung blue jeans she had been wearing all day. Her finger moved down from his lips, tickling through the hairs on his chest. He could feel her breath, hot and fevered, on his skin. Reaching out, Matt slid his arms around her waist, pulling her body closer to his. He kissed her lips, tasting her lipstick, and the vodka still fresh on her tongue.
Whether he was more surprised by her arrival in his bed, or his own eagerness to take her, Matt couldn't tell. Moving his hands down the length of her body, he started to unbuckle her jeans, unpeeling the trouser legs. She giggled as the buckle scratched against her stomach, then pushed him down on his back, kneading his shoulders and his chest. He could feel his skin tensing as her fingers massaged the nerve endings.
Matt reached up, starting to unclip the back of her bra, and lift her T-shirt free from her shoulders.
'No,' said Orlena. 'We fuck the way I want to, or not at all.'
It was smooth and swift. Orlena steered him expertly towards her own pleasure. Sweat was dripping down the back of her spine, and Matt could feel himself perspiring as they both hit a rough climax. The pleasure, he reflected as she started to subside, was all the greater for being so completely unexpected.
Only when they had finished, did she finally take off her T-shirt and bra, freeing a pair of subtle, delicate breasts. Naked, she was a vision of sculpted loveliness. Some girls look better with their clothes off, others worse, Matt reflected. Some used their clothes and make-up to flatter bodies that were flabby and weak. Others used their clothes to conceal the perfection that lay underneath.
No question which category Orlena comes into.
'I thought you didn't want to sleep with me,' said Orlena, nuzzling her face into his chest as they lay together on the flimsy mattress.
Matt smiled. 'I lied.'
'What else have you lied about?'
'Nothing.' Matt rubbed his tongue across her breasts. 'What have you lied about?'
Orlena rolled over. 'Wait and see.'
TEN
When he woke up in the morning, she was already gone. Matt's final memory before he went to sleep was of her resting in his arm, her lips pressed against his chest. As soon as he awoke, he reached out for her, but there was nothing there.
She's not the kind of girl who hangs around to make you a nice cup of tea and a boiled egg in the morning.
Matt walked through to the main room. It was light already, the sky fiercely blue, and the sun streaming through the open doorways. A pot of coffee was steaming on the gas ring, and Ivan and Malenkov had clearly been up a while. A chessboard was spread out between them, and Ivan was pondering his next move, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Matt poured some coffee, swilling it down the back of his throat, then refilling his cup. It was the same mug that had been filled with vodka the night before, and traces of the alcohol mixed with the caffeine to bring him sharply awake.
'Where's Orlena?' he asked as he sat down.
'Gone to get some breakfast,' said Malenkov.
'Maybe she's more domesticated than she looks,' said Ivan.
'Women working like that,' said Malenkov. 'It would never have happened in the old days, I tell you. Women knew their place.'
'The sisterhood never really got its act together in the old Soviet Republic, did it?' said Ivan, grinning.
Malenkov snorted and moved his castle four places forward on the chessboard. 'Your move,' he said, looking back up at Ivan.
Orlena stepped back through the door. She had changed into a black skirt, and a pale grey blouse. She glanced at Matt, smiled knowingly for the briefest fraction of a second, then looked away. In her arms, she was carrying two loaves of thick, black bread, a block of soft cheese and some pickled cucumbers. 'Breakfast,' she said brightly. 'We eat. Then we work.'
Matt tore himself a hunk of the black bread. It was chewy, with a taste of rye and traces of the beer that was used to help bake it. The cheese was ripe, and even the pickled cucumbers didn't taste as bad as he'd expected. Washed down with some more coffee, the food was building up his strength again.
'So how are we going to take out the factory?' asked Orlena.
Matt took out a large sheet of paper and a felt pen, drawing out a rough map of the compound. 'Do we know yet how many men are defending it?' he asked, looking towards Malenkov.
'A dozen,' said the Ukrainian. 'I counted them last night.'
'We need to know what their shifts are. How many are on guard duty at different times of the night. Which of them are vigilant, and which of them are just sitting around picking their noses. All that,' said Ivan.
Malenkov nodded.
'And we need to know how long we have to escape,' said Matt. 'How close are the nearest police and army units? Do they have choppers? How quickly can they get to the factory once the alarm goes off? We don't want to be standing there when the local police turn up.' He glanced at Malenkov. 'About three men should be enough, plus the three of us. First, Ivan. We need some loud bangs, enough to distract everyone, and also to cause plenty of havoc and destruction. Then we'll need some more to blow the whole thing to hell at the end. Think you can manage that?'